Foreign Love (An International Sports Romance) (Love in Shades)

Foreign Love

by

Cassie-Ann L. Miller

Foreign Love

Copyright © 2016 Cassie-Ann L. Miller

All rights reserved.

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents appearing therein are products of the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be interpreted as real. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

The author acknowledges the trademarked status of the various products referenced in this work

Stories by Cassie-Ann L. Miller

Esquire Girls Series

Amber’s Story

Up All Night (Amber – Book 1)

In your Arms Tonight (Amber Book 2)

Live for the Night (Amber Book 3)

When the Night is Over (Amber Book 4) - (The conclusion to Amber’s story)

Or get Amber’s full story, all in one boxed set:
Amber Nights (Amber – Books 1, 2, 3 & 4)

Madison’s Story

Waiting, Always  (Madison – Book 1)

Yours Always (Madison – Book 2)

Loving You Always (Madison – Book 3)

Always & Forever (Madison – Book 4) – (The conclusion to Madison’s story)

Or get Madison’s full story, all in one boxed set:
For Madison, Always (Madison – Books 1, 2, 3 & 4)

Ruthie’s Story

Desire, Untamed (Ruthie – Book 1)

Blinded by Desire (Ruthie – Book 2)

Desire Ablaze (Ruthie – Book 3)

Beyond Desire (Ruthie – Book 4) – (The conclusion to Ruthie’s story)

Or get Ruthie’s full story, all in one boxed set:
Ruthie’s Desire (Ruthie – Books 1, 2, 3 & 4)

Hailey’s story

Moment of Weakness (Hailey – Book 1)

A Moment in Time (Hailey – Book 2)

Beyond this Moment (Hailey – Book 3) – (The conclusion to Hailey’s story)

Or get Hailey’s full story, all in one boxed set:
Moments with Hailey – (Hailey – Books 1, 2, 3 & 4)

Esquire HEAT Series

A Very Eager Intern

A Very Frustrated Attorney

Standalone novels

Matteo

Beast

Table of contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Epilogue

A Very Eager Intern, A Novella (Limited Time Only)

Chapter 1

Julia

Yes I’m
that
girl.

The blue-eyed blonde who sneaks into the airplane lavatory with the gorgeous stranger across the aisle and has too-loud sex while a growing line of frustrated passengers wait, desperate to empty their bladders, on this transatlantic flight from New York City to Paris.

Don’t judge me.

If you’d seen that rugged slice of male perfection, you’d be that girl too. His eyes are copper with flecks of gold and they glint and crease at the corners when he laughs. His nose is broad and strong and just a tiny bit crooked. He has perfect white teeth and full lips the color of watermelons and they taste just as sweet. But my favorite part of his face is that scruffy beard. I bet it would make the perfect cushion for riding all the way to Orgasmville.

The moment he’d stepped onto the plane, he caught my attention. But when our eyes met, I gave him a coquettish smile and looked away because, as handsome as he was, I have way too much on my mind these days. But after the airhostesses had scooped up our empty dinner plates, I’d pulled an orange lollipop out of my purse and popped it into my mouth. He’d leaned over playfully, watching me with those copper-gold eyes, and asked if he could have one, too.

That’s how we started talking…and eventually, fucking.

In my defense, I was trying to cheer him up. He said he’d spent his life preparing for a professional career in soccer (or ‘football’ as he’d called it in his panty-melting French accent) only to shred his ACL seven months ago, effectively ending any chance of playing in the 2016 Olympic Games.

In a weird way, we’re like kindred spirits. His pain resonated with me on so many different levels. It was so palpable, I could almost taste it on his full pink lips...

So, I fucked him.

I’m an empathetic person. Sue me.

An angry little palm slaps against the lavatory door. “
Madame, monsieur, ouvrez la porte, s’il vous plait
.”

We’ll open the door when we’re good and ready, little miss airhostess lady
.

I tug down the hem of my fluttery green summer dress as we slink past the angry mob lined up outside of the washroom.

“Whore,” a middle-aged brunette mumbles under her breath as I pass by.

I let it slide because she’s wincing like she’s holding in a fart and besides, with a mug like that, it’s definitely been a while since she got laid.

