Foreign Love (An International Sports Romance) (Love in Shades) (3 page)

Chapter 7

Julia

The waiter sets a tiny shot of espresso in front of me and one in front of Lucien. Lucien wrinkles up his nose at me, amusement twirling in his eyes, as I dump one teaspoon and then another of white sugar into my coffee before adding enough milk to make the drink spill over the sides of the small cup.

“Americans,” he says shaking his head in pity as he pulls off his cap and sets it on his knee. His brown, wavy hair is cropped close to the scalp. He runs a hand over it distractedly, brushing it into place.

“What?” I ask furrowing my brow at him.

“You complicate everything, even a simple cup of coffee,” he chuckles before lifting his cup to his lips.

“I resent that,” I say sharply despite the smile on my mouth. “America is the greatest nation on earth. We employ methods far superior to those known of here in France,” I state in a faux-haughty tone.

“If you say so.” He throws up a hand in defeat. A serious but pleasant look settles on his face. “I did not ask you here to discuss diplomacy and foreign relations, though.”

I lift an eyebrow. “So, what exactly did you invite me here for?”

He gives me a curious look. “I want to know you a little,” he says. “Why is that strange to you?”

My gaze wanders past his shoulder to a couple zooming down the winding cobblestone street on an electric scooter. They look happy and carefree. I wish I could feel that again. “Why is it strange to me? Because we had a moment in an airplane washroom and that was enough for me. Why isn’t it enough for you?”

He looks at me, his eyes scoping out the terrain of my face. He leans across the tiny table between us and his voice becomes dangerously low and raspy. “Because I want to have you on a bed, on your back, with those beautiful legs wrapped around my neck.” I feel his hand under the table. His fingers trail up my thigh. His words and his touch pluck on a string at my core, and I feel the note resonate throughout my body. He continues as his eyes focus on my lips. “Because I want to see your lips wrapped around my cock as I tug on that beautiful, golden hair.” I feel heat warming up my neck. “Because I want to see the way your mouth puckers and your eyes squint when I sink into you, balls deep…is that what you want me to say?” He casually leans back in his chair and glances around at the people strolling unhurriedly along the sidewalk. “But I also just want to know your favorite color.”

He changes gears so fast it makes my head spin.

I exhale in a rush, releasing a breath I hadn’t even realized that I’d been holding captive.

“Now that we’ve clarified my intentions, can we please have a normal conversation like two adults enjoying each other’s company at a wonderful little café in beautiful Paris on a sunny afternoon in June?”

I nod, biting my bottom lip to tamp down a smile. He’s kind of domineering. I like that.

“So, you’re an athlete?” It’s more of a statement than a question. “...Because Cynthia works only with athletes.”

I nod again, except this time, there’s no smile trying to force its way to my lips. “I’m a ballerina. A corps dancer for the
Opéra Nationale
,” I say somberly.

His eyes drink me in, scrutinizing me in a light of this new piece of information. He brings his espresso to his lips before he continues. “And you got injured?”

“Dislocated kneecap,” I mumble staring down into my empty cup. I haven’t said those words to many people and each time I say them, it feels foreign. Like I’m speaking about someone else, some poor unfortunate soul who had her dream snatched away from her because she landed wrong out of a grand-fucking-jété.

He leans back, his eyes riveted to me. His expression is a mixture of fascination and confusion. “But when we met on the airplane, you said nothing. I told you about
my
injury. Why did you say nothing about yours?”

I look up, into his face. In my mind, a take a snapshot of each of his features; his smiling, coppery-gold eyes, his soft, full mouth, that beard, thick and coarse. I imagine it bruising my neck, my stomach, the insides of my thighs.

He moves closer and his hand slides across the table, clasping over the top of mine. It’s large and warm and I want it all over my body. “Why didn’t you tell me about your injury, Julia?”

“Because I didn’t want to see that look on your face…”

He shifts back in his seat. “What look?” His brows furrow, confused.

I sigh deeply. “That look of pity. That look that says ‘Poor, little broken girl. She had her dream stolen away from her and now I feel sorry for her’. When you sat next to me on the plane, I could tell you thought I was sexy. I didn’t want you to stop seeing me that way.”

He tilts his head to the side. “But that is ridiculous, Julia. You
are
sexy. You are beautiful. Effortlessly. Without trying.”

I offer a small smile to the handsome Frenchman sitting across from me, not because I’m completely convinced by his flattery, but because it’s noble of him to try.

