Between Lovers by Eric Jerome Dickey Read Free Book Online Page B

are you afraid of?”
    â€œWasn’t analyzing you, sweetie. Didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
    â€œI’m not uncomfortable.”
    â€œYou shifted. Your tone changed. Your dick went limp. You’re uncomfortable.”
    We laughed.
    I said, “You’re the Sherlock of the century.”
    â€œNot being liked,” she whispered.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI’m afraid of not being liked. Not being loved.”
    â€œYou’re after acceptance.”
    â€œIf that’s what all of that means, then yeah.”
    I held her a little closer.
    She said, “Love your legs. They look so powerful.”
    â€œThanks.”
    â€œLove the way it curves. It’s so pretty.”
    â€œLet’s do something different tonight.”
    That night I wanted to go to the famous strip club, Folies Bergères. Had never been to one with her. Wanted my woman to escort me into a Parisian Baby lon, a place where no one we knew would be, where we’d have no accountability. Let her watch me be tantalized by another faceless woman. A creature of no real value. I wanted my woman to be uninhibited, get turned on by us doing something new together. She didn’t want to go to a place like that, wanted to go eat dinner at Georges, a chic art deco restaurant on the top of the Beaubourg Museum, where we could get a table on the brushed-steel floors and see all the landmarks, spotlights on the edge of the city, watch the Eiffel Tower that was lit up like a glittering Christmas tree every night.
    She sighed, sucked in her lips. It was my birthday. Every step of the way she let her protest be heard, but would do anything for me. That’s how it was most of the time. Me talking her into doing something new and exciting. Her saying no, and me not accepting that as an answer.
    Just like at some of the gentlemen’s clubs in L.A., I saw many female customers paying female dancers for moments of enticement. Only these were African women. French women. Armenian women. That made my fiancée uncomfortable and when I heard negative words, I smiled. I nudged her, told her I wanted to watch her be entertained by another woman.
    â€œNo way.”
    â€œIt’s my fantasy.”
    â€œSell crazy somewhere else. I’m all stocked up.”
    â€œBaby, we’re in Paris. Not like anybody we know is gonna see.”
    â€œDon’t pressure—”
    â€œC‘mon.”
    â€œâ€”me. I hate it when you pressure—”
    â€œIt’s my birthday.”
    She sighed, made a few faces. “Sure, if it’ll make you happy. I want you happy.”
    Yes, it was my fantasy. My birthday hard-on. My freaky-deaky wish. I loved making her nervous. A dancer came over, a girl with dark, pretty hair, thick black eyebrows, a stranger who spoke no English, but understood how to move in a rhythm that went beyond language. Light-brown freckles on her arms and shoulders. Very attractive. So beautiful. Ten American dollars for one song. I paid, motioned at Nicole and the dancer smiled, said oui mademoiselle and went to her without hesitation. It was strange seeing another woman that close to Nicole. The dancer started out facing her, touching her own breasts and sides, dancing with the rhythm of a swaying palm tree. It wasn’t hardcore. Not like watching a video with Heather Hunter and Taylor Hayes. It was erotic, like watching the women make love in Emmanuelle.
    And when it was over, Nicole was quivering like a child who had just gotten off her first roller-coaster ride. As we left that place, her sweaty palms gripped my hand like they were a steel trap.
    I asked, “You okay?”
    She stared off into space. “Happy birthday.”
    Not much was said in the taxi. Most of the time she would make comments about the narrow streets and how wild the drivers were, how they always seemed to be on the verge of an accident.
    Again I asked, “You okay?”
    â€œHappy birthday