My gorgeous French bathroom buddy slides back into his first-class seat and leans across the aisle as I buckle up my seat belt. “You say your name is Jillian, no?”

Ugh, fuck. So awkward when that happens.

I’m not angry, though. Instead, I laugh playfully, loving the way his accent tickles his words. “Julia,” I correct him.

“
JEWH
-lyah.” His mouth caresses my name as he leans his skull against the headrest and smiles. “Aren’t you going to ask me my name again?”

I shake my head ‘no’, biting back a grin, as I slide my huge sunglasses over my eyes and slip my headphones over my ears.

Lucien Beauvier. It’s a name that won’t soon leave my mind.

Chapter 2

Lucien

“Time is mon-nay,
monsieur
,” the short, balding man drawls as he leans out of the idling car’s window.

“
Excusez-moi
,” I apologize distractedly to the impatient taxi driver as my eyes frantically scan the airport terminal.

Merde! – I should have gotten her number when I had the chance.

As soon as our ‘rendez-vous’ in the washroom was over, Julia slid into her chair and fell asleep. She was exhausted and I couldn’t blame her.

I’d caged her in, one arm bracing the wall on either side of her body, as she bent over the sink in the tiny room. I’d hammered ruthlessly into her until her teeth were cutting into the flesh of my forearm and her tight pussy was rippling around my cock. I’d hissed into her ear, telling her that I’d fuck her so hard that she’d never forget the ache of me inside of her. I’d thumbed her nipples roughly before tugging on her golden hair. She’d come hard, her forehead pressed against the tiny mirror above the sink. I’d exploded a moment later, releasing seven month’s worth of tension into her tight, little body.

She didn’t seem embarrassed when the airhostess had banged on the door, summoning us out in a scolding tone. She’d held her head high as we walked past the line of impatient passengers waiting to use the restroom. She hadn’t even blushed. Not even a little bit.

While she slept I imagined exactly how I would have fucked her if we’d had more than just a few cramped square feet to work with.

When the flight landed, I turned to the overhead cabin to retrieve my duffel bag and I helped the older woman next to me get her carry-on bag. By the time I’d turned around, Julia was gone.

I searched for her at the baggage claim and as I waited to go through customs. But she was nowhere to be found.

This girl is beautiful and confident. Unlike anyone I’ve ever known. And I may have just let her slip through my fingers.

I throw one final glance around the airport, hoping to spot her in the crowd.

“
On s’en va, mon mec
?” asks the taxi driver, eager to get the meter running.

I sigh in exasperation. “
Oui
,” I say as I sink into the back seat and slam the door behind me. “Let’s go.”

Chapter 3

Julia

I roll over onto my side and bend my left knee into my chest. My pillow is wet against my face, my hair is matted to my cheek.

I’m going to die like this. I’m going to die, curled up in a ball in this bed.

I still can’t accept the words the doctor said to me. “Ms. Lockhart,” he’d said in his broken English, “I see no other option but to implant a metal rod into your femur in order to hold your kneecap in place.”

“But I won’t be able to dance…” I’d cried. And life isn’t worth living if I can’t dance.

“
Desolé
.  So sorry,” he’d said simply as he’d clutched his clipboard, his white lab coat flapping behind him as he’d slinked out of the room.

I scrub my palm over my forehead and down my face.
This can’t be happening to me.

I still haven’t been able to tell my closest friends. I don’t want to hear myself say the words. Against the doctor’s orders I peeled off my full-length leg brace and boarded the earliest flight back to the States. I told Mackenzie and Willow that I came home to visit because I missed them, I missed New York. And while it’s true that I did want to be close to the people and things that I love, I went back to New York for a second opinion from the city’s most renowned orthopedic surgeon. And when I didn’t like what he had to say, I got a third opinion and a fourth.

The doctors all say the same thing – I have to have the surgery or I risk dislocating my knee every time I take a false step for the rest of my life.

Everything changed in the blink of an eye. One minute, I was the most promising first year corps dancer the
Opéra Nationale de Paris
had seen in years. There was already talk of me being promoted to soloist in my sophomore session. And the next minute, I was falling out of a grand jété, watching in slow motion as my knee twisted. I landed awkwardly on my right leg and crashed to the stage in mind-shattering agony.

