When in Paris... (Language of Love) (25 page)

“
It isn’t,” I reply, following her gaze, trying to see the restaurant through her eyes. Large windows dominate two walls and on each white-linen-covered table are candles and a vase of assorted flowers. The chairs are pretty cushy and the tables are set a good distance apart from each other. No squeezing between chairs to move around comfortably. Not first-class dining but somewhere in between that and Olive Garden. Moderate is what my mom would call it. But hey, to me it’s perfect for the time, place and company. Especially the company.

Watching me from across the table, Olivia says, “Well, this is fancy to me. Maggiano’s is fine Italian cuisine to my family.”

Amused, I reply, “You mean it isn’t?”

She smiles but doesn’t say a word. It isn’t until a waiter materializes at our table do I realize we’ve just spent the last, I don’t know how long, staring at each other. I start and a wash of pink suffuses her face at the interruption.

The menu is in French but with mine and Olivia’s growing proficiency, we place our order without trouble. I don’t care if
escargots
is a delicacy here, as far as I’m concerned, there’s no way to dress up snail—in any language or country—because snail will always be snail.

While waiting for dinner, I steer the conversation to the innocuous like talking about what we’ve seen of Paris so far. I want to put her at ease, not make her nervous. Excited yes, but that can wait until later tonight when we’re alone. We’re served twenty minutes later and it’s then things get more personal.

“
So do you want to go professional?” she asks, taking a sip of the white wine the waiter had suggested.

I shrug. “I haven’t made up my mind.”

“
I thought everyone playing college ball wanted that.”

“
Yeah, they do. I’m not like most guys though. I thought you knew that,” I tease.

Lips pinned together, she blushes.

“
My brother’s in the pros so that might be what makes it different for me.” This is a question I get asked time and time again.

“
I would think it’d make it easier for you. You have the inside track.”

“
It’s actually just the opposite. I don’t have illusions of what being in the pros is all about. I mean Brett’s been in the league for six years. For me, going pro wouldn’t be about the fame or the money. I don’t care about that.”

“
So why aren’t you sure?” She takes another sip of her wine.

“
I don’t know, not sure if I want that kind of life. The constant traveling, dealing with injuries, the demands on my body. Not sure my love of the game will be worth it in the end.” And it would sure get my dad off my back.

Watching me intently, she nods. I wish I could read her mind. Does the fact that I may never play pro ball make her like me more or less? Shit, if it makes her like me less, I don’t want her. That would make her just as shallow as a lot of the girls I’ve gone out with. Brett Pearson’s little brother is a ticket to fortune and fame and the easy life. Yeah right. They’d learned just how quickly they were wrong.

“
So what about you? Why haven’t you decided on a major? Or have you decided?” A lot could have gone on the two weeks we weren’t talking.

Olivia cuts into her
sole filet terrine
. “No, still undecided,” she says before putting a forkful in her mouth.

Sore subject, I wonder. It’s hard to tell.

“
You were in a couple of school plays and you’ve got the lead in…”

“
A Man’s World
,” she supplies after she finishes chewing.

“
Right. Plus you’re really good.”

She sends me a curious look. “How do you know I’m good? Did you see any of the plays?”

I’m not going to admit to seeing all three. “One or two.”

I can tell she’s pleased about that by the way she looks down and then peers at me from under her eyelashes, her pink lips tipped in a smile.

“
So?” I prompt. “Why not major in theater?”

“
I don’t know. A theater degree seems impractical unless you either want to go on to work on Broadway or teach. I don’t think I want to do either.”

“
Unless you’re getting a professional degree, aren’t the rest of them pretty much the same? Business, communications, B of A, those are basically all you-made-it-through-four-years-of-higher-learning degrees. Hell, my brother majored in journalism. He planned to work for the
Washington Post
or one of the local TV stations if he didn’t make it to the pros. Now he’s a spokesperson for Nike and a luxury hotel chain. When he retires from football, he’ll probably go into sports broadcasting.”

“
But your brother is a football star. My career choices won’t be quite as broad,” she says dryly.

“
All I’m saying is that you won’t be limited to Broadway and teaching. There’s probably a ton of jobs you’ll be able to get with a theater degree. Most companies don’t care what you majored in, as long as they think you can do the job.”

She nods in agreement but something in her expression tells me she’s heard this spiel before and knows what I’m saying is the truth. Hell, she’s probably researched the subject a billion times on the internet, discussed it with her professors and guidance counselors. Which means that’s not the real reason she doesn’t want to major in theater.

“
Let me get this straight, you modeled and did some acting when you were younger, right?”

“
Yeah.”

“
Why’d you stop?” I already have a pretty good idea why.

“
I didn’t want to do it anymore.” She lets out a humorless laugh. “Funny thing is, my mom turned out to be one of those pushy stage mothers. When she was trying to make a career out of it for me, I hated it. It wasn’t fun. I was ten when I finally worked up the courage to say I didn’t want to do it anymore.”

Just as I’d thought. “Is that why you only started performing in the school plays senior year? Afraid if you showed any interest in acting your mom would turn into the stage mother from hell again?”

An arrested expression comes over her face. “I didn’t realize you paid that much attention to what I did.”

I’m not the least embarrassed at what that revealed about my feelings for her in high school. “Yeah, well now you know.”

