I lower my mouth to hers and kiss her, and her eyes grow hazy and drift closed in the moment before my lips touch hers. Her body is lithe and warm in my arms and I gather her to me, this gentle, good creature who’s slowly learned to trust me, to open up to me in ways she’s never opened up to anyone before. I know I have to be careful with her in some ways. In others, though, I know she doesn’t want me to be careful. I want to find what she thinks her limits are and push her past them until she finally knows who she is.
Now that I have her it’s tempting to turn around and take her straight back to the flat and to bed. But I’m conscious of the need to be patient. I overestimated her once and I deeply regret it.
Her mouth opens under mine and I flick just the tip of my tongue against hers, a promise for later. Breaking the kiss, I stroke the hair back from her face, looking down into her still-hazy eyes.
“Bonne fille. Good girl.”
Her answering smile and the soft pinkness in her cheeks is my reward. I take her hand again and we walk slowly through the dappled afternoon. Her free hand is no longer clamped to her skirt like she’s afraid, but is swinging loosely as she walks at my side.
The terrace is nearly empty at this hour of the afternoon and after I order our drinks we sit down at a table beneath the spreading branches of a beech tree. She sits closer than she would have just this morning, I’m pleased to see. I like her close to me.
While we wait for our drinks she seems to be working up the courage to say something, and she dimples at me shyly, playing with a strand of her hair.
“What is it, minette?” The afternoon light burnishes her cheeks and I don’t think she’s ever looked prettier.
“I want to call you something,” she says, her voice husky. “You have so many pet names for me.”
I feel my cock thicken with desire. Oh, minette, you’re so keen. I wasn’t going to order you to call me maître until I had you on the brink of coming with my hand around your throat. What an eager little girl you are. “They’re not exactly pet names, but I’ve been called maître or master. Monsieur or sir.” I look at her, noting again how young she is, how fawn-like and impish she can be. How I want to be her teacher, master and lover at the same time. “Or you could call me daddy, which is sweeter but still respectful. There’s no equivalent in French.”
She seems to say each of them silently in her head, testing them out. The hem of her skirt is just inches from my hand and I want to slide it up her thigh and feel if she’s wet for me.
“Which do you like best?” she asks.
The waiter brings our drinks, long-stemmed wineglasses filled with sangria and ice, and I wait for him to depart. I love all three titles, but I think I know which one I’d like best from her. “Hearing you call me any of those would make me hard. But...here.” I pass her a glass. “Try one out.”
She takes the sangria, her lip caught between her teeth as she smiles. “Thank you, daddy.”
I feel a throb deep inside me. Yes, that’s working for me. I imagine her facedown on my bed, her hands tied behind her back while I fuck her into obedience and she cries, Please, daddy, yes, I’ll be good. Oh, yes, that’s working for me very well. But keeping my thoughts carefully to myself, I ask, “What do you think?”
After looking over her shoulder briefly as if to check for eavesdroppers, she leans forward and whispers, “I think you’re terribly kinky, Frederic.”
Oh, chérie, I haven’t even started yet. “Moi, jolie fille? You’re the one who chose it.” I look at her over the top of my glass as I take a sip of wine. Don’t pretend to be so innocent. I know your fantasies, remember?
Evie blinks her lashes at me and drinks her wine, sitting oh so primly with one hand in her lap, seeming entirely innocent and well behaved to everyone but me, who knows she’s naked and probably slick under that skirt.
She puts her glass down and says, “Well, what else could I call you when you put me over your knee and spanked me after I’d been in your flat just a day?”
Cheeky girl. But I like her this way. A little bit mischievous, a little bit playful. It suits her, and I’ve wrangled far brattier women. I like her girlish teasing as I think it might mean she’s happy, which is the very best reason to be impish as far as I’m concerned.
Flashing her nakedness at me while we’re working and then refusing to let me touch her, though, she is not getting away with.
We sit for an hour over our drinks and it’s a perfect warm and bright evening. I ask her about her past, seeing as she’s learned so much about mine. The bar slowly fills up around us as she tells me about her sisters, her school. I think of ordering a second round, but if I do she’ll get tipsy. I’ve got plans for her and I don’t want her inhibitions artificially lowered. I want her squirming.
When we leave the bar I walk her the long way home through the dusky light, letting her think it’s because it’s a nice evening but really wanting to be sure she’s not feeling any residual effects of the wine. The sun is slanting long and hot between the buildings by the time we get back to Le Marais. We’re in a quiet, residential part of the neighborhood and she’s holding my hand, not paying attention to where we’re going. She’s pointing out a tabby cat on a balcony when I pull us down an alleyway, a short, swift tug that makes her squeal.
“Frederic!”
I pull her further into the alleyway, which is narrow and thick with shadows. For the second time that day my grip on her is hard and unyielding. She’s pulling against me in her surprise, but I’m not letting go. There’s an alcove around a very old door with faded paint and I back her firmly against it and trap her with my arms.
Half smiling, she looks up at me through her lashes. Ah, so she doesn’t wish to struggle anymor
e. She’s ready to play.
“Are you going to kiss me again? We’re almost home, you know.”
“Kiss you? No, I’m not going to kiss you.” I slide a hand up her thigh, taking her skirt with it.
Her smile becomes a look of shock. “Frederic, what are you—Someone will see!”