The Erotic Secrets of a French Maid (9 page)

"My God, you made this?" he asked as she set the square slice of ice cream with truffle polka dots in front of him.

"It wasn't as hard as it looks." She launched into a rapid-fire description of the construction, her voice higher than it had been over the lamb and side dish.

It took him a couple minutes to figure out what was going on. The instant he did, her nervousness became contagious. Once the ice cream was finished it would be time for that other "dessert."

Dammit!

He'd forgotten about that—a testament to her cooking, or to his powers of denial.

Would she expect him to take the lead? No, wait. She'd said something about being creative with sex.

Crap. What did
creative
mean?

B movies rife with whip-wielding dominatrices cracked through his mind. Or maybe she'd bought a frightening toy at a sex shop: something long and electric, with nubs and lights and six speeds of humiliation.

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He only had three bites of ice cream left until he was going to find out.

He made those last three bites last as long as he could, then looked at his watch. Eight-thirty. The night was young. Plenty of time for whatever she had planned.

Oh God.

"It's time, isn't it?" Emma asked, her voice going up two octaves.

"For coffee?" he asked, pretending ignorance. Hoping she would take the stall.

"Coffee breath," she said. "Although I suppose we could brush. Only you didn't bring a toothbrush, did you?"

Oh God. Did he have bad breath? Was there food in his teeth? "No. I could go out and buy one."

"Easier to save the coffee for later, don't you think?" she asked with a quaver. "I imagine you'll, uh, be sleepy. Afterwards. And you have to drive home."

"Sleepy. Yes." Ah jeez, she meant after he'd come. Oh God. Oh God.

"You
were
planning to go home afterwards, weren't you?"

"God, yes. I wouldn't want to intrude."

She giggled. "No. We wouldn't want that. No intrusions of any sort!"

"Emma—" he started.

"No," she said, cutting him off. She took a deep breath, regaining her composure. "Don't say it again. I
want
to do this. If you need to use the bathroom, please go ahead and do so. Then I'd appreciate it if you'd go into my bedroom, undress, and lie on the bed. I have something special planned: the 'something big' you said you wanted on Fridays, to last you through the weekend."

All I meant was a nice casserole.

"Okay." He went to clean up in the bathroom with all the enthusiasm of a man preparing himself for the guillotine.

When he came out, she was leaving the bedroom. They sidled past each other in the short hall. He went into his former bedroom, dominated now by a queen-size antique brass bed, its covers folded down to the foot revealing a white expanse of crisp, clean sheet. Candles in small glass votives covered the dresser and bedside tables. The furniture and a cheval mirror were all antiques: like the dishes, they must have been inherited from her grandmother.

The thought threw more water on his already damp amour. He didn't want to think of Grandma looking down from her heavenly abode at what was happening to her granddaughter on her bed.

That didn't stop him from undressing. He heard Emma go into the bathroom. She clearly wanted to do this; apparently was looking forward to it, and that, as much as his own awareness that he was not quite
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so reluctant as he pretended to himself, made him fold up his clothes and leave them in a neat pile on the floor beside the dresser.

He climbed onto the bed and lay down, his head on a pillow. After a moment he found the position too vulnerable, and stacked up all the pillows behind him so that he could sit up. He crossed his arms over his chest.

His penis lay half-tumescent as if it, too, was not sure if this was going to be a good experience.

He wished he had something to cover it with.

He heard a curse through the bathroom wall, right behind his head. Then another curse and movement.

What the hell was she doing in there?

He perked his ears, listening. She must not know how easy it was to hear through these walls.

"Ow!" she said. "Ow! Dammit! Ow!"

His eyes widened. Visions of nipple clips and leather-wrapped objects for insertion into various orifices danced in his head.

Emma muttered darkly and thumped around a bit; then there was an ominous silence. His ears strained, trying to pick up some hint of what was happening. The silence continued. If he hadn't known better, he would have thought there was no one there.

And then all at once the silence was split by a
Hai-ya!
and a brief ripping sound. He bolted upright, his semiarousal shrinking like a snail withdrawing into its shell. There was a slap and a squeak, and then all was quiet again except for the pounding of his heart.

The water ran and was shut off, and a minute later the bathroom door opened. He grabbed the sheet at the bottom of the bed and pulled it up over his hips as he lay back, trying desperately to look relaxed.

"Almost ready!" she called softly. "Are you?"

"Sure." He swallowed and gathered his courage. He didn't want to disappoint her or hurt her feelings; somehow, no matter what she had planned, he was going to have to perform.

He tried to imagine her bare breasts. Touching one. Licking the nipples.

He heard the microwave turn on.

The microwave? What the hell was she doing with the microwave? She wasn't heating up a dildo, was she?

He closed his eyes and tried to think happy, bouncing-booby thoughts. He reached down and shook his penis, trying to encourage it to return to life. A shrunken willie was not the first naked impression a man wanted to give a woman.

The microwave stopped, the door opened and closed. Then the music that had been playing stopped and he heard her changing disks. The
pianissimo
opening bars of Ravel's
Bolero
began to filter into the bedroom. His penis perked up. It was the music used to cheesy sexual effect in the old Bo Derek movie,
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the piece composed of the same few bars of exotic, swaying melody repeated ad infinitum, only slightly louder each time as if building to a climax. Cheesy, but very promising.

He sensed Emma approaching. He pulled his hands back above the sheet and opened his eyes.

She was standing in the doorway, a red mixing bowl in her hands. She wore black fishnet stockings, a tiny white apron, and a small white cap pinned atop her head. His gaze skimmed over her body, seeking out piercings and straps of leather buckling on latex appendages. Relieved to find none, he took a slower, more appreciative look, his sex reviving as he took in the fall of her dark hair against the smooth paleness of her shoulders; the gentle fullness of her breasts with their pinkish brown nipples; the slope and rise of her waistline; the hint of black curls imperfectly concealed behind that little apron that he now guessed was meant to be an abbreviated French maid's outfit.

