The Mere Idea

It was late in the afternoon of what had already been a long day after several long days, and Jean-Luc, the sellers' French lawyer, continued to drone on and on. His English was very good, but his accent occasionally drifted into an impenetrable thicket, and his grasp of idioms could be unexpectedly comic. I mean, when he said, "zhoos sinking loudlee," it was all I could do to swallow my laugh.

But maybe he felt the same when he heard my mangled French.

Yet, I liked the guy - he had a playful sense of humor, a deep knowledge of good Parisian restaurants and of wines from the Côte du Rhone, all of which he had shared with me over lunches and dinners during our week of meetings. At this point, though, on that long Friday afternoon, he was just wasting everyone's time.

Still, we had gotten through the hardest parts of the Share Purchase and Sale Agreement, and I had high hopes we would finish in time for me to meet Courtney for dinner as she and I had planned. Worst case though - I hoped - we would spend our first night together and finish what had started the last time I was in Paris.

Those memories sparked visions of lust and desire. I imagined Courtney standing in my hotel room, wearing nothing but a loose white cotton robe. In my thoughts, I could see the twin, mirrored mounds of her breasts and a playful hint of the darker skin surrounding her nipples the robe didn't hide. And then I was next to her, kissing her and touching her. The robe fell from her shoulders, and she was standing naked, waiting to be taken. I laid her gently on the bed, caressed her breasts with my fingers and mouth and teased her nipples with my tongue. I kissed her stomach, spread her thighs, and continued down her body, kissing and licking and sucking, intoxicated by her skin, her smell, and her touch.

"Isn't that right, Alex," someone asked, shattering my dreams.

"Uhh, yes? Sorry," I stumbled and then added with far more certainty than I felt, "Yes, it is," just guessing that was the right response.

I had already warned our lawyers, Hervé and Isabelle, that I couldn't join them for dinner, mumbling about another deal I was working on back in the States. That morning, I had left an envelope at the desk of my hotel with a key to my room for Courtney, and I had dinner reservations for 8:30 at a lovely restaurant out in the 14^th. Jean-Luc had taken us there earlier in the week, and I had fallen in love with the Art Nouveau interior, the food, and the enchanting staff. I hoped it was the kind of place Courtney would enjoy.

But those plans meant Jean-Luc would have to stop giving speeches on every phrase and clause in which he found the slightest issue. We were deep into the boiler-plate terms that filled the last eleven pages of the document, and surely, he was sophisticated enough to understand nothing he could say - no matter how well phrased or well argued - would change one word on those pages.

And so, I could only think his speeches were nothing more than a performance - off the cuff soliloquies of some noble and learned hero - but really, no more than a chance to justify his presence - and expense - to his clients. I understood he had to appear to be earning his fee, and I didn't mind a little show. Hell, for paying the hourly rate of a senior partner at Skadden, his clients deserved some theater.

I had heard some version of everything Jean-Luc was saying before, though, and rather than listening to arguments that had long since stopped interesting me, I let Hervé and Isabelle respond to him. They had represented us on three previous European acquisitions using this same form and had already heard my responses to the arguments Jean-Luc was making. Isabelle was a quick study with a quick memory and was especially good at explaining and translating American legal terms and concepts to lawyers who lived and breathed the Code Napoléon or the Bürgerliches Gesetzbuch.

Instead, I let my thoughts drift back to Courtney and the night we had kissed for hours in that cocktail bar she had taken me to down in the Marais a month ago, the last time I was in Paris. It was a wonderful place, and I liked it a lot, but doubted I could ever find it on my own. Courtney had given the address to the taxi driver in her easy and flowing French, and by the time we left, I was too drunk on alcohol and dopamine to remember much of anything except how much I wanted her.

I do remember holding her and kissing her at a Metro stop on Rue de Rivoli - maybe it was Saint-Paul, I don't know - but how we got there and why I didn't fuck her that night were complete mysteries to me now.

But, damn, could she kiss. She knew how to tease with her lips and tongue - when to bite and when to ravish my mouth and when to withdraw and play coy - and she left me rock hard and aching. As we stood in the cold night of a Parisian winter, she rubbed my cock playfully through my trousers, licked my ear, whispered "à la prochaine," and walked away. The mere memory made my dick jump and harden as if a knowing hand were stroking and twisting it, toying with me.

