“Are you alright?” asked Margaux, a look of concern on her face.
“I hurt my ankle. Are you okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine. Do you think…”
“Madam, are you hurt?” asked Roberto in perfect French. He had come running over immediately when he saw me fall, a grave expression on his face. He bent down to me and, seeing me rubbing my ankle, took my leg in his hands and began to cautiously run his fingers up and down it, looking for signs of a break. The sensation of his fingers lightly touching my leg, though not meant in a s****l way, immediately aroused me. He was so good-looking, so tan, and smelled so damn good that I forgot all about the pain in my ankle.
“I don’t think it’s broken. Did you hit a crack in the sidewalk or perhaps rode off the side of the curb? I should have warned you about that.
