Going Down

When the elevator came to a halt on the ground floor, he put his hand on the latch but paused. He was close to me, dangerously close. I could smell his cologne, sharp and musky, and it invaded my senses, making me ache for contact.

“You live underneath me,” he stated.

Underneath him. Why did that made me think of sex? Because he was so damn sexy.

“If I play my music too loud,” he continued, “you must please inform me.” He opened the gates.

I recalled hearing the faint strains of classical music the night before as I fell asleep, but it hadn’t bothered me—quite the contrary. So, it had come from his apartment. “I liked what I heard last night,” I responded as I stepped out into the reception area.

“I’m glad to hear it. I’m a producer. I work in a studio in the daytime but sometimes I bring samples home to listen to in a different environment.” He closed the gates securely behind us. “The gates must be closed properly, or it will not be able to collect anyone else who calls it.”

We walked across the checkerboard-tiled hallway together, heading for the glass entrance doors.

“So, will you choose to enter La Cage again?”

A smile hovered around his handsome mouth, and his eyes glinted. That sounded like a loaded question. He knew how it came across, I was sure of it. Anticipation built at my center, my blood rushing in my veins. “Oh, yes, I enjoyed the ride immensely. Thank you.”

I met his gaze, my smile lingering. I wanted him to know I was interested. I was single and in Paris, of course I’d thought about the possibility of meeting new people. Mostly I thought the opportunity would come my way through my job.

As we left th

e building the concierge saluted us from his reception post, a polished oak and glass office at one side of the hallway.

“May I offer you a drive to your workplace?” My companion nodded at a sleek black Mercedes parked on the opposite side of the street.

“Thank you, but a colleague is meeting me at the Metro station.” Would I have accepted if I’d been able to? Of course I would. Looking up into his sharp blue eyes I wondered what that sensuous mouth would feel like covering mine, and I couldn’t deny it.

“Au revoir, Jennifer.”

My breath caught. Warning signals sounded in my mind. “How did you know my name?”

“I am your landlord, as well as your neighbor.” He offered his hand. “Armand Lazare.”

The strength of his handshake made me feel as if it was holding me up. Or maybe it was because my legs turned weak under me when he touched me. Then he took my hand to his lips, and kissed the back of it. When he released me, I had to reach out for the marble pillar at the bottom of the steps to steady myself. My stay in Paris had launched in the most delectable way.

“Au revoir,” I whispered as I watched him dart across the road toward his car. I couldn’t help admiring the view. His tall frame was limber and fit, broad at the shoulder and narrow at the hips. Gathering myself as quickly as I could, I headed off towards the Metro station before he could look back and see my gawking..

The encounter kept flitting through my mind over the course of that day, my moments in La Cage with my upstairs neighbor haunting me in the most intimate way—keeping me simmering and alert.

That night as I lay in my bed listening to the faint strains of his music, I stroked my body to a delicious peak as I thought about him. The underlying rock beat to the classical score seemed to get under my skin, fueling my lascivious thoughts. I saw myself in the cage, back to the metal struts, with his hands on me. Going down? The way he’d said that made me picture myself on my knees in La Cage, my hands on his belt, opening it while he stared at me with those intense eyes. When he’d spoken to me, before he let me free from the cage, he’d been so close I could smell his cologne. I wanted him closer still. I stared up at the ceiling, imagining him over me in a different way, naked and eager and thrusting.

In time to the music, I ran my fingers back and forth over my swollen clit, following the rhythm of the music, letting my fantasies run wild, letting Armand Lazare fill my senses until I found my release.

The following morning Armand ran down the steps as I locked my door.

“Good morning, Jennie.”

“Bonjour, Armand.” Was it obvious that I was grinning because we had coincided again? I didn’t care.

He gestured at the elevator. “Shall we?”

As he latched the doors closed and turned to face me I took a deep breath and savored the feeling of being alone with him in that confined space. Although he did not move, he seemed always to be prowling. It was his nature, I realized.

We began our slow descent.

“Are you enjoying your work at the embassy?”

His question leveled me, momentarily. He knew what I did. The embassy probably had to tell him who was moving into the apartment they’d rented. I imagined what they might have said—single female, conference and events organizer. Was he single? I hadn’t seen him with anyone, but that didn’t prove a thing.