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