His animal lust shoved his noble instincts firmly to the back of his mind.

"What's in the bowl?" he asked, half-hopeful and half-wary.

Emma concentrated on keeping her hands from shaking as she stood in the doorway, the warm bowl in her hands and the apron the only shelter from his gaze. She had seen his eyes surf over her body, once quickly and then again more slowly. He gave no indication of whether he liked what he saw. Her gaze skimmed over his chest and shoulders; he was even more fit than she had guessed, his muscles well defined and coating his frame in a thicker, more solid layer than she'd seen on men her own age. He looked like a man, not a boy. Brown hair lightly covered his pectorals and traced a line toward his navel.

She'd never been with someone with chest hair, and there was something about it in this context that made her nervous; it made her more aware that she was here to please a man, not to play with a boy.

"You'll find out soon enough what's in the bowl," she said, arching a brow and trying to sound confidently mischievous.

"Before you find out what's in the bowl you have to agree to two rules," she said, trying to stick to the plan for a "blow his mind" evening she'd downloaded from a sex advice site on the Internet.

"Okay," he said warily.

"The first is that you can't come until I say you can. No matter what I'm doing and how much you enjoy it, you can't come until I say so."

The sheet over his loins moved, a mound forming. "Okay."

"And two: you can't touch me until I say you can. You have to let me do to you exactly what I want."

The mound turned into a ridge, tenting the sheet. "I think I can do that."

She grinned, her confidence rising along with his erection.

She came forward and rested the bowl against her hip as she reached down and slowly pulled the sheet off him. The head of his erection came free, and then the whole lusty rod in its entirety, thick and strong and rising proudly from a dark thicket of hair, his balls beneath drawn tight up against his body. His thighs were lightly coated with dark hair, the hair growing heavier farther down his legs and ending neatly at the top of his pale, clean feet.

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"You look like a satyr," she said.

"Is that good or bad?"

She felt a tingling between her thighs as anticipated being taken by him, those strong thighs between her own softer ones, that rigid member embedded deep within her. "It's good," she said in a husky voice.

"Definitely good."

She set the bowl down on the side of the bed and dipped a finger in. She put on a fake French accent to go with her outfit. "Do you like zee chocolate?"

"Usually," he said warily. "Why?"

Emma had never been an actress; she couldn't even lie. As her finger scooped up a dollop of warm chocolate pudding, embarrassment made her want to giggle and make a joke about the situation; she was afraid that he would find what she was about to do ridiculous instead of sexy.

"Why? Because you are about to have a tres intimate encounter with it." She lifted the dollop of pudding and, with her eyes locked on his, painted it around her left nipple.

His eyes dropped to her breast, watching the movement. She swirled it over her aureole, leaving the peak of her nipple bare, then brought her finger to her mouth and slowly sucked the pudding off.

His erection bobbed in approval. "I think that chocolate just became my favorite food."

A smile quavered on her lips. A good start, but it was ad-lib time now. The sex advice script hadn't filled in all the blanks for this amorous scene, and she'd never been naturally creative with her body movements. She didn't even dance.

She dipped her finger again into the pudding and circled her other nipple, nervousness making her do it too quickly. She
knew
she was too fast, too stiff, but she couldn't stop herself. With more pudding she drew an outward spiral over her breast, watching her fingertip to make sure she got the spiral perfect.

The shaking of her hand made the line wobbly. She scowled and tried to correct it, licking her finger and wiping off the uneven bits.

She glanced up at Russ and saw a faint frown between his brows, the delight of a minute before now fading, his erection looking a hair less upright. She was losing her audience. She was doing a terrible job of being seductive.

A squeaky giggle of embarrassment slipped out. "I'm messing this up." She fluttered her hands helplessly in the air. "Do you want me to stop this? This pudding thing?"

"No. But..."

"But?"

"If I could offer a word of advice?"

"Please!"

"Go slow. And drop the accent."

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She blushed. "Okay." She could do slow, couldn't she? And dropping the accent was easy enough. He didn't want her to stop
everything.
Just to slow down.

She closed her eyes and listened to the music. The rhythm was slow and swaying; she could imagine a belly dancer moving to it. Opening her eyes she set her gaze high up on the wall, so that Russ was only a blur in her peripheral vision. She untied the apron and let it fall, then scooped up more of the warm pudding and painted a circle in the center of her torso with two fingers. Trying to forget that she was being watched, she swirled her fingertips in the dollop of pudding and then let them wander across her skin in slow, dancing loops, moving with the beat of the music. She scrolled a path along the bottom of her ribs, letting the music guide her instincts, her fingertips dancing upward to paint the underside of one breast.

She let her fingers slide up over her nipple, the warm slickness of the pudding feeling erotic, turning her own fingertips into a warm tongue. She slid the peak of her nipple into the vee of two fingers, feeling the aroused hardness of it. She pinched it lightly and sensation shot straight down her body. Her lips parted and her breathing deepened.

With her other hand she dipped again into the bowl. She lowered her gaze to Russ, not afraid now to look at him. He was transfixed by her play with the chocolate, his gaze going back and forth between her nipple and her other hand, moving now toward her lower belly.

She smeared the chocolate just above her mound, then played at the tops of her thighs, creating a circle around her sex. She let her fingers go down into what remained of her hair, to smear the warm smoothness over the hood of her desire, stroking it while he watched and feeling the pleasure that came with her own touch. She had never touched herself in front of a man; had never let one watch as she gave herself pleasure. He clearly was enjoying the show, his attention never wavering.