Adriana is wearing red today. A sundress, plunging in the front just enough to tease me with the outline of her succulent breasts. No wonder that prick Jacques was drooling over her.

And no wonder my cock is rock hard right now.

As I guide her through Parisian streets, we talk. The city feels like a new world while I’m by her side. With every new sight her face shifts, moves about, takes in some vision of splendour. She sees Paris as I haven’t seen it since I first moved here, or possibly ever. Every doorway is a work of art to her; every lamp post charming.

I begin see the world through her eyes, breathe its air through her nose. I can feel her bliss at being here. I see it in her step, which has turned light and airy. None of the heaviness of the world lies on her shoulders right now, and I can only hope that my presence has something to do with that.

“My building is only a few blocks away,” I tell her. “It’s not your typical office tower, not like what you have in New York.”

“Good,” she replies, looking at me sideways. There’s a twinkle in her eye now, like she’s finally realized that I’m not screwing her around. But I can feel that she doesn’t entirely trust me, and I can’t really blame her. Even if I’m not a liar, I’m not sure I’m to be trusted. A man who’s never committed to a woman is a walking red flag. On the other hand, she’s leaving in a few weeks, so commitment isn’t a particular issue. Maybe we’re perfect for one another.

“Anyhow, about the memoir,” I say, “I’d like to discuss it further. Would you be willing to have dinner with me sometime this week?” Perhaps it’s a foolish question. I’m asking her on a date, really, even if it is for business. Getting this woman alone after dark is perilous. I’ll want my cock inside her. I’ll want to eat her out. I’ll want to see how many times I can make her scream my name.

“I’m not sure,” she replies. No, of course you’re not.

“Just…think about it,” I say. “Ah, here we are.” I put my hand on the small of her back and steer her towards my building’s door, an ornate art deco concoction of iron and glass. I feel her tremble gently under my touch and I’ve got to say, I’m thriving on the sensation. If only she knew what was occurring inside my shorts, she’d be very pleased with herself.

“We’re heading to the top floor,” I tell her as I press the elevator button in the foyer. “Bit of a long ride, I’m afraid.” I stare at her, awaiting a response.

“It won’t be the first long ride I’ve had with you.” Good. Her sense of humour has begun to return.

“Nor, I hope, the last.” I lean in close to her. “Hopefully no one will come knocking on the door to tell us to stop this time.”

She blushes. Mission accomplished.

The doors ding when they open. I guide Adriana onto the elevator and follow closely behind. Breathing in her scent, I taste her on the air as the doors slide closed. Maybe I’m being overly territorial, but I can’t help it. I’m as hungry for her as I was the first moment I laid eyes on her. A part of me wants to murmur, “Take off your clothes” and see if she’d do it. See if she’d let me back her against the mirrored walls, take her nipple in my mouth, thrust my fingers inside her. I want to eat her alive.

But I don’t. I’m a perfect goddamned gentleman as I stand in the opposite corner of the elevator, eyeing her beautiful body. I also don’t tell her that I’m happy to see her. I am the epitome of dishonest honesty, concealing my true nature but not lying about it. If she turned to me and asked me to, I would hit the emergency stop. I would pleasure her until she wept.

God, I’m going to have to masturbate in the shower, aren’t I?

Finally the doors open and we venture down the hall towards my office. My receptionist eyes Adriana with raised brows. “Une amie,” I tell her, and she leaves it alone, returning to whatever work she was doing.

I shut the door behind us once we’re inside. “I’ll take you on a tour in a few minutes,” I say. “Meanwhile, make yourself at home. There are drinks on the side table. I’m going to hop in the shower.”

Adriana’s eyes are locked on mine, but after a moment they cruise down my body, like she’s getting one last look at me in my football attire. “Did you want to join me?” I ask, risking a swat in the face.

Her mouth opens—so sexy—then shuts again. “I’m good,” she says.

“Yes, you are.” I step towards her, strongly contemplating putting my hand on her waist, drawing her to me and kissing her hard.

But I don’t do it. Too soon. Too foolish. I need to earn her trust.

“Be right back,” I say.