“You have to understand, Julia. Every emotion that you are feeling about your injury, I have felt it too. I know the feeling of helplessness, the feeling that your own body is conspiring against you, rioting against your dream. For you it is performing at the
Opéra Nationale
. For me it is the Olympics. But the anxiety, the – how do you say? – the anguish is the same.”

I feel my heart flutter wildly against my ribs. And that’s when I know that I’m fucked.

He understands…

And suddenly, I’m desperate to get away from him.

“I should leave. I should get home,” I say slowly as I gather my messenger bag and slide the strap onto my shoulder.

His hand is on mine again. “I have not offended you, have I?”

My lips curve just a bit as I shake my head. “No, you haven’t offended me. You’ve been a perfect gentleman,” I say. Then, I laugh, “Except for the part where you talked about sinking balls deep into me…but that was kind of my favorite part, anyway.” I give him a silly wink.

Lucien laughs, too. “Ah, well the offer still stands,” he says, his copper eyes sparkling at me.

Before he knew about my injury, it would have been so easy to say ‘yes’, to steal an orgasm from him without the intimacy I know he’ll demand. For chrissakes, even my best friends don’t know about my injury. I’m way too vulnerable to this stranger, I’ve opened the door too wide and now I’m standing just inside the threshold and I want to cross over because, dammit, I like this guy, but I’m afraid of where being weak could lead me.

“How about we take it a step at a time?” I say, still smiling as I pull out my phone and slide it over to him. “Give me your number. Maybe we could go out again.”

He shrugs a broad shoulder at me. “It was worth a try, no?” He takes my phone and keys in his phone number. Then, he hits dial and I see his own phone vibrating on the table between us. “So, now I finally have your phone number, Julia,” he says with a grin as he stands from the table. “I am a happy guy.”

I’m blushing. I’m not the type of girl who blushes – I’m the type of girl who takes what I want with no apologies – but here I am, blushing.

I rise to my feet, standing in front of Lucien. His hands cup my cheeks. They’re warm and just a little bit rough, but I’m not complaining.

He stares down at me, a light glowing in his eyes. “
Tu est une poupée, Julia. Une poupée
.” His lips touch my left cheek and then my right and I melt a little bit on the inside.

Chapter 8

Lucien

I’m smiling like a fucking idiot as I slip my key into the lock on the front door of my flat.

I can’t believe my luck! I can’t believe I found her!

After I got into the taxi at the airport that day, I never thought I’d see Julia again. And when she walked into the clinic this morning, it felt like I was awake in a dream. But sitting opposite her at that café, watching her ruin a perfectly good espresso with sugar and milk, I felt like the luckiest guy alive. I didn’t want to let her go again. I wanted to toss her over my shoulder and march back to my flat, caveman style. But she’s skittish, unsure, and I most definitely don’t want to scare her away.

So, I took all that she offered me willingly and didn’t push too hard when she seemed reluctant to give me more. After coffee, we walked for a little bit and my arm ached to rope around her shoulder, but I resisted. Instead, I dug my hands deep into my pockets and just watched her.

I watched her watching the artisans working hard at their craft as we passed their windowed storefronts. She watched the couples seated at street-side cafés, falling in love. She watched the buildings, drinking in the architecture. And there was so much fascination on her face.

And as long as we weren’t talking about her knee, she was happy and grand, larger-than-life. But once the conversation moved to her injury and how it stalled her ballet career, she withdrew and became small.

I hate seeing that pain on her face. But it’s a pain I recognize. It’s a pain I feel deep inside of me.

I had offered to walk her home to make sure that she arrived safe, but she just gave me this
look
and said, “Nice try, creeper. Next time be more subtle in your attempts to get into my bed.”

After I hang my keys on the hook near the door, I pad across my loft-style apartment to my bed. I set my phone on the bedside table. I sink onto the mattress as I peel off my shirt and toss it in the direction of the laundry basket in the corner of the room. I unbutton my jeans and slide them to the floor.

Once I’ve kicked them aside, my attention goes to my knee. It’s bandaged up as it usually is. I remove the pin holding the bandage in place and unwrap the knee, swinging my leg back and forth to loosen the stiff muscles.

Cynthia says I’m healing well. I just wish I could heal faster so that maybe I could salvage what’s left of my soccer career.

Anyway, right now, I don’t want to think about Cynthia and I don’t want to think about soccer.

All I want is to imagine Julia, here with me.

