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Billionaires in Paris Cynthia Dane 2022/8/3 13:56:13

“Get inside me,” I whimper, grabbing his clothes, searching for his cock beneath too many layers of fabric. “Fuck me like you own me.”

No silly jokes. No witty comebacks. We are on the same wavelength tonight. In fact, he’s probably been waiting for me to give the go ahead to pound me until my rambles sound like fluent French.

Everything’s raising to meet him as the tip of his cock grazes the inside of my thigh. You know that moment when everything goes blank in your brain? When all you can think about is having sex until you feed that starving hunger within you? The anticipation is killing you: you know that in one more second you’re going to be experiencing some of the greatest pleasure of your life, or so you want to convince yourself. Maybe I will. Maybe I won’t. All I know is that I want to become one with him.

I’m ignoring it. Ian’s ignoring it. We’re gonna do this and not even Satan himself could crawl out from beneath the bed and light us on fire to make us stop fucking.

“Madam Alison!” Some thickly accented English is floating in here, and for some damn reason I hear it over the heavy breaths of my boyfriend and the creaking bed beneath us. For a moment I’m distracted, head moving out of the way as Ian tries to plant a kiss on me. Instead, he makes out with my pillow.

“Ignore it.” He turns my head back toward his and kisses me. “This is more important.”

I’m not saying I disagree. The whole lower half of my body is screaming for sex.

“Madam Alison, there is a missive!”

“Slide it under the door!” I bark. Someone has his thick erection pushed against my thigh and I’m calling bullshit that it’s not inside me right now.

A pause. I think we’re in the clear and go back to having sex.

It’s so loud and disruptive that I leap out from beneath Ian’s body and snatch the end of the hotel bed. He rolls off me and, with the heaviest sigh, pulls a pillow over his lap. I get up and stumble to the door. I don’t realize my skirt is pushed up too high until my hand hits the knob.

“What is it?” The poor messenger on the other side of my suite door yelps as she faces the wrath of Kathryn Margaret Alison, a horny woman who wants to fuck her boyfriend. I must look like a rabid animal, for the young maid shoves a folded note at me, unable to make eye contact.

“Un message, Madam! Please excuse me.”

I snatch the note and curtly thank her. Her light footsteps scurry away the moment I latch the door shut again. When I turn around, note crumpling in my hand, I see my boyfriend twiddling his thumbs on top of the pillow protecting his second erection of the day.

“Well?” he asks. “What was so important?”

My eyes stay locked on his as I unfold the note. “Probably nothing. Let me…”

There are no more words. The moment I see the elegant handwriting covering the letter, everything comes crashing down. My mood. My hormones. My ability to rationalize with the world.

The letter trembles in my hand. “It’s from my mother.”

Eight in the morning in Paris. The city is waking up and going about its day. Then again, I’m in a hotel café, so there are a lot of tourists milling around, practicing their French and pretending to be more sophisticated than they really are. I see it a lot back in America too. Other parts of Europe. Even East Asia. But there’s something about Paris that really brings out the pretentious assheel from people.

I couldn’t sleep last night. Tired, but not sleepy, I sip my coffee and go through my emails on my phone. I’m wearing a big baggy white sweater even though it’s supposed to be 25 degrees Celsius today. I wasn’t thinking when I snuck out of my hotel room with Ian still fast asleep in our bed.

Ever since I read my mother’s letter, I’ve been in this trance. Funk, really. It was a short letter. “Dearest Kathryn. I have heard that you are also in Paris this week. Let’s meet up for dinner if you’re not too busy.” Sounds innocuous enough until you realize my mother is a manic depressive piece of work who skipped out of my life the moment I was sent off to college. She had mentally checked out long before that.

So to have my mother not only be in the same European city as me… but go out of her way to contact me for a meet up… something is wrong, and it’s making me uneasy.

At least the coffee here is amazing. I need some waking up. I didn’t sleep, but that doesn’t mean I still don’t have some jetlag to contend with. Don’t even get me started on how my body is still crying because we didn’t get any last night.