One Bride for Five Mountain Men

Or something else hard.

My cock twitches, quivers at the vibration from her mouth.

“How does that feel?” I ask softly.

“Good,” she says. “Rrrr.” Her eyes sparkle.

“I like how it sounds in your voice.”

“I think we’re drunk,” she says.

“Could very well be,” I reply, and signal to the waiter to refill our glasses. He weaves his way through tiny tables close together, and pours our glasses with a flourish.

“Plus de pain, Madame?” he says with an arched eyebrow.

Oh shit, we never ordered, and she hasn’t eaten anything but a breadstick. No wonder she’s drunk. I starve her, then I ply her with alcohol.

I quickly order for us in French and it earns me another one of Jordan’s “looks”: innocent but somehow sexy as hell.

“I never would have pegged you for a fluent French speaker,” she exclaims. “What were you talking about?”

“Ah, I just ordered some food for us. I hope you don’t mind that I took the liberty.”

“Not at all,” she answers, “I didn’t want to have to say a word, honestly. I’m too scared to try to speak here.”

“You’re going to have to get over that, at some point,” I admonish her lightly. “You need to be braver than that if you’re going to be a world traveler.” It occurs to me I don’t know why Jordan came here to Paris. Was it just to see the City of Light, of Love? Was it for some other reason?

“I’m terrified,” she says with no affect, and I realize it’s the most starkly true thing that she’s ever said to me. The part of her that wanted me to pay all my attention to her, the little girl, she’s still there, buried under the most sexual, succulent body I’ve had the pleasure of seeing.

Yes, I’ve spent some time with that body. But she seems like she doesn’t let on what she does. Of course, who would tell their dad’s friend something like that?

The part of me that knows who she is and what she’s done is at war with this public persona of hers. Which is the public and which is private? I don’t know what is real and what isn’t with her. But her innocence is appealing, even if it’s false.

“So tell me more about this person who was following you,” I say.

“I’d really rather not.” She takes a quick gulp of wine. “I’d like to put it behind me if I can.”

“But you said he seemed to know who you were?”

“Yeah.” Her eyes meet mine again and I search them for any sign of guilt, but they are completely guileless. She is either a very good actress, or she’s actually innocent. I’m determined to figure out which.

There can’t be any way I’ve made a mistake. My PI is too much of a pro for that. If I se

e her body, somehow, and that mole is there, I’ll know for sure.

“Oh,” says Jordan, as an appetizer is placed in front of her. It’s escargot—a dish that’s a little dated, perhaps, but how can you go to Paris and not eat one of the classiques? “What is this?”

“Just try one,” I answer.

She dips the snail deeper into its bath of garlic lemon butter and then brings it to her mouth.

“Go on,” I say, and she finally pops it between her soft lips, her eyes opening wide and then closing as her head falls back. I watch her jaw line move as she eats the snail, and when she looks back at me her eyes are half-shut and a few loose strands of hair fall in her face.

“That was the best thing I’ve ever put in my mouth,” she says wonderingly.

We’ll change that, I think.

“Have some baguette with the next bite,” I say, pushing the basket toward her.