We crossed into France at the quaintly named village of Saint Gingolph. A jejune border guard glanced at our passports, looked again when he realized we were American, sneered a few questions that Sebastian answered in fluent French – which seemed to annoy the little man even more – then he waved us across.
The road on this side of the lake was more thickly wooded and less inhabited than the northern side. Small farmhouses dotted the hillside and winding roads threaded their way up into the Alps.
“This road leads to Italy,” Sebastian yelled over his shoulder. “How about a quick trip over the border?”
“Two countries in one day is enough!” I shouted back, but the thought that I was just miles from my father’s homeland tugged oddly at my heart.
Chamonix soon appeared out of the low mist that had settled in the valley. To my left I could see the awe-inspiring presence of Mont Blanc, thick snow capping the summit.
The town itself was still quite empty: the winter skiers long gone, the summer tourists not yet arrived.
The ride through the Alps had been sensational, as promised, and Chamonix was lovely: a picture-perfect Alpine town, with an abundance of bijou shops selling everything from skiwear to expensive, designer jewelry.
Sebastian pulled up outside one of the former, and dragged me inside.
“We’ll get you some ski gloves to wear,” he said. “Best I can do for now.”
The sales assistant was overly helpful. I couldn’t decide if that was because she was delighted to have a customer so close to the end of the ski season, or because she got to stare at Sebastian’s ass as he wandered around the shop.
As far as I was concerned, he had a very fine ass and, having been wrapped around it for the last couple of hours, I felt I was in a position to voice an expert opinion.
And then a very erotic image sprang unwelcome to my mind, as I recalled the numerous occasions when I had reason to know Sebastian’s naked ass very well indeed.
I did my best to banish the memory, but I wasn’t entirely successful. I wondered if all US Marines were in such good shape.
“How about these?” said Sebastian, handing me a pair of black ski gloves.
“Ninety Euros! Are you kidding me? That’s $115! For a pair of gloves!”
“Just try the damn things on, Caro,” Sebastian growled.
“No. That’s ridiculous. There must be something cheaper.”
“If you don’t try them on, I’ll just buy them anyway,” he threatened.
“No! It’s a waste of money.”
He turned to the sales assistant and handed them over. “D’accord. Je les prends.”
“Wait! Attendez!”
I snatched them back from her and pulled them on over my hands. They fit perfectly.
Damn him!
He grinned at me wickedly.
“You argue too much, Caro.”
“I can’t imagine why,” I said, dryly.
We left the shop with my ridiculously expensive gloves tucked into my jacket pocket. Sebastian looked annoyingly pleased with himself.
“Shall we find somewhere to have lunch?”
“What, you’re actually asking me, Hunter? As in, seeking my opinion?”
He grinned at me. “Sure!”
“In that case, yes; but only if I treat you – non negotiable.”
“I love it when you tell me what to do, Caro,” he leered at me. “Brings back memories.”
And this time I couldn’t help the blush that rose to my cheeks. I knew exactly what he was talking about. Other than Italian, the one thing I had taught Sebastian was how to give me an orgasm. And he had been a very good student.
He laughed out loud when he saw my blush. I couldn’t think of a single comeback. Not one. Not a word. Not a single response, answer, reply, witticism, quip, jest or jibe. I was utterly mute.
God, he was annoying!
He wrapped his arm around my shoulders and pulled me to him, kissing my hair lightly.
“Just teasing you, Caro.”
I shuffled away, trying to look offended, but he knew me better and just grinned.
“Do you want to try fondue?” he said, still trying not to laugh.
“Fine,” I muttered, sulkily.