Read Online The Chocolate Touch by Laura Florand - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Laura Florand
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started to drift toward the bait he was dangling for her on a hook, this appearance of a sleek shark was going to drive her right out of his waters entirely.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw l’inconnue rest her head on her hand and tap the screen of her iPad. She wasn’t wearing a hood today. If he could get closer, he could see at last what her hair was like. Was it all that same reddish-caramel color?
“Dominique,” the brunette breathed, clearly believing that the tone was enough to wrap around him and pull him straight toward her.
And it might have been. He was pretty good at quick, wild sex that involved no cuddles afterward. He had a special talent for it, even.
At her table, l’inconnue pulled a scarf out of her purse and looped it loosely over her head, her Audrey Hepburn look. Which was kind of romantic and sweet, because a face less like Audrey Hepburn’s would be hard to imagine. Maybe a little in the cheekbones.
Merde, no, it wasn’t sweet. She had come out, she had come here today ready to be just a little more naked to him, and now she was hiding herself again, and he hadn’t even gotten a good look at her hair.
“How are you?” Dom asked the brunette crisply, trying to make himself seem unavailable without making anyone watching think he was a rude, crude, and socially unacceptable human being who had sex with women whose names he couldn’t remember later and then treated them badly. Everything else might be true, but he did not treat them badly. This woman had pursued him, had gotten exactly the little fantasy she was looking for, and months later, must have started fantasizing again.
The woman gave him a small, intimate smile. “Thinking of you.”
Putain. She was as aggressive in her glossy way as he was, and since she didn’t give a damn about him and therefore had resilient feelings, brushing her off wasn’t going to be that easy to do.
Certainly not without giving the definite impression to people who happened to be watching that he used women and was heartless to them afterward.
Which he was, but in his defense, they were heartless to him, too. Hearts weren’t involved. He used them because their only reason for coming on to him in the first place was that they wanted him to use them.
He could feel himself floundering in panic, and then his guts caught up with him and kicked his brain into action. He wasn’t going down without a fight.
“Come.” He took the brunette’s arm and led her out onto the sidewalk, out of sight of the windows. Then he turned to look at her. Had he ever even known her name? Or had she told him to call her bébé or something?
He had a talent for that, too. Women who wanted to be anonymous. Who didn’t want to leave anything behind with him, not even their names.
Like his inconnue, who sat there, holding on to her name like a treasure, not letting him have even that one scrap of her.
“I’m sorry,” he told the brunette roughly. “Non.” He had to do this quickly. The longer he was out here, the worse his absence was going to look.
The brunette stared at him, her smile disappearing.
“I don’t—I’ve met someone.” His heart pounded to admit that out loud. I’ve met someone. Another woman whose name he didn’t know. But he had touched her shoulders yesterday and she hadn’t jerked them away or anything. She hadn’t screamed to the riot police for help.
Putain, but he had it bad. Some part of him pointed out that he was being inordinately stupid, turning down easy, hot sex with a stranger in favor of a painstaking, tentative, slender chance of even going to dinner with another stranger. But this beautiful brunette had never sat in his salon as if his very existence made up her happiness, as if she could spend hours soaking him in and still want more of him. She would be happy for hours of sex, sure, but it wasn’t . . . it just really wasn’t the same thing.
Maybe he had been living on the sexual equivalent of desserts for
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw l’inconnue rest her head on her hand and tap the screen of her iPad. She wasn’t wearing a hood today. If he could get closer, he could see at last what her hair was like. Was it all that same reddish-caramel color?
“Dominique,” the brunette breathed, clearly believing that the tone was enough to wrap around him and pull him straight toward her.
And it might have been. He was pretty good at quick, wild sex that involved no cuddles afterward. He had a special talent for it, even.
At her table, l’inconnue pulled a scarf out of her purse and looped it loosely over her head, her Audrey Hepburn look. Which was kind of romantic and sweet, because a face less like Audrey Hepburn’s would be hard to imagine. Maybe a little in the cheekbones.
Merde, no, it wasn’t sweet. She had come out, she had come here today ready to be just a little more naked to him, and now she was hiding herself again, and he hadn’t even gotten a good look at her hair.
“How are you?” Dom asked the brunette crisply, trying to make himself seem unavailable without making anyone watching think he was a rude, crude, and socially unacceptable human being who had sex with women whose names he couldn’t remember later and then treated them badly. Everything else might be true, but he did not treat them badly. This woman had pursued him, had gotten exactly the little fantasy she was looking for, and months later, must have started fantasizing again.
The woman gave him a small, intimate smile. “Thinking of you.”
Putain. She was as aggressive in her glossy way as he was, and since she didn’t give a damn about him and therefore had resilient feelings, brushing her off wasn’t going to be that easy to do.
Certainly not without giving the definite impression to people who happened to be watching that he used women and was heartless to them afterward.
Which he was, but in his defense, they were heartless to him, too. Hearts weren’t involved. He used them because their only reason for coming on to him in the first place was that they wanted him to use them.
He could feel himself floundering in panic, and then his guts caught up with him and kicked his brain into action. He wasn’t going down without a fight.
“Come.” He took the brunette’s arm and led her out onto the sidewalk, out of sight of the windows. Then he turned to look at her. Had he ever even known her name? Or had she told him to call her bébé or something?
He had a talent for that, too. Women who wanted to be anonymous. Who didn’t want to leave anything behind with him, not even their names.
Like his inconnue, who sat there, holding on to her name like a treasure, not letting him have even that one scrap of her.
“I’m sorry,” he told the brunette roughly. “Non.” He had to do this quickly. The longer he was out here, the worse his absence was going to look.
The brunette stared at him, her smile disappearing.
“I don’t—I’ve met someone.” His heart pounded to admit that out loud. I’ve met someone. Another woman whose name he didn’t know. But he had touched her shoulders yesterday and she hadn’t jerked them away or anything. She hadn’t screamed to the riot police for help.
Putain, but he had it bad. Some part of him pointed out that he was being inordinately stupid, turning down easy, hot sex with a stranger in favor of a painstaking, tentative, slender chance of even going to dinner with another stranger. But this beautiful brunette had never sat in his salon as if his very existence made up her happiness, as if she could spend hours soaking him in and still want more of him. She would be happy for hours of sex, sure, but it wasn’t . . . it just really wasn’t the same thing.
Maybe he had been living on the sexual equivalent of desserts for
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