We can’t avoid the fact that I came over all shy because, essentially, I’m going to be spending the entire weekend with a man that I don’t actually know very well. More fool me for agreeing to it. However, I’m here now, with the delights of Paris spread out before me and I should make sure that I enjoy as much as I can. I’ve been all over Google checking out what there is to do.
We take a cab from Gare du Nord to our hotel and I’m so excited to see the city whizzing by the windows. Even the cab smells French and I’m sure any minute now there’ll be the sound of a street accordion playing and an onion seller complete with stripy jumper and beret will cycle by. Squee.
Mason is amused by my enthusiasm, but I don’t care. I want to lap up every minute. This might be a standard thing for someone as well travelled as Mason but for me it’s a Big Adventure!
The hotel is lovely. Small and elegant rather than overwhelmingly grand – perfect for a romantic weekend – and is in a street lined with attractive little cafés and pavement tables. Just as it should be. It would be nice to unpack and come down here for some lunch. I’m starving after our early start and, after all, our main mission is to try out menus for Mason’s idea of setting up a chain of French-style cafés. I’m hoping that wasn’t simply a ruse as Charlie suggested.
I feel self-conscious as Mason checks in for us and it’s clear from the receptionist’s reaction that he’s a regular visitor. She’s young, pretty and her smile for him is very warm, slightly secretive.
‘Bonjour, Monsieur Soames. So lovely to have you visit us again.’ Her accent is sing-song, sexy.
‘Hello, Valerie.’ Mason beams back at her.
Valerie, eh? First name terms.
‘You have my usual room for me?’
‘But of course.’ She flicks her long, glossy black hair as she hands him the keycard. ‘I hope you have a nice time during your stay.’
‘I’m sure we will,’ Mason answers and again, it sounds loaded.
Huh. I reckon he’s had a little fling there or something.
‘You know her well?’ I ask as he carries our bags across the lobby.
‘I’ve used this hotel for years,’ Mason tells me. ‘Valerie’s been here for a while.’
We cram into the small wrought iron lift and we go up to the room. Mason’s hand caresses my back. Inside, it’s beautiful, the furnishing – all cream and black – chic and understated. Mason tosses our small cases on the bed and then opens the doors onto the balcony. The Eiffel tower is straight ahead of us. This is as French as it gets.
‘Wow.’ I’m impressed. ‘That’s some view.’
‘Paris is one of my favourite cities.’
‘I can’t wait to see it,’ I say. ‘Shall we freshen up a bit and go straight out?’
‘I thought we’d celebrate our arrival first,’ Mason says and then I notice the bottle of champagne chilling on ice standing on the coffee table.
Oh, well. It would be rude not to even though I feel I’ve had enough booze for now and could kill for a cup of tea. With a side order of croque-monsieur and some frites, preferably. My tummy rumbles at the thought. However, I accept the glass that Mason offers me and we move out onto the small balcony. I drink in the atmosphere of Paris below me as I knock back the bubbles. Anything else would seem churlish. Mason’s arm curls round my waist and he eases me closer to him, until I’m leaning along the length of his body.
‘You like it?’
‘I love it.’ I pull a sheet of paper out of my pocket that I’ve scribbled on. ‘I’ve made a note of some of the things I’d like to do. If we’re able. You’ve probably seen them a million times, but it’s all new to me. I’ll do whatever you fancy really.’ He is, after all, paying for everything and, to be honest, that makes me feel a bit weird. Indebted.
Then I realise that I’m gabbling and that Mason is regarding me with an indulgent smile on his face. He takes the piece of paper from my hands and tosses it onto the table beside us.
‘We have plenty of time,’ he says. ‘Let’s relax first. Get to know each other.’ He turns and kisses me deeply and I know that the entire reason for bringing me here is to seduce me, but the speed with which he moves takes my breath away. We’ve barely walked in the door.
He takes the glass from my hand and holds me tightly. His arms are strong and it feels good to be held like this. Every fibre of my being responds, my head swims and I’m flooded with feelings that have been missing for so long. Yet why am I feeling so coy? I knew the score. I knew exactly what I was coming here for. Mason doesn’t really want my opinion on the cafés or the food or the good wine. He wants to get down and dirty. As quickly as possible, it seems. Part of me wishes that I’d been able to prove Charlie wrong. I guess that was optimistic of me.
So I decide to go with the flow. I might as well enjoy myself too as Mason is obviously revved up. Hurriedly, we undress each other and, in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower and with the breeze from the French windows on our skin, we make love on the huge bed. I want to rush to orgasm, but Mason slows it all down, teasing my body mercilessly. Charlie was right, he is good. He’s attentive and knows all the right places, all the moves. His body above me is taut, slender rather than muscled but he’s definitely all man and, when he’s ready, he makes me come with the ease of someone who’s done this many times before – quite possibly in this room. Afterwards, he pours us more champagne and I lean against his chest as we drink it and admire the view – the one out of the window and the one lying next to me. It was good. Very good by any measure and, at this moment, I feel surprisingly content.
‘I’ll take a quick shower,’ I say. ‘Then should we grab something to eat?’
‘Sounds like a plan,’ Mason agrees and he kisses my hair.
I’m elated and still feeling more than sexy when I let the hot water wash over me. It will set me up nicely for a bit of culture. Probably a good thing to get it out of the way now so that I didn’t have time to stress about it throughout the day.
When I go back into the bedroom, Mason is still sprawled out in the bed. ‘I’ve ordered us some room service food,’ he says. ‘Come back to bed.’
‘Oh.’ I can’t help but feel disappointed. All of Paris is out there waiting for me and I want to get up and at it. Rather than be in here and at it. Mason, it appears, has other ideas. Not entirely sure how to address this.
While I’m still prevaricating, the room service arrives. Mason slips on a dressing gown and takes the tray from the waiter to set it down on the table by the window. Then he brings me a dressing gown too and we sit at the table together. The noise of the bustling street below drifts up to us.
‘Ta-da,’ Mason says as he lifts the silver dome that covers my plate. ‘I hope madame approves.’
It is, exactly as I would have ordered, a croque-monsieur and frites. This feels nice. Quite romantic. That lifts my spirits and I tuck in. Mason watches me as I eat.
‘What?’ I wipe melted cheese from my lips.