The french lesson, p.1
The French Lesson, page 1
An American tourist gets an unexpectedly erotic French lesson on the Eurostar train to Paris. Who knew learning a new language could be so much fun?
Previously published in Erotic Interludes 3: Lessons in Love, edited by Radclyffe and Stacia Seaman (Bold Strokes Books, 2006).
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The French Lesson
© 2006 By Kim Baldwin. All Rights Reserved.
ISBN 13: 978-1-63555-615-5
This Electronic Book is published by
Bold Strokes Books, Inc.
P.O. Box 249
Valley Falls, New York 12185
First Bold Strokes Books eBook Edition: May 2019
Previously published in Erotic Interludes 3: Lessons in Love, edited by Radclyffe and Stacia Seaman (Bold Strokes Books, 2006).
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
Credits
Editors: Radclyffe and Stacia Seaman
Production Design: Bold Strokes Graphics
Cover Design By Melody Pond
By Kim Baldwin
Hunter’s Pursuit
Force of Nature
Whitewater Rendezvous
Flight Risk
Focus of Desire
Breaking the Ice
High Impact
Taken by Storm
The French Lesson
Waterloo Station, London
The Eurostar looked fast and futuristic with its streamlined shape and smooth conical nose, all bright red and brilliant blinding chrome. And I was going to travel in the very poshest car, on this, the poshest train around. When you’re out to fulfill a fantasy, it’s best to do it up big, I say. I’d dreamed all my life of going to Paris, and getting there was part of the whole experience. The Chunnel Train would deliver me to my destination in less than three hours, providing unmatched accommodations and the scenic splendor of the English countryside on the way, while freeing me from the hassle of airport security checkpoints and endless waits.
Of course, you can’t have everything. Though I hadn’t minded exploring London by myself, my fantasies of romantic Paris—with its candlelit cafes and moonlit bridges—had always involved seeing it with a lover. But I hadn’t been very lucky in the romance department, and I just got tired of waiting. So instead of having wild sex on the train to Paris (as I’d always fantasized), I appeased myself with an upgrade to premium first class.
The car was nearly empty when I got on board. An attendant in a crisply starched uniform was serving drinks to the only others on board—a young couple, seated halfway down the long car. I paused in the aisle to admire what was undoubtedly the most luxurious train I’d ever been on.
The gray and burgundy seats were wide and plush, with deeply cushioned headrests and ample legroom. Each seat reclined and had its own folding table made of cherry. The floor was gray carpet. The décor had touches of Art Deco, with etched glass accents on the windows and stylized sconces providing soft, subdued light.
I chose a seat in the back, on the aisle, facing forward. It’s a good place if the car is empty, like this one, because I get the maximum view out of both sides of the train.
A moment after I settled into my seat, the steward approached with a smile.
“Welcome aboard the Eurostar. May I get you a beverage?” he asked with a Scottish brogue.
Now, I’ve always been a sucker for accents, and hearing a variety of British dialects during the past week had been a real treat. But it was Paris I was really looking forward to. French really does it for me, if you know what I mean. Ooh la la. Gets me all hot and bothered, though I haven’t a clue beyond oui and par-lay-voo what any of it means.
“I’d like some Earl Grey, please,” I told the steward, and he gave a little bow of his head and retreated toward the back. I returned my attention to the young couple. They were oblivious to everything but each other, holding hands, their heads bent together, talking in low tones. They looked very much in love.
Suddenly, she was standing there—near the front, her presence filling the aisle. I hadn’t seen her come in. I sucked in a breath at the sight of her as all the air rushed out of the car.
She was tall and sleek and beautiful, dressed head to foot in form-fitting black leather—pants and jacket and laced-up boots that came to mid-calf. Powerfully sexy. Subtly dangerous. Perfect androgyny. Her hair was dark and fairly short, with shaggy bangs that half hid her dark eyes and long, lush eyelashes. She looked about the car, taking in its accoutrements with a pleased nod. Her glance fell on the young couple and lingered on them a moment, then continued on toward the back, toward me. I felt a chill of anticipation run up my spine.
When her eyes met mine, she froze—and when I did not look away, a smile curled at the edge of those dark red lips, making her even more beautiful. She raised her eyebrows and cocked her head in question.
Still I could not look away, or breathe, or swallow, or think a rational thought beyond oh, please.
“Miss?” The spell was broken by the steward, who’d materialized beside me. I glanced up dumbly as he served my tea, blocking my view of the apparition.
He had a small silver tray in his hand containing cream and sugar, cup and saucer, napkin and spoon, and a small teapot of tea. There was also a plate of assorted cookies and freshly made scones, normally a real favorite, but I couldn’t wait for him to set it down and leave.
