A surprise from Paris

“Búyòng, búyòng. Xièxie, zàijiàn!” she hung up.   “Who was that?” Cyrille asked.  “Business call” she dismissed it.  “In Chinese? I didn’t know that an English teacher or a librarian had any business in Chinese!”  He seemed surprised but not suspicious. That was good. She needed him to believe her identity was Jenny Nolan, British girl who had recently moved to Paris for an opening as an English teacher in a private school. He had to believe her cover story: she’d been a librarian in the UK for most of her life, and then she’d become a kindergarten teacher in private schools, because she was really good at languages, and rich people now wanted their kids to learn second and third languages since they’re toddlers. When she’d heard that the International School in Paris needed a new English teacher, her will to travel the world had taken over.  “Well, you know I like languages. I had a Chinese friend back in London, so I know enough to buy some special books directly from the source” she smiled, her eyelashes batting at full speed. She was well aware that that gesture would have driven Cyrille crazy enough to make him forget his questions and just want to make love to her right there.   “Oh” he said, his breath already shorter, his heartbeat already faster. He stepped closer to her, and mouthed on her lips: “I don’t really care.”  Then, he devoured her mouth, with hunger and passion, but not hurting her. He was strong, handsome and good, and really heated up with her. Once something triggered that part of him, it couldn’t be stopped.   He pulled her on the couch, and pushed her down on her back, then went on kissing her until they were both panting.   “You make me crazy, chérie,” he murmured smiling.   “I know” she winked. Then she tried to push him back and sit, but he shook his head, his smile turning into a smirk.  “Not so fast, ma chérie” he smiled broadly.  “Cyrille, please, I really need to get going. I have an important job meeting. There's a teachers’ meeting in about fifteen minutes and I still need to get to the school. I'm going to be late,” she pouted.  “D’accord, d’accord. You're free to go. Meet me for an ice cream when you’re done? You know I work tonight,” he said, as if that meant he knew he couldn’t meet her later and satisfy this urge to be with her.  “Thank you, Cyrille. Of course, ice-cream it is, if that’s what you’d like.” Now it was her turn to smirk.  “Quoi?” he asked, perplexed.  “I thought you’d prefer a glass of champagne, and… well, me” she finished the sentence blushing, looking down at her hands in his, placed on her lap.  His smile brightened.  “So, meet me here when you’re done? I'll wait for you, and then hurry to work afterwards?”  “That’s my Cyrille. À plus tard, mon amour” she said, pecking his lips.   They stared at each other for a second or two, then she blushed again, lowered her gaze and stood up to go get her bag and leave. Cyrille followed her around, his gaze still filled with passion, but also tender and adoring enough to actually having her blush. Noticing that Jenny was fidgeting with something in her bag, lost in her thought but her cheeks were still red with embarrassment, he leaned on the doorway and said: “Jen, you should really learn not to get that embarrassed just by me looking at you.”  She smiled, and spoke in a low volume, while her hands went back to put stuff in the bag and take some other stuff out.   “It’s not my fault if you look at me in an impossibly adoring way.”  “It’s not my fault you blinded me and now I'm terribly in love with you, ma chérie.”  At that, she abruptly stopped smiling, took the bag, walked over to him fast, and passed over him to head for the door. He turned around quickly enough to grab her left wrist, and hold her long enough to go kiss her forehead. She sighed at that, and looked at the floor.  “Too much?”   “Maybe, I don’t know. Can we talk later? I really have to go” she pleaded him, but didn’t look at his face.   He let her go, and she left the apartment without turning back, even if she heard him let out a sigh of sadness.