She blushes and averts her gaze from mine. I want to kiss her so bad it’s like a physical ache. To take my mind off my body’s growing demand, I get the conversation back on track. “Ever thought that’s why you don’t want to major in theater?”

“
It’s definitely one of the detractors,” she admits, looking at me.

“
Well it doesn’t have to be.”

“
We’ll see,” is all she says, her expression thoughtful.

By the time we head back to the hotel, it’s been over two hours but it feels like half that.

When she excused herself to go to the restroom back at the restaurant, I’d called Bill. I asked him two things:
Are you in the room?
No.
When do you plan on getting back?
He snickered before he told me he found himself his own French
amour
and not to expect him back until after midnight.

I’m holding her hand as we head toward the elevator and I pull her tighter against me. Flushed a soft pink, she peers up at me.

“
It’s still early. You want to come to my room?”

It feels like an eternity elapses before she blinks and replies softly, “Okay.”

In her eyes I see a promise of what’s to come. She only drank one glass of wine and finished it an hour before, so I know she’s not even buzzed. I want her lucid and one hundred percent participating.

I can’t get us to my room fast enough. In front of my hotel door, I treat myself to a police pat down, searching for the keycard.

“
What about Bill?” she asks tentatively.

I pat the upper pocket on my sports jacket. Got it! “Bill won’t be back until after midnight.”

At my words, her hazel eyes widen. While she digests the full meaning of that, I swipe the card, turn the handle and push the door open.

She pauses at the threshold and I see conflicting emotions flash across her face. I don’t want to do anything she’s not sure of.

“
Listen, if you want to go back—”

She enters the room and the door closes behind her. “No, I want to be here. With you.”

***

OLIVIA

“C’mere.” His voice is low and sexy with a hint of a growl.

My feet move on their own accord because I can’t seem to stop them. Then I’m standing inches in front of him, my head tipped up so I can look into his smoldering gaze. I trace the curve of his lips with my eyes and I can’t remember ever wanting something as badly as I want to be in his arms, his mouth on mine.

His hands steal around my waist as he oh so slowly pulls me to him, my breasts making full contact with his chest. I place my hands on his shoulders, then loop my arms around his neck.

I expect him to kiss me but he just stands there unmoving, staring down at me. “What’s wrong?” I whisper, confused and growing hungrily impatient.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs. “If you only knew how much I want you.”

I tilt my hips against the physical evidence of that pressed against my lower stomach. Zach lets out a tortured groan. Desire flares hotly in his eyes before he gathers me closer, lowering his head and taking my mouth with his.

The kiss isn’t hot, it’s incendiary, searing through me like a bushfire doused with gasoline. His tongue plunges into my mouth and begins making sweeping forays as if he’s a sculptor mesmerizing the texture, the wetness, every hollow and ridge.

Eyes closed, I follow his lead, chasing his tongue in a dance that starts out fevered and frantic, then slows to something deeper and languid until we’re both frantic again, trying to get more from the other.

His hand tracks from the small of my back to my bottom. Cupping one cheek, he grinds me hard against him. I gasp and, debilitated by lust, my legs lose all capacity to support myself and I go limp in his arms.

Without breaking the kiss, Zach maneuvers us until we’re lying on the bed, me on top of him. I feel his hands tugging down the zipper at the back, and before I can form a thought, I feel a rush of air on my upper breasts. Then he pushes the shiny blue material from my shoulders and watches as it pools around my waist. He removes my bra with indecent haste, his fingers deftly unhooking and dropping it onto the carpet.

“Jesus Christ, Liv,” he says hoarsely before lifting his head and taking my nipple in his mouth.

Ooooooh God.

It feels so good, I have to bite my lip to keep from moaning loud enough to alert guests in the surrounding area to what’s going on in room 923. I clasp the back of his head with both hands and run my fingers through his hair, the dark strands soft and silky.

A moan that originates from deep in my chest comes tumbling out of my mouth when he uses his tongue to trace around the areola before suckling my nipple back into his mouth.

My impatience turns me ravenous and all I can think about is seeing him, touching him the same way he’s touching me. High on desire and lust, I lean back, my hands finding the hem of his sweater, and tugging up.

“Liv,” he moans, his mouth switching to the other breast. It takes him another minute before he continues and by that time, I’m practically incoherent. I don’t think I could’ve formed a sentence to save my life. “I want you.”

I know exactly what he’s saying—know what he’s asking. “Zach,” is all I can manage, which in my mind equates to,
Yes, please oh God
.

Before I can blink, his shirt is off, and I have an up-close and personal view of his muscled chest and honest-to-God, lickable washboard abs. Like a smorgasbord, my hands and lips run amuck as I press him down onto the bed, straddling his waist and trapping him under me.

With the top half of my dress around my waist, one of his hands is stroking the length of my back, his touch arousing and gentle, his other hand is rhythmically squeezing my butt, driving me
crazy
.

Reluctantly, I abandon his chest to tackle the button and zip on his chinos.

“Wait. Hold on,” he says in a graveled voice I barely recognize.

When I finally had sex, I always thought I’d be more nervous, shier. But the glazed look in Zach’s eyes, the roughness of his voice sends anticipation zinging through me. Being with Zach is not at all like making out with Jeff. With Jeff I was never really tempted to give in. With him, I’d hung on tight to my virginity. With Zach, the burning need to be with him like this pushes every other thought from my head. I want this connection with him. Want it more than I could have ever imagined wanting anything.