Forcing myself back into the meeting, I glanced at my watch - it was getting awfully close to dix-huit heures et demie, as the French say. I quickly calculated the time it would take me to get from where I was - in a conference room on the Rue Saint-Florentin overlooking the Place de la Concorde - to my hotel a few streets off the Champs-Élysées and from there, with Courtney, to the Rue du Château, and decided I could let Jean-Luc go on for, maybe, thirty minutes, but no more. I leaned over to Hérve, whispered that I had a call with the U.S. at 7:30 that I couldn't miss, and asked him to hurry Jean-Luc along.

As always, Hervé was as smooth as polished marble. He spoke French to be sure his words carried the proper amount of politesse and conveyed exactly the meaning he intended, playing not only to Jean-Luc, but to his clients as well. I couldn't grasp everything he said exactly, but the sense of it was that Jean-Luc was raising subtle and difficult points that deserved more thought and attention than we could give them at that moment, hearing them, as we were, for the first time, late in the day. He suggested it would help us all if Jean-Luc could flag those clauses he found especially troublesome and raise his concerns in writing. Then we could respond with the consideration and intelligence his arguments merited.

When Hervé finished, Jean-Luc's face lit up, he sat forward in his chair, pushed out his lower lip and nodded in that gesture so commonly French, and smiled. "Mais bien sûr, mes amis."

Looking at me, he asked, "If you have them tomorrow morning, perhaps by ten, we would be able to meet after lunch - two p.m. perhaps - and finish our discussions?"

"Parfait - ça marche," I replied, faintly enthusiastic. I wasn't happy giving up time on a Saturday in Paris, but supposed a few hours tomorrow were worth a full night with Courtney.

I started to stand, felt my still hard cock pressing against my pants and grabbed the yellow legal pad on which I had made my notes. Using that to hide my erection, I stood and reached across the table and shook Jean-Luc's hand.

Less than fifteen minutes later, I was walking through the Jardin des Champs-Élysées, smiling and singing that old Joni Mitchell song about Paris quietly to myself.

When I opened my hotel room door, I knew Courtney was already there; I could smell her perfume, could see her coat draped across a chair, and noticed the bottle of Champagne cooling in an ice bucket on one of the nightstands. The bathroom door was closed, and I heard water running.

I threw my topcoat over hers and then wasn't sure what to do. Should I undress? Crawl into bed and wait? Join her in the shower? Or stay dressed and just sit in a chair and read one of the magazines scattered on the desk? In the end, I knocked quietly on the bathroom door and said, "Hey there. I'm here. Just a warning."

There was a quick "Ok," from behind the door, and I decided to take off my jacket and tie and sit in the chair and read.

The water shut off, the shower curtain scraped against the rod, and I could hear Courtney toweling herself dry.

The door opened and there she stood, wrapped in a towel, with her hair pulled up into a bun. She smiled, bit her lower lip, and nodded slowly.

"You're still dressed. What's up with that?"

"I didn't want to presume."

"I'm naked. In your hotel room. What's left to presume?" She laughed and walked to me.

I took her in my arms, and we kissed.

A long, slow, soft kiss. Filled more with promises than passion. At first.

The towel dropped away. I explored her neck with my lips and tongue, while my hands stroked and massaged her back and then, slowly, dropped down to her bare ass. I cupped her butt cheeks in my hands and squeezed, while my mouth covered hers and my tongue pushed between her open lips.

Her hands were on my chest, unfastening the buttons of my shirt, pulling it untucked, and pushing it off my shoulders. Once my shirt was gone, she thrust her hands under my tee-shirt and onto my bare skin - rubbing, teasing, exploring.

I backed her slowly towards the bed, took off my undershirt, and pressed myself against her naked skin. Her nipples were hard and pushed into my chest. She moaned as I took one in my mouth and playfully flicked at it with my tongue.

After a moment, she sighed, sat down onto the bed and looked up at me as she ran her hands over my chest and down my arms. She pulled my hand to her, kissed it, and then drew a finger into her mouth, completely. Her tongue pressed against my finger as she sucked at it gently, as if she wanted to take it and me deep inside her. Her eyes never left mine.

