I Love You Ten Million Times Over

Chapter 1-2

“Would you ladies allow me to order us a bottle of wine?” he asked. We nodded.

“Pierre,” he called to the maître die. “My usual.”

I found myself wondering if this was his usual set-up. Meet women at the opera, invite them here for more wine, and then…? Well, I guessed that I was going to find out. Game on.

The maître die brought the wine, opened it, and as is the custom, Jean Claude tasted it. “Marvelous as always,” he nodded, and the maître die poured us each a very full glass.

“I must apologize,” he said, after we had each taken our first sip. “I never introduced myself. I am Jean Claude. And you are?”

“Arielle. And this is my friend Margaux.”

“Best friend,” Margaux chimed in.

“And what do you ladies do? Are you independently wealthy? Do you have rich husbands?”

“No husbands. And my job at French immigration hardly qualifies me as rich.”

Jean Claude turned to Margaux. “Me either. I’m her assistant.”

“It is admirable that your boss remains your best friend.”

“There are days…” I shot her a look so that she would go no farther with that. I didn’t want any distractions for Jean Claude about my shortcomings.

The conversation flowed easily as we all loosened up after more wine. I kept myself in check, however, as I always did on evenings such as this, wanting to be in full control of my emotions and actions as the evening progressed. I was always careful to be sure I didn’t wake up the next morning with any regrets. Jean Claude told us that his father owned a car dealership and wanted him to go into business with him. He started working there as a teenager and now owned the dealership, having inherited it from his father.

“Shall I order us another bottle of wine?” he asked.

“No, no, I think we both have had enough. Oui, Margaux?”

“Oui. Time for bed, I think.”

I couldn’t agree more, I thought.

“Then allow me to drive you both home,” he said. “It is late, too late for the subway, and I want to be sure you both get home safely.” He instructed us to wait for him at the front of the bistro while he retrieved his car. A few minutes later he pulled up in a large black Mercedes.

We both gave our addresses, and Jean Claude said he would take Margaux home first. When she was safely into her apartment, he turned to me and said, “I’ve been wanting to do this all evening. I hope you won’t mind.” At that point he kissed me, just a polite kiss, perhaps, but his lips lingering just an extra moment on mine.

At this point I had him exactly where I wanted him. I smiled, then kissed him back, a much longer and more passionate kiss, placing my hand on his thigh at the same time. Then he smiled, and said, “Shall we go to my place for perhaps another glass of wine?”

“Or coffee. Or whatever,” I said.

We drove down the Champs-Elysees and on toward the newer section of town, the part where the tourists don’t go, the part with the more modern tall buildings, the part of town where the business is conducted. He drove into the underground parking garage of a tall building, and politely took my hand and led me to the elevator. He lived on the top floor, in what one might call the executive suite: windows on all four sides with stunning views of the city. It was at least ten times the size of my apartment and probably twenty times the size of Margaux’s. For a short time, I was mesmerized by the views, and he quietly walked up behind me and put his arms around me, kissing me gently on the neck.

“It is beautiful, don’t you think?”

“Yes, yes, the views are absolutely amazing in every direction.”

“Actually, I was talking about our city, our fair city of Paris. Millions of people come from all over the world to visit, but I often wonder if they really appreciate it, really understand it. It is so much more than the Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triomphe. It is the seat of our government, with so much history, so much importance. Even the Nazis fell in love with it and could not bear to burn it, a fate suffered by so many other cities.”

Now he turned me toward him and kissed me deeply, the kiss lasting a very long time. Then again, the kiss more passionate, our tongues beginning to explore each other. He pulled off his jacket and tossed it on a chair. He loosened his tie and pulled it from his neck, unbuttoning the top button of his shirt. He kissed me again and then again on the neck, slowly working his way down, carefully opening the top button on my blouse so that his kisses were now at the top of my cleavage. I unbuttoned several buttons on his shirt, sliding my hand inside. His chest was covered with thick hair, silky to the touch. He exhaled a long sigh and hugged me tighter, kissed me more passionately. As he embraced me tightly, I could feel the bulge in his trousers.

It was at that point that our passion flew into overdrive. I unbuttoned the rest of the buttons on his shirt, and he unfastened his cufflinks, removed the shirt, and tossed it on the sofa. He returned the favor with my blouse, and it joined his shirt on the sofa. I kissed and licked his chest, licking his n*****s, feeling his pulse quicken. I undid his belt and his trousers dropped to the floor, and he stepped out of them. He unfastened my skirt and that also dropped to the floor. Expertly he reached behind me and undid my bra; that also dropped to the floor. Immediately his mouth was upon my breasts, kissing them, nibbling them, licking them, and I felt my own pulse begin to race. It was at that point that he picked me up in his strong arms and carried me to the bedroom.

He dropped me on the bed, lifted my legs, and pulled off my panties. Immediately his mouth was on my crotch, and in a few seconds he had me moaning with pleasure given his expert tongue action. He seemed to instinctively know all my g-spots. After bringing me to near climax, he stood, smiled, and reached into the drawer of the nightstand, pulling out a condom.

I put my hand on his. “It’s okay, Cherie, we don’t need that.” He smiled again, dropping his briefs. His member was thick, with large balls. He reached in the drawer for a bottle of liquid, putting a few drops on his engorged p***s. Then he lifted my legs, pulled me toward him, and slowly entered me.