“Thank you,” I mumbled, finding my voice.
“Just ring if I might be of further service,” he said, indicating a call button by my hand. “I’ll be serving brunch in an hour.” He retreated toward the back again as the train began to move.
I saw her then. She had taken a seat on the aisle, several rows away, facing me. Watching me. Of all the available seats, she had taken one where both of us could see each other easily and also get a view of the couple sitting in between us.
The steward reappeared and took the woman’s order. Her eyes never left me, just as mine never left her. She licked her lips in a most inviting way and appraised me with a candor that I found both unsettling and unbelievably exciting. As her gaze skimmed over my body, her hand absently caressed the armrest of her chair. I felt something twitch in my belly, a stirring of heat. I missed every bit of the scenery flashing by, and my tea grew cold.
She glanced toward the couple sitting between us, and I did, too. They were kissing now with abandon, their arms around one another, unmindful of their surroundings. That twitch in my belly got worse. My eyes went back to the woman. Her smirk reassured me that she was getting as aroused as I was.
Without warning, we were in the tunnel, and the car darkened dramatically. A mild case of claustrophobia kicked in. I took a deep breath and tried not to think about being under the English Channel for the next half hour or so. I was suddenly aware that it was particularly dark right where I was sitting. I glanced up and noticed for the first time that the wall sconce nearest me was burned out.
During that momentary distraction, she appeared beside me.
“Je peux me joindre à vous?” she asked with an amused expression. I stared up at her, transfixed, letting her rich, fluid voice wash over me, understanding not a word and never more frustrated to be lingually deprived.
When I didn’t answer, she frowned and said, “J’ai fait une erreur?”
“I’m sorry, I’m afraid I don’t speak French,” I said. It must have been clear from my desperate tone of voice that I didn’t want her to leave.
Her frown disappeared and that rakish smile returned. “Oh, ça va être amusant,” she said, almost to herself. And then, gesturing toward the seat beside me, added, “J’ai demandé si je pouvais me joindre à toi.”
It was at least clear now that she was asking if she could sit with me, so I nodded like an idiot and got up to let her in, fumbling with the tea tray.
She paused briefly in front of me and brought her hand up to lightly stroke my cheek. “Et polie avec ça! C’est mignon,” she purred seductively.
Speaking French to me was like pouring gasoline on a fire. Every time she opened her mouth, I got hotter. On the other hand, it would be nice to know what the hell she was saying. “Do you speak English?” I sputtered as she withdrew her hand and we took our seats. “Par-lay voo ang-lay?” It was the one phrase I had learned.
“Non,” she answered, shaking her head. “Désolée.” Those luscious full lips of hers stuck out in a disappointed pout.
“Damn,” I muttered under my breath, and she understood that well enough to laugh—a throaty, rich peal of delight that broke the language barrier and made both our intentions clear.
Her dark eyes bored into mine as she moistened her lips provocatively with the tip of her tongue. I could feel my heartbeat pick up. “Fini?” she inquired, tilting her head toward my tea.
I nodded.
She picked up the tray and rose to set it on the seat in front of us; then she folded my table back out of the way a nd very deliberately raised the cushioned armrest that separated us. When she sat back down, she turned to face me, tucking one leg up beneath the other, and I did the same.
“Tu es belle,” she said, her eyes falling to my breasts and lingering there. “Très belle. Et très sexy.” That last word was clear enough. I wondered for a moment whether I really was dreaming, but she reassured me I was very much awake when she leaned forward and placed her hand lightly on my thigh. I swear I could feel the warmth of her hand through the thick denim of my jeans.
Restraint slipped away. I didn’t care where we were or who might be watching. I wanted her, as I’d not wanted anything in a very long while. My heart was hammering in my chest, and I was finding it a little difficult to breathe. I couldn’t contain a soft moan of pleasure.
She smiled again, obviously pleased at the encouragement. “Je t’excite?” she murmured as her hand began to move, fingertips tracing an excruciatingly slow path up my thigh.
Excite. Okay, I got that one. She’s asking whether I’m getting excited, I think. No problem there. I nodded mutely as my mind willed her hand to continue its teasing path of exploration.
She didn’t disappoint. Her fingertips skimmed the fly of my jeans, danced across the soft plane of my stomach, and then grazed my painfully erect nipple. “Mmm,” she purred. “Délicieux.”
Delicious. Got that one, too. Suddenly I was feeling pretty bilingual after all. My body leaned toward her of its own accord. I was on fire. “Please,” I groaned.
Her lips curled upward in a satisfied smirk. “Non.” She shook her head, correcting me. “S’il te plaît,” she instructed, grazing my nipple again with a fingertip. A promise.