I slide my hand under the waistband of my black underpants. My cock is already throbbing, just thinking about that girl. I push my underwear down to the floor and lie back on the mattress. My dick is heavy in my hand and arousal rockets through my veins. I jerk my erection roughly, imagining that it’s Julia’s hands pumping my cock while her lips and tongue caress my heavy, rippling balls. I imagine twisting my fingers in her hair and pulling her head back as I come, hot and thick, into her mouth. In my mind’s eye, I see her swallow it all, with a devious smile on her lips while sliding her fingers through her ripe, swollen folds.

And just as I’m tensing and shaking, my orgasm barreling through me, my phone starts to ring. My first instinct is to ignore it and just ride the wave of pleasure rioting through my body. But, when I toss my head to the side, lost in ecstasy, I see Julia’s name flashing across the screen.

I immediately drop my cock and bolt upright in the bed, sober in an instant.

“
Âllo
? Julia?” I say, uncertainty cloaking my tone.

“Lucien!” she breathes a sigh of relief. “Thank god you answered. I really need your help.”

Chapter 9

Julia

I stand outside of the métro station, watching Lucien approach, weaving through the crowd at a hurried pace. His cap is gone now. His shirt is untucked. But he moves with the grace of a wildcat.

God, that man is so…
virile
.

“Julia?
Ça va
? Are you all right?” he asks, worry etched into his brow as he braces me by the shoulders. He lowers his face to look straight at me and his eyes search mine.

“I’m okay, really,” I say shaking my head softly. I feel like an idiot. “I’m so sorry that I had to call and bother you like that, but I didn’t have that many options.” I glance at the people bustling by us outside of the busy train station.

His keeps an arm around my shoulder as he steers me away from the heavy foot traffic. “No, no. It was no bother at all.” He gives me a smile that warms me all over. “I am glad that you called me.”

When Lucien and I left the café, we’d walked to the nearest métro. He’d offered to take me home to make sure that I arrived safely. He seemed genuine enough but I suspect that, subconsciously at least, he had an ulterior motive.

Normally, that wouldn’t be a problem. If an attractive guy is interested in taking me to bed and I feel that the chemistry is right, I don’t play games. I just take what I want, no strings attached.

But with Lucien, I feel different. I’m wildly attracted to him but it’s more than just superficial and sexual. I want to hear him laugh and feel his fingers clasped around mine and tell him all my secrets. I can’t remember ever feeling this way about a man. The thought of strings and attachments with him sounds like an outrageously pleasant idea. I crave more than sex. I crave intimacy with him.

And that scares me because he’s already seen the weakest part of me.

So, that’s why I refused his offer to ride the train with me and drop me off at my front door. That’s why I left him standing outside at the ticket counter and boarded the métro alone.

It felt like I was doing the right thing. And god knows I’m not usually a fan of doing the right thing. But this time, I wanted to be mature because the things I feel when I look at this man are powerful enough to crush me.

But, when I finally arrived at the front door of Geneviève’s four-story apartment building, I realized that my keys were missing. I’d used them to lock up when I was leaving for my physiotherapy appointment this morning but now, they were suddenly gone. My several attempts to reach my roomates just ended with me leaving irritated messages on their answering machines. I know they’ll be in rehearsals till well into the evening. I went back to the physiotherapist’s office to ask if they had noticed my keys lying around but they were nowhere to be found. I searched the staircase where I’d dropped my messenger bag, but no luck.

So, when I ran out of options, accepted that my keys were in fact lost for good. I had already begun to feel an ache in my knee by the time I called Lucien.

And I found a million ways to justify the phone call. He’s the only person I know in Paris who isn’t at dance rehearsal right now. I need to get off of my feet and I can’t well sit at a café all afternoon. Plus, he probably wouldn’t mind helping me out.

But I refuse to entertain the thought that maybe I just want to be near him again, dammit.

“Come. Come with me,” he says in a warm voice as his hand slips from my shoulder, across my back and down my arm until his fingers are intertwined with mine.

We walk side by side in silence, the tension between us mounting as we travel along the winding streets.

No one would ever describe me as a quiet girl. I’m just the opposite; loud, opinionated and recklessly spontaneous, but my heartstrings are twisted around my throat right now, pressing and squeezing.

I’m nervous.

My pulse ticks up a few beats when we reach a charming, historic two-story building with arched windows and a brick exterior tucked into a narrow side street. Lucien nods towards it and I follow closely behind as he climbs the front stoop and unlocks the door.

