French Wanker - Victoria Pinder Page 0,6
the moment I experienced perfection. Normally, I’d never think about sex much at all. I’d admit to friends I’d probably just been above it all.
I was clearly in denial, but I’d board my train to Monte Carlo and tomorrow to Florence and hope maybe men in other parts of Europe were equally good-looking.
If that sexy stranger represented the best Frenchman, maybe I’d see that movie version of the perfect Italian guy from my fantasies.
Then maybe I’d stop wondering about Mr. Wanker’s wanker.
I laughed to myself at the thought, slid into my seat, and dug out my travel guide.
Soon I’d see more places on my bucket list—the casino from that James Bond movie and where Grace Kelly married her prince in a documentary. The train for Monte Carlo arrived early, and I booked a night train to continue on to Florence.
Finally, I’d see Italy where supposedly the hottest of hot European men existed.
But my body still wanted more carnal knowledge of Mr. Wanker.
I closed my eyes and let my lips slightly open as I had for his kiss. But then I heard a light knock on the door. I opened them, half expecting to be asked for my ticket when dark, sexy brown hues stared into mine and asked, “Est-ce que tu as un plan? Je me suis perdu dans tes yeux.”
My pulse raced. I still didn’t understand his words, and I sat straighter as I asked, “What?”
“Is this seat taken?” He pointed to the three empty seats in my small compartment.
If we locked the door, we’d have some privacy. I became breathless like this was all a dream and asked, “Wanker?”
Without waiting for my approval, he took the seat and closed the door.
My heart leapt. We were alone.
“It seems we both chose the same train to Monte Carlo.”
In movies, Italy was where hot men existed, but France had always played in my mind as a close second. Wanker proved the fervor inside me lit up at the sound of a French accent that had clips of English with different pronunciations. My muscles clearly tried to protest as I stammered and slightly trembled. “I… I w-wanted to see the countryside and then get to Italy.”
He winked at me and then reached into his travel bag. I wondered if he’d grab a condom and demand my attention right there, but he pulled out a bottle and asked, “Would you like a glass of wine?”
My breath escaped my lungs. Seriously? Did all the French travel with bottles? I nodded and tried to make sense when I said, “So… you plan on drinking for the next nine hours?”
He poured the wine into two glasses that were already in the cabin like the French foreshadowed their customers’ needs. “They serve decent meals, so I intended to indulge on some food, too.”
He handed me the red blend. I couldn’t possibly read the bottle to decipher the vintage, so I decided to go with the flow. “Are you heading to Monte Carlo to gamble?”
He leaned closer, and the air smelled like him, and my lips ached for his again when he said, “If we’re getting personal, let’s start with names.”
My heart beat a mile a minute. If this was a sin, I’d have to somehow make it to a confessional. My knees trembled as I offered my hand to shake. “Right. I’m Kara Johnson.”
He turned it and kissed my knuckles like I was some queen. “Quentin La Trimouille. Now, let me know your thoughts on this wine.”
Quentin was a cute name, though he’d forever be my wanker. My skin zipped with anticipating carnal activity as I batted my eyes. “My thoughts?”
He stared at my lips, and my libido rose another notch. “How does it taste to you?”
“Yes,” I said and sipped my glass.
He stared at me, and I tamped down the urge to jump over the space between the seats and uncover his family jewels. The visual played out like reality, until the fantasy went up in smoke when he lifted his eyebrow, waiting for me to respond. I sucked my bottom lip to get the flavor. “Like wine?”
He waved his hand in a circle to encourage me. “More detail. Don’t gulp, sip and let your lips greet the drink.”
My lips didn’t want to greet the liquid as much as they ached for more kisses. More of his kisses.
“Are you a wine expert?”
“I pretty much grew up a sommelier.”
No pressure or anything. At the bottle factory for wine, we weren’t allowed to sample. I ignored how my