* * *

I nearly called his bluff. For a second I contemplated reaching back and undoing my halter top to let my dress fall around my ankles. God, the elevator ride up here was torture. Every second in the metal box reminded me of the bathroom where Conlon and I shared…well, everything in the world.

I don’t want him any less, now that I’ve had him. If anything, I want him more. But this time I want to do it right. I want time and space to explore each other. I want to taste him properly. I want him to make me come with his mouth.

Wait—no. What am I even doing? I’m not supposed to be here. Not supposed to entangle myself again. He was supposed to be a one-off, a fling, a literal one night stand.

But here I am again, my mind racing with thoughts of this man. Wondering how many times I could have sex with him before I hop the plane back to New York. How many times I could see him before real feelings begin to develop.

I envy men. Envy their ability to compartmentalize, to shut their feelings on or off, depending. I envy Conlon; I don’t think he’s ever had his heart broken.

When I hear water running in the bathroom attached to his office, I make my way over to the array of beverages on the side table. Decanters of this and that delicious-looking liquid. Vodka, rum, bourbon.

My eyes stop when my gaze settles on a bottle of red wine. Perfect.

I pour myself a glass and wander about the office. Beautiful, expensive-looking paintings hang along his massive walls. One large window looks out over the Seine and Paris’s black rooftops. Everything here is so swollen with character and beauty that I almost feel like that window is the most beautiful work of art of them all.

As I’m staring out at the exquisite view, I hear the water shut off.

“Adriana,” Conlon shouts a moment later from inside the echo chamber that is the bathroom. “I’ve been thinking about this memoir.”

“Yes?” I say, taking a step towards the sound.

“We could break it into chapters interspersing my upbringing and my business,” he says. I take another step, my eyes looking at everything but the bathroom door, which is wide open.

“Sounds good. I’ll need to talk to you about it, though. I have a lot of questions.”

“Sorry, what was that?” he asks. I take a few more steps before I realize that he’s done the same, and he’s now standing, buck naked, in the doorway in front of me. Droplets of water coat him from head to toe as he rubs a towel through his hair. His cock is standing like a sergeant at arms between his legs, completely erect.

Oh, sweet French poodle. I want him so badly right now that I can taste him.

Adriana, you’re staring like an idiot.

I swing away, splashing wine over my cleavage in the process.

“Shit!” I shout.

Conlon comes tearing over with a his towel in hand and circles in front of me, patting me down. Rather, patting my tits down.

Shit, shit, shit.

I want you.

He’s still naked. It seems that he was more concerned about looking after my breasts than covering himself up, apparently. And here I thought the English were supposed to be prudes.

“Excuse my attire,” he says as though reading my thoughts. “Nothing you haven’t seen before, though.”

“True.” I can’t speak complete sentences anymore. I want to eat him up.

“You okay to look after yourself?” he asks in the sexiest voice ever. “I’m afraid that if I keep patting you down I’ll come all over your lovely dress.” Completely unashamed, he gestures towards his hard-on. Nope, he’s definitely not a prude, as if I didn’t know that already.

“I’m fine,” I say, trying with all my strength to look anywhere other than at the beast between his legs.

“Right,” he says, darting into the bathroom and shutting the door behind him.

My dress mercifully manages to escape the wine deluge and my breasts seem relatively unscathed as well. By the time Conlon pops the door open, he’s dressed in a suit, but no tie. His white shirt is open at the collar, showing off his tanned neck. He slips on a pair of stylish brown leather shoes and wanders over to me. This time he puts a finger under my chin and pulls my face up so that my eyes meet his.

“Beautiful,” he says. “You’re fucking beautiful, Adriana, do you know that?”

I shake my head slowly, my blond hair trailing over my chest. Right now, all I can think of is how beautiful he is.

“No, you don’t, do you?” He sighs. “That’s what’s so sexy about you. You have no idea how delightful you are.” With that, he turns away and walks to the door, his tight, round ass making a mockery of my self control. God, he’s a torturer. My panties are soaking wet, my body craving penetration, and he’s about to take me around to see the building, like nothing just happened.

Lucky compartmentalizing bastard.