French Wanker - Victoria Pinder Page 0,2
though.”
His lips curved, and a dimple appeared that made those dark eyes sparkle. “Oui. I speak a dozen languages, mais tes yeux bleus me hanteront jusqu'à mon dernier souffle.”
I didn’t understand, but my face flushed anyhow. If he continued speaking and making my panties twist, I’d want to find a room and discover if Mr. Wanker lived up to the fantasies in my mind. I batted my lashes as I asked, “What?”
He traced my cheek, and my skin came alive from his touch. “I find when I speak about your beautiful blue eyes, my native language comes out. And I was worried you hadn’t enjoyed that kiss earlier.”
“It was great. I just needed to calm down.”
“I’ve not been kissed so intensely in a while, either.”
Sweet little lies sounded sexy in his language. He probably had sex every night. I mean he could be talking about a paint brush, but the thrill in my veins grew. And for all I knew he could be married, engaged, have a girlfriend or any number of things that might ruin this moment.
At least I wasn’t here long enough to do permanent damage. I played it off while I sipped my champagne and pretended the intoxication was from it and not him. “Well, Mr. Wanker, this champagne is delicious.”
His gaze narrowed, like I was the one speaking a strange language until he asked in a laugh, “Mr. Wanker?”
My cheeks burned. I’d said that aloud. If I denied it now, he’d argue.
I lowered my flute. “I heard you on the phone when you stepped into the elevator, and the British slang was all I understood. And while I don’t know the exact meaning of the phrase for Brits, I know what I imagine.”
His lips quirked, and there were those dimples again. “And what is that?”
Get a grip, girl. I glanced out at the distance of the city and the river and said, “Something I can’t say out loud about the male body.”
A deep laugh escaped his throat, and I couldn’t help but turn toward him as he was more interesting than the view I’d come to see.
“Americans are always confusing about sex. Kissing a complete stranger but not being able to mention la queue embarrasses you.”
I tilted my head and tried to understand when I asked, “La queue? Is there a line somewhere?”
His eyes sparkled. “La queue… the cock though more polite. Le zob or la pine are probably more in line with cock.”
Le zob caused a chuckle and made me instantly rhyme the term with job. Then my mind slipped into the gutter entirely. And if a girl’s job involved his cock, I’d be employed taking money for tricks instead of my boring data management job for a bottled wine factory. I ran my hand through my hair and said, “Now I am embarrassed.”
“Don’t be.” His fingers against my skin made me curl into him more. “It’s not often a beautiful woman walks over to me and asks for a kiss.”
I glanced down at his muscles and black pants. They weren’t cheap and were clearly tailored to fit him. “You’re probably lying, and this happens to you all the time.”
“No.” He tugged my chin up. For a second my lips opened like he’d kiss me again, but instead he said, “Today was special. Would you want another champagne, Mademoiselle?”
He let me go, and I backed away. “I shouldn’t…”
He kissed my cheek, and my tongue became more like Jell-O when he said, “I’ll get another, and you can tell me your name in a moment.”
So much for arguing. If I drank too much, I’d blame the alcohol, not that I’d felt the slightest tinge of a buzz. It was almost like French champagne was somehow different from its American counterparts.
I smiled to myself and glanced out toward the horizon. The Eiffel Tower appeared in countless rom-coms I’d seen, and here I was. Finally. I let out a sigh of wonder.
But then my lips thinned. My favorite movies had always been Italian rom-coms, which was why I’d booked most of my honeymoon there.
A second later a thrill raced down my spine, and I turned to meet the brown eyes of the sexiest man I’d ever seen and reached for the flute he offered.
“Thanks for the champagne and company, but while you were gone, I was thinking… no names. No history. It’s better to just let this moment live in our memories.”
His lips pursed. “Did I not impress you?”
I was not ready to get involved with anyone. I