With my other hand, I stroked her hair, traced the contours of an ear, and then caressed her cheek with the back of my fingers. She took the finger from her mouth, closed her eyes, and leaned into the hand pressing on her cheek. A soft, guttural purr escaped from deep in her throat.

I pressed her down onto the bed and kissed her throat and her shoulders, slowly making my way to her breasts. My tongue circled one nipple and then the other. My hands were stroking her thighs, flirting with the soft and sensitive skin near her crotch while slowly pushing her legs apart.

"Wait."

She pushed me and sat up, and her hands explored my chest. She softly pinched a nipple between a thumb and a finger and twisted it slightly, sending tiny, sharp electric shocks through me. I shivered, and she said, "Guess you liked that."

She smiled and began tracing the outline of my cock through my pants. "And what do we do about this?"

Answering her own question, she unbuckled my belt, unfastened my pants, and began pushing them down.

"I want you naked."

I gave her what she wanted, and when I was done, she put her arms around me and, still sitting on the bed and still looking up at me, she pulled me to her and licked my hardened cock from the base to the head.

When she reached that sensitive spot just before the tip, my cock jumped.

She smiled and licked it again.

I sucked in a deep, sharp breath, and moaned, "Oh babe."

I wanted her mouth around my cock. I wanted her to swallow me and wanted to surrender to the warmth and wet of her mouth.

But she had other ideas.

She softly kissed my shaft from top to bottom, stopping only when she reached my balls, which she licked and lapped and sucked until she drew another moan from me.

Frustration and desire built and grew, and my body - achingly strained and taut - pleaded urgently for release. I needed to fuck her - fast and deep and hard - and I wanted to fuck her right then.

But she only looked at me, bit at her lip, raised her eyebrows suggestively, and licked my cock again, from base to tip. I don't know how it was possible, but my cock got even harder, and my legs began to tremble.

When she reached the top this time, she wrapped one hand around my stiff shaft, swirled her tongue around the tip, then lowered her head and - finally - took me in her mouth.

My legs tensed and I tried to push deep past her lips, wanting to sink completely into her.

But that's not what she wanted. Her hands were quickly on my hips, holding me back, while her lips remained wrapped tightly around my cock and her tongue began pressing slowly and rhythmically against the head.

The heat of her mouth, the gentle attention of her tongue, and the sight of her head in my crotch fired my passion and need until they burned as hot as the bluest flame. I put my hands on her head, massaged her hair - a beautiful light shade of mahogany - and fought to keep from pushing her down on me.

I wanted her - maybe more than I had ever wanted anything - but I also wanted to give myself over to her and let her do as she wished.

She pulled me in deeper, squeezing my cock with her hand and her lips. The head of my cock pressed against her throat and her tongue's rhythm increased.

I did nothing but groan and savor the pleasure she was giving me.

As if she could feel the first stirrings of my orgasm, she stopped her tongue and retreated down my shaft until only the tip of my cock remained in her mouth. She licked gently at the head - just enough to keep the fire burning while holding me back from the explosion I wanted so badly. My fingers pressed deeper into her hair.

And then, slowly, she began taking me deeper again into her mouth. When my cock filled her, she pulled back, her lips pressed firmly against my shaft. When only the tip remained in her mouth, she moved back down, slightly faster.

She sucked at my cock and began sliding up and down its length, faster and faster, taking me deep into her throat and then slipping backwards, rubbing me firmly with her lips and tongue.

It wasn't long before the unstoppable force of an orgasm began building in my groin. And Courtney just continued fucking me with her mouth, her rhythm fierce and unbreakable.

"I'm almost there," I muttered, partly in agonizing anticipation, partly in warning.

But she didn't stop. She kept on fucking me, slurping and gagging, obviously determined to make me cum.

"That's it. That's it."

As my cock began to pulse, she slammed her head down to take me as deeply as she could, and I filled her mouth with semen. She didn't move, but I could feel her swallowing, trying to keep up with my release.

She held me lightly as my orgasm receded, careful not to touch or press or tease my sensitive organ, while continuing to swallow the proof of the pleasure she had given to me.

Finished, she let me go and looked up at me.

Smiling. Satisfied.

"Open the Champagne. I need a glass, I think. Then I need you to kiss me."