What followed was months of doctors’ appointments, physiotherapy and repeated dislocations of my knee. And now, they’re saying that I need a metal rod in my leg to keep it from falling apart again and again.

Countless times since my accident, I’ve had to look at myself in the mirror and ask,
Who the hell am I if I can’t dance?

The thought of having to do some introspection and redefine myself is scary as hell. In the meantime, I’ve taken up sketching again. It serves as a bit of a distraction. And I’m still good at it even though I haven’t done it since I was a flat-chested, twelve-year-old, doodling ballet costumes at the back of my math class instead of working on converting fractions to decimals.

See Mrs. Dirkensky – I always told you that my drawings were much more likely to benefit me in the future than figuring out those damn equations on the blackboard.

I hear a gentle tap on the door. I ignore it. I know she’ll barge in here anyway.

She knocks again, louder this time. And again, I ignore her.

“Julia…?” She slowly pushes the door open, the floorboards squeaking loudly under the movements of her lithe frame. When I still don’t answer, she sighs heavily and marches right in. “Julia, you must get up. You must not lie in bed all day,” she says sternly as she yanks open the heavy drapes covering the windows.

“Go away, Geneviève,” I groan, pulling the pillow over my face. “You can’t just stomp in here whenever you want. I pay rent.”

Like me, Geneviève is one of the corps dancers at the
Opéra Nationale
. She inherited a huge, four-bedroom flat from her great-aunt and I’ve been renting one of the rooms ever since I landed in Paris just over a year ago. But judging by the way she tries to boss me around, you’d think that my parents hired her to babysit me while I’m here in France. Two other dancers share our loft – Cecilia and Alba. They’re nice enough. But, they’re usually too busy rambling on in rapid-fire Italian to be a hindrance.

Geneviève scoops up the empty glass and the plate sitting on the table beside my bed. “You cannot just lie here and feel sorry for yourself. You must get up. Move your body. Feel the sun on your face.”

I yank the pillow away from my face to roll my eyes at her. She’s dressed in a black leotard under a flowy knee-length skirt. Her silky, black hair is pulled into a perfect chignon at the base of her neck. Her lips are painted bright red and she’s definitely mastered the art of applying winged eyeliner. Everything about her is elegant and sophisticated, screaming not just
ballerina
but also
Parisian woman
. “For your information, I have physiotherapy at 10:30 this morning, so I
will
be leaving the house.”

Geneviève’s actions grind to a halt. She pauses for a moment before sinking gracefully to the foot of my bed. “Oh Chérie. I’m so sorry for you,” she breathes.

Y’see – that’s it right there. That’s the reason I haven’t told Mackenzie and Willow about my injury. I don’t want to see
that look
on their faces.

That’s why I didn’t wear a leg brace when I went back to the States to see them. It’s why I forced the limp out of my step and pasted on a happy-go-lucky smile even when I was cringing in pain on the inside.

I’m broken now. It’s my new reality. It haunts my every waking moment.

When I need to block it out, I transport myself back to that cramped airplane lavatory and the handsome, scruffy stranger who’d fucked me like he was vying for a gold medal, using his hands and mouth and cock to make me forget about my misery. And he
does
deserve some kind of accolade because only an extremely talented individual can deliver a toe-curling orgasm, in the confines of an airplane washroom at 30,000 feet in the air, in six minutes flat.

Cabin pressure be damned!

But I try not to think about the adventure or the man who supplied it because it gives me a strange sort of bliss in a world where bliss now seems misplaced.

I sit up on the bed and toss back the covers. I swing my legs over the side of the mattress. The soreness around my right knee radiates up and down my leg causing me to wince as soon as I put the slightest weight on it. The injury is most sensitive first thing in the morning. The pain tends to subside as my leg muscles warm up over the course of the day.

When my foot touches the ground, I limp over to my small closet and yank out a simple black t-shirt and a pair of jeans. I toss a glare in my roommate’s direction. “Happy now, Geneviève?” I ask sarcastically. “I’m up.”

She sighs again as she stands and heads towards my bedroom door. “Quelle pitié,” she mutters under her breath. “You could have been one of the
Opéra
’s shining stars.”