Poppy Does Paris (Girls On Tour 1) (Girls On Tour Book) by Nicola Doherty Read Free Book Online

of sweat on his forehead. I have a mad urge to lick it off.
    ‘Finally,’ he says, finally getting it open. ‘Just a second –’ he turns aside to write something down in a notebook.
    ‘Nice breeze,’ I say, fanning my hair with my hand.
    He stares at me and seems to swallow. ‘That’s a pretty bracelet,’ he says. He reaches out and brushes it with his fingertips. ‘Or is it a bangle?’ His fingers close gently around it.
    Now it’s my turn to swallow. ‘Actually, it’s more of a . . . cuff.’
    ‘Such a rich vocabulary,’ he murmurs. His hand is still on my arm. And then he’s pulling me forward . . . and Jonathan Wilder is kissing me.
    Instantly, we both go wild. All the pent-up frustration seems to explode and I’m kissing him back, running my hands through his hair, grabbing his body and pressing it against me. I don’t care any more about his book or how dangerous this is: I just want him, now.
    ‘Let’s go next door,’ he murmurs. He leads me into the bedroom, where we fall back onto his pristine white sheets. He slides the straps of my jumpsuit down, and I slip out of it, revealing the black and pink bra, which he takes off skilfully before kissing me all over and reducing me to jelly. Now we’re kissing again, and he’s driving me mad by sliding his hands up my thighs and slowly, delicately, stroking me between my legs, through the thin material of the jumpsuit, until I feel as if I’m going to explode. Sitting upright, I wriggle out of it completely, wishing I hadn’t worn something so awkward to take off. He pulls off his own clothes and I see that yes, you can spend all day writing the important literature of our time and still have a great body.
    There’s a brief interruption while Jonathan produces a condom from beside the bed. Then he kisses me again, lowers himself slowly onto me . . . and then we’re moving together and it is incredible. He’s muttering all the most flattering things – about how sexy and gorgeous I am – in
French
. I feel as if I’m in a film or a music video, complete with four-poster bed and billowing white sheets. Or maybe this is a dream; I can’t quite believe it’s happening.
    Afterwards we lie together, breathless and flushed, and wait for our heartbeats to subside.
    ‘That wasn’t exactly how I expected the afternoon to go,’ I murmur.
    ‘I know.’ I can feel him grinning; his cheek is beside my forehead. ‘We never did have that coffee. Would you like some?’
    ‘I would. But not yet – you don’t have to get it yet.’ I know it sounds sad, but this is something I’ve missed just as much: not just the sex (though, yes, I missed that) but being close to someone, lying together afterwards. With Jonathan’s arm around me, and his leg thrown over mine, I’m in a state of utter bliss.
    ‘Poppy Desmond,’ he murmurs, stroking my back. ‘You were not what I expected either.’
    I have to admit, I love the sound of him saying my name. I also love it when, later on, he fetches me a blue silk kimono to wear and we lie curled up on his sofa, drinking his coffee.
    ‘This is really good,’ I say, sipping it. ‘That machine’s worth whatever you paid. The coffee’s good, too.’
    ‘Thanks. I get it from a little Italian shop near the Bourse. I’ve run into Carla there so I suppose that’s a good sign.’
    ‘Carla?’
    ‘Oh, sorry – Bruni.’ He knows Carla Bruni. Of course he does; he’s Jonathan Wilder. Oh, God. I can’t believe what we’ve just done.
    Somewhere in the distance, a church bell is striking. Five o’clock. Any minute now reality is going to come flooding back.
    ‘What is that expression –
cinq à sept
?’ I ask quickly, to prevent any awkward realisations. ‘Isn’t is something to do with affairs?’
    ‘It’s the time when French men traditionally saw their mistresses, in between leaving the office and going home.’
    ‘How sexist,’ I sniff. ‘What about the women having affairs? Also, have you