“S’il te plaît,” I dutifully repeated, my voice unrecognizable.
“Très bien, chérie,” she said, rewarding me with a firm pinch of my nipple. It sent a jolt of desire through me and ratcheted up my arousal to a fevered pitch.
“S’il te plaît,” I begged again. “Oh God, you’re making me crazy…”
She silenced me then with a scorching kiss, thrusting her tongue into my mouth, claiming me with searing intensity. Her hand slid around my waist and she pulled me tight against her body.
If all the blood in my brain hadn’t fled to the lower regions of my anatomy, I might have been grateful I’d splurged for the roomy seats of first class and that the premium car was so blissfully empty. But I was beyond rational thought by then, immersed in the overwhelming sensations of her hands on me, her warm breath on my face, her body pressing mine against the seat back.
“Touche moi,” she whispered as she unzipped her jacket and led my hand to her breast. She was wearing a thin, silky top and no bra, and her nipples were already rigid and sensitive, too. I pinched one lightly between my fingertips, then the other, and she groaned, reclaiming my mouth in another kiss as she shifted her weight to straddle me in the oversized seat.
She tasted like chocolate and espresso, and she kissed me hard and long, as though she, too, had fantasized about an encounter such as this.
I was lost in her, oblivious to all but the sensations roaring through me. I cupped her breasts in my hands, fondling the weight of them, caressing the nipples roughly with my thumbs. She moaned into my mouth and pressed her body more firmly against me, grinding against my stomach. My hips rose to meet her, and we rocked together, both seeking greater contact.
She broke the kiss. She was breathing hard, and so was I. “C’est fou ce que tu m’excites,” she whispered next to my ear as her hand slipped between our bodies, seeking the fly on my jeans. I didn’t need to know what she said. We were speaking the same language now.
She was only fractionally faster getting into my pants than I was getting into hers—our hands found each other at almost the same moment. I’m not sure which one of us was wetter—it was probably too close to call.
We stroked each other in unison, working in an unspoken, teasing tandem to prolong the experience. When I felt her nearing her peak, I would back away—lighten my touch just enough—just as she kept me on the edge of my precipice, until both our bodies screamed for relief.
“Please,” she begged in a ragged voice, her face pressed against my neck, and we came together then, in a shattering burst of frenzied strokes. We collapsed against each other, gasping for air. I had not yet regained my wits or my strength when a burst of light filled the car. We were out of the tunnel.
My companion gave a disappointed sigh and gently extricated herself from my embrace, smiling at me mischievously as she straightened her clothes and sank into the seat beside me.
I managed to zip up my fly just before the steward reappeared. He tried to hide it, but the trace of a smile on his face as he addressed us suggested he was probably well aware of what we’d been up to and had timed his entrance accordingly. “Are you ladies ready for brunch?” he asked.
Since I was blushing profusely and hadn’t yet regained my ability to form a coherent sentence, I was rather glad my companion spoke up.
“Quelques fruits et croissants, s’il vous plaît,” she told him. “J’ai des projets pour elle à Paris, mieux vaut s’assurer qu’elle garde toute sa vigueur.”
Whatever she said made the man smile. The fruit and croissants part I understood. But I didn’t get the rest.
“Comme vous le désirez,” the steward replied and turned to go.
I hadn’t considered that the train staff would be bilingual, though it made perfect sense. “Wait!” I called after him.
He turned back around with a puzzled expression.
“I got the fruit and croissants part. What else did she say?” I asked him.
He chuckled. “She said she has plans for you when you get to Paris, and she wants to make sure you keep your strength up.”
I had a feeling that by the end of the week, my French would be perfect.
About the Author
Kim Baldwin (kimbaldwin.com), a former network news executive, has made her living as a writer for more than three decades. In addition to the Elite Operatives Series, co-authored with Xenia Alexiou, she has published eight solo romantic adventure novels: Hunter’s Pursuit, Force of Nature, Whitewater Rendezvous, Flight Risk, Focus of Desire, Breaking the Ice, High Impact, and Taken by Storm. She’s also had several short stories published in BSB anthologies. A 2012 Lambda Literary Award winner and 2011 Lambda finalist, she is also the recipient of a 2011 Rainbow Award For Excellence, a 2010 Independent Publisher Book Award, four Golden Crown Literary Society Awards, eight Lesbian Fiction Readers’ Choice Awards, and an Alice B. Readers Appreciation Award for her body of work. She has recorded audiobooks of her own novel Breaking the Ice, and the Rose Beecham mystery Grave Silence. Kim lives in Michigan but keeps her laptop, camera, and passport handy to travel whenever possible. She can be reached at baldwinkim@gmail.com.
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