Paris Nights

**Warning: contents is for audience of 18+ (mature)**

It's chilly and damp from the mist out on the balcony where I stand. The black wrought-iron rail is slick with drops of rain, cold and wet under my hand. I let the icy chill soak through my hand to the bone as I grip the rail and look out to the study the city.

Paris. It's my first time here, a gift for my thirtieth birthday. It's a beautiful city at night, the Eiffel Tower lit up, casting tiny blue orbs of light into the darkness. Down below, the light of cars and taxis drift slowly on the shimmering roads. I chew my lip, a habit I have, as I watch the shiny tops of umbrellas bob down the sidewalks, hiding the bodies they shelter from my sight.

I press my lips together; I can taste the muskiness of beef and carrots, the velvet depth of red wine. A breeze whips up and blows over the balcony, grazing the flesh of my arms and leaving goosebumps in its wake. I close my eyes and breathe in the scent of coolness mixed with coffee from the café a block away. The scent clings with desperate fingers to the humidity in the breeze, sailing away with it. A shiver; suddenly the thin cashmere shawl I have wrapped around my shoulders isn't enough to shelter from the chill.

A presents behind me hangs heavy, sultry. It presses into my back, long, strong arms wrapping about me. Full lips caress my neck. A slightly up-turned nose tip digs in just under my earlobe.

A baritone whisper questions, "Cold, my love?"

His breath tickles my ear like a million feathers. A different kind of shiver goes down my spine. I let my body relax into his embrace. An embrace scented of cardamom, lavender; a hint of patchouli stirs my earthiness.

"I'm not anymore." I whisper back, his bottom lip caresses my shoulder.

The pressure of his mouth's flesh feels familiar yet new, calming yet exciting as he travels down the curve of my shoulder then back up to the crook of my neck. There he starts to suck. Slow, loving passion.

After a few moments of his indulgence I turn to him, looking into his face. In the dim light of the balcony, his seven-year advantage on me has all but melted away. He never really looks his age, but now there is no evidence of the fine lines around his eyes that hint at our age difference in daylight. 

I smile, brushing a wave of his carefree locks away from his aqua-colored eyes, I run my finger down the cool platinum of the hoop swaying in his left ear. I find I miss seeing the fine lines I've grown accustom to, but here in Paris he seems thirty again, maybe even twenty-five. Nobody would ever guess his true age. He smiles at me as if he can read my thoughts. Maybe he can.

Instead of addressing my thoughts he says, "I know what will warm you."

He leaves me a moment. I almost follow him, but he jesters for me to stay. A second, then another. He comes back with the last from a bottle of Cabernet from dinner. The deep red liquid seems to have a internal glow as it rests in the stemmed wine glass he offers me. I take the glass from his hand with a smile of thanks. Our fingertips brush; the chemistry between us electrifying even from such a quick, light touch.

I take a sip of wine. He swirls his in the glass, watching the jewels of wine cling to it and drip back down. He sips. I watch his lips surround the rim of the glass, the top lip curves around it. So sensual, I feel a tingle in my lower belly. I want his lips around me--around anything on me. I don't really care what a the moment, so long as I feel them on my skin.

He looks over the glass and sees me watching him. He smiles through the sip of wine and winks. Sparks of desire flash through my veins. I give a small smile back.