Santiago
Maeve threw a chunk of bread at a flock of pigeons, sending them scattering in a panic.
“Shit, was that too big?”
Chuckling, I took her hand in mine. “Think so. You threw a quarter of a baguette at them.”
Her smile was sheepish. “They’re French pigeons. I assumed they’d be into it.”
Her cheeks were flush and pretty. Her lips red and well-kissed. Her dark hair hung long and loose behind her shoulders. Under the Parisian sun, she glowed.
Since that night on the bus, we’d gotten three nights in a hotel. Three nights of unhurried, rip-the-sheets-apart sex. It was bordering on ridiculous how often I needed to be inside this girl. It never waned, only grew.
I jerked my chin toward the Notre Dame. “Did you want to go in?”
Her lips twisted to the side. “Don’t we have to have tickets?”
I sighed, pulling her into my chest. “What use is being famous if I can’t make a couple phone calls and get my girl into a fancy church?”
She shook her head, goofy grin firmly in place. “As sweet as that offer is, I’d rather pretend I’m Parisian for the day.”
Palms settling on her lower back, inches from her plump, delicious backside, I cocked my head, unable to stop a smile. “Parisian with a southern accent? I dig it.”
She lifted her chin and tapped my bottom lip with her finger. “Oui, oui, monsieur.”
“See? That was fucking cute.”
I took the extra couple inches, gripping her ass to pull her tight against my hips. She didn’t protest, even though we were in public, surrounded by tourists with cameras and pigeons eyeing the rest of her baguette, both with fear and hunger.
“How about this one?Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?”
“Have you been holding out on me, baby girl? You speak French?”
She giggled, shaking her head again. “Nope. I speak ‘Lady Marmalade.’ You know, the song fromMoulin Rouge? I’ve always wanted to say that to someone.”
“Did you just tell me to go fuck myself?”
“Quite the opposite, actually. I just asked if you’d go to bed with me tonight.”
Brushing her hair aside, I brought my lips down to her ear-level. “You don’t have to ask. It’s a given. And if you want to brush up on some more French with a southern accent, I wouldn’t be opposed.”
Another giggle, this time with pink cheeks. “You keep doin’ that dirty talk thing you do so well, I’ll learn freaking Mandarin if you like.”
“Okay, you have to stop being so damn sexy. I’m going to get arrested walking around Paris with a hard-on.”
The way she pursed her lips, I knew I was in trouble.
“Ni hao.”
Not sure whether I should fall over laughing or kiss her until her smart mouth got quiet, I made a split second decision to go with the latter. My mouth closed over hers, her giggles fading into tongues dancing, curling, fingers grasping, nails digging. Probably too much for a public place, but hell, we were in Paris. If I couldn’t make out with my girl in public in the city of love, where could I?
When we broke apart again, I noticed a couple phones pointed in our direction. I had no doubt pictures of us would show up on social media eventually. We were out together when we got the chance, making somewhat of a spectacle of ourselves. It was inevitable we’d be recognized. Maeve was distinctive and gorgeous, and with my tattoos, I didn’t exactly fly under the radar.
I wasn’t trying to hide us, not out here. I’d be relieved when Mo and Murray found out, but for now, they weren’t asking, and we weren’t telling.
Hands sliding under her long hair, I leveled her with a hard stare. “You’re a little troublemaker.”
“I can’t help that I like kissin’ you. Drivin’ you crazy is a bonus. You’re so cute when you don’t know what to do with me.” She pushed a finger between my eyebrows. “You get this little wrinkle here.”