He holds the door open for me and I enter a beautiful lobby with black and white tiled floors and a winding marble staircase framed by intricate ironwork railings. Lucien stops briefly at the postboxes and retrieves his mail before gesturing for me to lead the way up the stairs. My knees don’t feel too reliable as I climb the steps so I grip the twisted iron railing for support. Once up the stairs, Lucien fits his key into the lock on one of the four apartment doors and shoves the door open.

“
Entre, ma poupée
,” he says with a sweeping hand gesture and a reassuring smile, encouraging me to step inside.

I draw a tiny inhalation as I move over the threshold. And I simply lose my breath.

“This apartment is gorgeous, Lucien,” I say as I stand in the foyer and gaze around. The space is small but wow! Ornate moldings adorn the ceilings and light floods the apartment through the tall, intricate wrought-iron French doors. The hardwood floors gleam a rich mahogany color and a pair of loafers is kicked off on the floor, in the corner. The furniture is sparse but looks comfy. A large bookshelf bearing tattered books covers the wall next to the messy bed. The space is far from perfect but it looks lived-in and comfortable.

“Please. Make yourself at ease,” Lucien says entering behind me and kicking off his dark brown loafers before heading into the kitchenette.

I ease out of my black canvas sneakers and wander around the loft, taking in all of its beauty. I linger by the mantle, admiring the soccer trophies and personal photographs there. Then, I sit on the couch, enjoying the softness of the rich velvet throw pillows.

“You must be starving. Here, eat,” Lucien says to me as he sets a plate of various crackers and cheeses along with two glasses of red wine onto the table in front of the couch.

And for a second, my mind flashes back to the last guy I dated. The first time I’d been to his apartment, we’d drank Mountain Dew straight out of the two liter bottle while lying in his bed with our shoes on and eating cold, day-old pepperoni pizza.

This is definitely a step up...

But then, I have to remind myself that this isn’t a date. This is Lucien saving me from having to sit on the stoop outside of my apartment building until Geneviève gets home from rehearsal.

He sinks down onto the couch next to me and smiles before cutting a small wedge of cheese. His tongue darts out slightly before he slides the cheese into his mouth and sucks lightly on the tip of his index finger. “Mmm,” he groans, his eyes blinking shut.

Fuck. Me.

Who knew that watching a man have a foodgasm could be so damn sexy.

He cuts another small slice of cheese and stretches it to me. “Brie de Meaux. From a small farm fifty miles south-east of Paris. You must taste this,” he says to me in his Provençal drawl.

“Sounds amazing,” I say as I reach out to take it from his fingers. But he bats my hand away. Instead, he brings the cheese to my mouth. My nipples ache as I part my lips and his fingers graze against them as he deposits the cheese onto my tongue.

“Slowly,” he says in a low, hoarse voice. “Take your time. Savor it.”

My eyes flutter shut as the creamy Brie virtually melts in my mouth. “Mmm,” I groan much like Lucien did when he tasted it.

“Good, no?” he asks, his eyes fixed on my lips.

“Good,” I say nodding, watching him watch me.

Then, he moves on to another brick of cheese. “Pont-l'Évêque,” he says in a soft growl as he pushes a small slice past my lips.

“Wow, so good,” I say as I enjoy the creamy softness. Lucien’s eyes are on me as he brings his fingers to his own mouth and sucks off the residue.

Why the hell is that so erotic?

My core is hot now and I know that it’s probably slick to the touch.
Oh, I want him to touch it just to make sure.

Dusk settles over the city, various hues of orange and purple filtering into the room through the large windows, making the mood in the room that much more intimate and sensual.

I slide my wine goblet off of the table and take a greedy gulp, hoping to quell the desire rising up in me. But instead, warmth quickly floods my body and my head feels lighter, freer.

Lucien’s eyes are still on me, copper and gold blazing in the dimming light. “Now, taste this one,” he says as he glides his index through the center of a soft, gooey cheese and brings it to my mouth. He slowly glides his finger along my bottom lip before plunging it into my mouth, against my tongue. I whimper, wrapping my lips around his index and sucking. He looks mesmerized as he sweeps his tongue along his bottom lip. “Époisses de Bourgogne,” he grumbles in a low voice.

We both sit, wordlessly. Staring at each other. The tension vibrates between us, alive and effervescent.

“Are you trying to seduce me?” I whisper hoarsely, my body unable to move.

“Am I that obvious?” he whispers back.

I can’t answer, I’m afraid that if I move, I’ll lose complete control and end up jumping his bones.

“I’m imagining you suckling on my cock the way you did my finger,” he confesses in a voice heated with arousal.