Smith raised his eyebrows, the corners of his mouth quirking up to match.
“I'll be your stewardess today, sir,” I said, one hand on my hip as I stood before him. “Would you like coffee, tea, or me?”
“Tea would be nice. Hot tea.”
“How about I pleasure you instead, sir?”
“How would you do that?”
I got down on my knees, though my pu**y ached for him more than my mouth, and I unzipped his trousers.
“Orally,” I said.
“But I thought you said…” His eyelashes fluttered as I touched his manhood, and he stopped questioning my change of mind.
Compared to the green forests of Vermont, Montreal was a hive of people, all of them skinny, smoking, and talking in French.
We arrived after eight o'clock, and went directly to dinner without stopping at the hotel.
The waiters at the fancy-schmancy restaurant Smith took me to all spoke English, but their accents gave me the giggles. I tried not to smirk when the waiter was talking about the food, but the super-French rolling of the Rs and the whole thing was just so damn cute. Smith picked up on my discomfort and kept asking the poor man question after question.
Once we were alone again, he waggled his eyebrows at me.
“Tori! Haven't you been to Quebec before? You know, there are other people in the world besides Americans.”
“Other accents are fine. But French makes me giggle. Too many comedy skits, maybe, with people making fun of French waiters?”
“How about Australians?”
“Ooh, they have a cute accent. Especially the boys.”
He wrinkled his nose. “Really? They're always so loud, especially the women.”
“There are Australian women? Huh. I never noticed.” I flashed him a big grin.
In response to my joke, he got a devious look in his sea-blue eyes. The man would make one sexy merman, with eyes like sapphires when he turned on the charm, making me feel like ice cream melting under a blazing-hot summer sky.
I fidgeted in my fancy chair, crossing and uncrossing my legs. The wine, which probably cost more than my week's wages, was going to my head, bubbling around in there with images of Smith naked, sprawled on his back with that golden trail of stomach hair leading to his golden treasure. Was it possible to become addicted to a person? I kicked off one shoe under the table and trailed my toes up his leg suggestively.
He leaned in on his elbows and whispered, “Would you like me better if I was Australian, like your ex, Todd? I wonder if he still thinks about you when he's making love to his new redhead.”
I pulled my foot away in shock.
“What are you talking about? I never told you about Todd.”
“His new redhead has larger br**sts. If you ask me, I think small tits are the greatest gift God gave man, but it takes all types to make the world go 'round.”
I shook my head. “I suppose this was all part of the research you did before you hired me. Fuck. What else do you know?”
He grinned, those sapphire eyes glinting across the candle-lit table, mocking me. “I know you pucker your lips right before you come. You look like you're kissing an angel.”
He puckered his own lips and fluttered his eyelashes to illustrated.
“Yeah? This is what you look like when you come.” I grimaced and made a grunting noise.
There was a clattering around us, as people in the dining room set down their utensils and stared in shock at our table.
Smith squirmed in his seat.
“Oh, baby,” I said, louder now, and still grimacing. “Oh, redheads! Creamy, milky tits. Oh, oh, I'm coming.”
He put his hand over his face and looked down.
I was too pissed-off at him for mentioning my ex to stop, not that I wanted to. He'd made a game of coaxing me into being worked up so we could have angry sex, and now it was time to see how he liked the same treatment.
I slammed my hand on the table. “I'm gonna pull your hair and come on your back now, and you're gonna like it.” I wasn't yelling, but the people near us could definitely hear everything. Most of them looked like they could use the entertainment, too.
Smith peeked at me between his fingers and said, “You love it when I pull your hair. You're a wicked girl.”
I stood up, the napkin from my lap falling to the floor. “Blam,” I said, miming that I was stroking a c**k in my hand. I gritted my teeth and said between clenched molars, “Blam, blam, thank you ma'am.” I thrust my hips, banging into the table and shaking all the dishes.
One of the fancy-looking ladies sitting nearby found this hysterical, and she began laughing, braying like a donkey. Her hair looked like a helmet of extensions. Within seconds, the other women around us joined in laughing, much to the consternation of their older husbands.
The French waiter appeared at my side. “Mademoiselle, may I assist you in any fashion?”
I grabbed the bread from the basket at the table.
Smith sat still, not allowing a reaction on his face.
“I'll take my dinner to go,” I said, and I walked out with a handful of bread.
I didn't turn back to see Smith Fucking Wittingham sitting alone at the table, because the image in my mind was perfect. That would serve him right for toying with me, using my own private information to throw his superiority in my face.
Outside the restaurant, I got into the town car that was waiting. The driver didn't seem at all surprised to see me so soon, and without Smith. I didn't know the hotel we were staying at, but the driver did, so I had him take me there.
Part 2: The Hotel Le St. James
The penthouse at the Hotel Le St. James rivaled any room I'd ever seen in person. I took the private elevator up to the suite, and stepped out into the pages of Architectural Digest. My heels made a sexy noise on the Italian parquet floors as I walked through the space, soaking in the opulence. To my surprise, the huge windows were doors, and led to a fifteen-hundred-square-foot wrap-around terrace, overlooking the city of Montreal. I stood outside and let the distance-muted sounds of the city float up around me. The air was mid-summer muggy, and not as refreshing as Vermont, but the view more than made up for the fumes.
The sun was setting behind the beautiful city skyline, and the sky shifted to indigo. I went back into the room and considered ordering room service, but raided the refrigerator instead. The place didn't just have a mini-bar, but an actual gourmet kitchen. You could cook a turkey and have ten people over for dinner at the long table, which made me laugh. I wondered how many movie stars had stayed there.
I rooted around the fridge, which had been nicely stocked for us, looking for something to calm my nerves.