The sensation was so over the top that I orgasmed almost immediately, after only a few of his thrusts. He began to moan as his thrusts grew longer, deeper, faster. But at a certain point, not wanting it to be over too quickly, he slowed down, smiling down at me, toying with me, as he playfully slid his c**k in and out of me. It seemed very large at this point, not so much in length as in thickness. When he again entered me and began thrusting once more, I felt very full. His moans began again, as did mine, and his thrusts became faster as he totally lost control and neared his climax. With a shout, he pushed all the way inside me, as far as he could go, and orgasmed. The sensation of his thick, throbbing c**k all the way inside me caused me to orgasm again. And my shout drowned out his.

He collapsed on the bed next to me, breathing heavily, his still throbbing c**k pointing toward the ceiling, the last of its load still oozing out of it. But I wasn’t done with him yet. I mounted him and began to rock back and forth, ignoring his cries of protest. Five minutes of that and we both climaxed again, in perfect unison.

He was breathing so hard that the thought crossed my mind that he might actually have a heart attack. After several minutes, he finally caught his breath and said,

“Mon dieux, woman, you are one hell of a bed partner.”

“I am sure I have heard that before,” I said casually, maybe too casually. So to make up for it, I quickly added, “but I have not often met the likes of you.”

True. Well, almost true. Many of my younger bedmates were inexperienced or came too quickly. But most were easily trained and learned to improve soon enough. There is nothing, though, quite like a man with experience.

He put his arm around me, gave me a gentle squeeze, and kissed me. I put my hand down to his crotch and massaged his c**k and balls, making him smile. “It seems you would like more,” he said. “Will you stay the night?”

“Tomorrow is Saturday, not a workday,” I answered. “So yes, I will stay.”

“And perhaps longer?” he said hopefully.

I laughed, trying not to be dismissive. “We’ll see how it goes. Are you a good cook??

“I make a great omelet,” he answered.

“Great s*x and a great omelet the next morning. How can I refuse?”

We fell asleep shortly after, as it was quite late. The next morning, I awoke to the sensation of his rough beard between my legs. Then, I fell back asleep, only to be awakened a short time later by the marvelous smell of coffee and an omelet. And something else. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. It was enough to get me out of bed and, donning the robe he had thoughtfully left for me, I made my way to the kitchen.

“Belgian waffles!” I exclaimed as I walked through the doorway. He was just retrieving one from the waffle maker and adding it to a big stack on a large plate.

“I just got this machine and I hadn’t tried it out yet. I hope you don’t mind me experimenting on you.”

“They look wonderful,” I told him. “But you’ve made such a huge stack. Who else is coming for breakfast?”

“It’s just us,” he smiled. “But we have all day to work it off. I’m sure we can find a creative way to do that.”

I laughed. “So I’m staying all day now? I only remember saying that I would stay until morning.”

He pulled me close to him, squeezed me tightly, and kissed me. “And I’m hoping you’ll stay longer.”

“Well, let’s see. If I eat one waffle an hour, there are six here…”

“I’ll start some more,” he said quickly.

We languished over breakfast, something I don’t do very often, and as we talked and laughed together, he began to grow on me. Finally, he asked, “What do you say we go to the Louvre this afternoon?”

I looked at the clock on his microwave. It was already eleven. “Wow, it’s that late already? How late did we sleep?”

“You got up at nine. I got up—the first time—at seven.”

“It’s already almost afternoon. The museum is full of hordes of tourists by now. If you want to see the Mona Lisa—which isn’t as large as everyone thinks it is—you can’t even get close enough to admire it with all the Japanese tourists standing in front of it taking pictures.”

“The Egyptian exhibit—my favorite—does not draw as many tourists.”

“Yes, that’s my favorite, too. One of my most favorite, anyway. Okay, let’s go. But I must get a look at my most favorite, the Venus de Milo.”

“If you insist. There will be many tourists there. And it doesn’t hold a candle to what I was gazing at last night.”

“Oh, stop,” I said. “Are you trying to butter me up for something?”

“I hope I don’t need to,” he said. “I’m hoping you like me just the way I am.”

We walked to the living room, where I stopped to admire the view once more, now in the daylight. Once again, in the distance, the Eiffel Tower. The streets radiating out from the Arc de Triomphe in ordered fashion. The River Seine ambling off into the distance. It was stunning. Jean Claude put his arms around me and hugged me, whispering in my ear, “I could get used to this.”

I opened my mouth to answer with one of my silly, dismissive remarks, but I stopped. I suddenly realized that I could get used to it, too. Startled, as I had not felt this way the previous night. That was just pure unadulterated lust. But now, after he had been such a sweetheart preparing a nice breakfast, talking patiently with me, not monopolizing the conversation about himself, as so many men do, I realized that I was beginning to like him quite a bit. He had talked about himself very little, just listening to me talk about work, my friendship with Margaux, a few of my views on life. There was a certain charm in that.

He picked me up and carried me to the bedroom, where we dropped our robes and did a repeat performance of last night. After that, a long shower together, then finally we left for the museum. It was a wonderful afternoon, more wonderful than any I had had with a man in a long time. Maybe the best ever. Most of my men left the next morning, if they even stayed that long, and there had rarely been any breakfasts and certainly never any trips to the museum. Was this what it was like to be with a more mature, wealthier man?

Maybe it was time I found out.