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Leona looked down at the star-shaped cut on her finger, against the emptiness outside of her train window. The emptiness was France outside of Paris. Just wide areas of green, and people living their daily lives. She ran her tongue over the cut she got from opening his cuff link …

Sinking back into her seat, she held her cell phone like a magic wand and closed her eyes. According what she could decipher from the train's announcements using her limited French, the train was running late. Leona almost did not want to go back to the United States. If she was stuck here, she could just go back to Paris …

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…and him.

It was not her first trip to Paris. She had returned there so many times that friends and family suspected she had a lover there. It was the furthest thing from the truth.

Tucking into her favorite bar early a few days ago, she barely noticed that she had not put together the equivalent of a meal all day until she was presented with a menu. She sipped the cocktail that the bartender had made especially for her; it wasn't her first time there. The drink was fruity and strong. It made her feel special that he had made it for her, that he'd used her previous drink orders customize the sweet and savory concoction.

Watching as Guillaume made the drink in his crisp white shirt, suspenders and shiny cuff links transported her. The first time she came to the bar and saw him, she had been breathless, had thought that if he wanted a holiday fling with her, she was all for it. Instead, she had become just friendly with him over her many trips to Paris.

“Do you have an apartment here yet?” he asked in his French accent.

“No,” she laughed, looking around at the empty bar and fingering the cool sweat of her cocktail glass. “But I should!”

“I like having you here.”

The tone of his voice and his accent intoxicated her more than her cocktail could. Leona pressed her cool fingers to her temple to bring her back to reality.

“I live above the bar …” he said softly.

“The bar is your life then," Leona said. "You work here, you live above it…”

Guilluame smiled at her, and it made her fingertips against her temple hot.

“I knew when I bought this bar that it was going to be my entire life.”

“Well it is my favorite bar in all of Paris.”

“Have you been to every bar in all of Paris?”

He leaned close to her, and Leona clutched the stem of her class.

“Non,” escaped flirtatiously from her mouth, as she felt her eyelashes flutter atop her cheeks.

“This is the first time that I have ever been alone with you in all the times that you have been here,” Guillaume said.

Leona took a nervous sip of her cocktail.

“It’s nice, to have my own personal mixologist.”

“I can mix a lot of things…”

Leona looked at him, and there was no mistaking what he wanted to mix now.

He walked around the bar, and walked to the ornate door.

Closed it.

“There are stairs right over there, if you want you can see what a French apartment looks like? In case you want to buy one?”

Leona froze with a mixture of nerves and raw lust, but Guillaume’s hand on hers thawed her. She nodded and slipped off the stool, her already damp crotch pressing against the edge of her seat. They walked up the winding stairs.

“But what if you have customers?” she turned to look at him.

“This is my smaller bar. They can go down the street. People like this one for its je ne sais quoi…like you do ...”

He caressed her calf.

They settled into his apartment. Leona took in the minimalist design that countered with the vintage vibe of the bar. Except for his things, like an actual fedora on a Tiffany lampshade. She turned to look at him, and he was already looking at her while he leaned against the wall. He raised his hand to his face.

“Now that I have you up here,” his accent thickened, making her wetter. “I am like a teenager.” She walked over to him slowly.

“This feels like a home run to me…”

“Do you like baseball?”

“I do,” she laughed. “Did you bring me up here to talk about baseball?”

Guillaume grinned, and shook his head.

“Do you want a drink?”

Leona shook her head.

“I could have brought mine up from downstairs if I wanted one…”

They looked at each other. He brushed a stray hair from her face, and she kissed his hand. Her tongue slipped just under the sleeve of his shirt and flicked out toward his cuff link. She felt his entire body tense with her touch, as her tongue lingered on his wrist. Guillaume took her face in his hands, and drew her to him. She closed her eyes when they were close, and it felt like she entered another world. All their motion seemed orchestrated to get them horizontal. Except when she was pricked with his cufflink as she tried to take it off.

France continued to rush outside past her eyes on the train, and Leona let her hand rest indelicately between her thighs. She was so tense with need and memory, she squeezed her hand in a tight vise when it fell there.

The train was empty, and her need was strong. She remembered how Guillaume kissed the top of her wrist, and led her to the bathroom. He did first aid on her while she sat on the toilet, eyeing his vintage shaving kit in the otherwise minimalist decor of his bathroom.

Her eyes were on him though, when his hand slipped under her dress …

She was as wet then as she was on the train now. Barricading herself with her bags so that she could relive herself, Leona closed her eyes as she remembered him making her come on the toilet seat to counter the sting of cleaning her wound. The ridge of her star-shaped wound was surprisingly pleasurable against her clit, and made her come roughly.

Her eyes popped open when she realized they were already at the stop. Her hand on the inside of her thigh caught the eye of a train worker that was outside of her window. She stared straight through him, and he walked away.

“Excusez-moi, madamoiselle?”

He had walked onto the train, and stood opposite her.

“Yes?” she answered, startled and still breathless.

The man smiled, but she did not.

“This is the last stop,” he said in English.

Leona nodded. She was definitely going to miss her plane now.

“Merci, monsieur,” she said with regained composure.

She picked up her carry-on, and walked off of the train. The man was still grinning, but she was not thinking about him. The wheels of her carry-on soothed her as she approached the platform back to Paris.

She needed a drink, and Guillaume would be opening the bar in a few hours…

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