Naughty Paris
Paris Today—An Art Studio in the Marais District The Model
"You want me to take off my T-shirt?"
"Yes, mademoiselle."
"And my yoga pants?
He nods. "Yes, mademoiselle."
"Hold on a Paris minute," I protest, glancing over at the old artist with a Gauloise cigarette hanging out of his mouth like a limp penis. He takes a drag without taking his eyes off my wet T-shirt sticking to me like a Post-it. "I ducked in here to get out of the rain, not sign up for strip aerobics."
Husky voice, low in the back of my throat. Jeez, is that me? Got to be nerves.
I had the same catch in my throat when I swallowed the mint in my mouth after David, my ex-fiancé, insisted I give lousy BJs and he couldn't go through with our wedding because he had issues with us.
The jerk.
As if flunking a postgraduate course in blow jobs is a top-ten reason to send me into therapy and sic my mother on me for the prepaid, nonrefundable honeymoon to Paris. But here I am, wandering around the Right Bank in the rain like Jean Valjean in squishy Nikes. Jilted and miserable.
And wondering how I let silv ... read full excerpt from: Naughty Paris ebook
