Page 19 of Infidelity Rules

I arrive in Paris a couple hours ahead of Marcus (his own flight was booked) and make my way to the hotel suite he’s arranged for us on the Ile Saint-Louis.

I can’t believe I’m here. I dump my carry-on bag to the floor and scan the opulent, all-white room complete with crystal chandeliers and a king-sized bed.

There’s a beautiful cut crystal glass vase filled with fresh lilies and irises, perfuming the air with the scent of spring.

I take a deep breath and sit on the plush bed.

I know this whole thing is a bit looney tunes.

Okay, maybe a lot looney tunes. But I also know this — my cheeks ache from smiling and my stomach won’t stop somersaulting.

That, and Marcus and I spent an hour on the phone last night, giggling and flirting and acting like a couple of ridiculous teenagers in the first throes of love.

But certainly not with Chris.

Not even with Liam, if I’m honest. Oh man am I in trouble. Serious trouble.

I shake away the thought and am about to check out the bathroom when a simple, matte black gift bag catches my eye. I pull out the pale cream tissue paper and find an exquisite, emerald green and midnight blue silk scarf. It’s very French. And very chic. It’s utterly gorgeous.

There is, of course, a note.

For you, the lovely, leggy redhead who swept into my life.

It matches your eyes.

Meet me at 6 p.m. The bar at Chez Ami Jean across the street. Bring your appetite.

Marcus

Ooooh. He’s taking me to dinner first. Wise man. I know we’re getting naked tonight. He knows we’re getting naked tonight. But we get to continue the tease and the foreplay for just a bit longer. I love this. I soooo love this.

But now my big conundrum. Not just what to wear, but what kind of underwear? Do I go with the industrial version that makes my ass look high and perky? Or the wee kind that look great on their own but do nothing under clothing? Gah! Sometimes being a woman sucks.

I’m going with itty-bitty. I’ll be sitting during dinner anyway, so why scare him away later with colossal panties?

It’s also a veritable circus act to watch me remove them.

I fell over once trying to yank them off in a rush — yes, a man was involved.

Sort of like one of those fainting goats, I just crashed to the floor.

Not my best moment.

Red lace thong it is.

I stare at the thong I’ve tossed on the bed.

Clearly, I need more to my dinner outfit.

Why is getting dressed for Marcus so paralyzing?

Thankfully, I’ve packed light and have limited options.

It’s unfortunate I had zippo time for Dezi to help me choose an outfit prior to throwing things into a bag and running to the airport.

Come on Quinn. Get it together. Nobody cares what you wear.

I decide on my snug black skinny jeans paired with a nude-colored off-the-shoulder lace top. I slide my feet into strappy, high-heeled flesh-toned sandals and take my new scarf downstairs in search of fashion assistance.

I wander over to the concierge desk and approach the stunning French woman behind the counter, tapping her perfectly manicured pale pink fingernails on the computer keys.

“Bonsoir,” I say, wondering if it’s too early to say good evening and whether I should have said bonjour instead.

“Bonjour mademoiselle,” she says, glancing up at me from her computer screen. “May I help you?” she asks, in perfect English.

“Please,” I say, showing her my new silk scarf. “I need some fashion advice. How should I wear this?”

“You wish to wear theez scarf?” she asks, raising her eyebrows.

I nod, wondering why she’s looking at me as if I just handed her a bag full of monkey turds.

“With theez outfit?” she says, eyeing my clothes and looking me up and down.

I nod again.

“Non,” she says fiercely, shaking her head and waving me away. “Does not go. No scarf.”

Well alrighty then. I suppose that was helpful. Somewhat.

“Merci,” I grumble under my breath and slink away to my room for a final once over. I fluff my hair, slick on some lip gloss and grab my small purse. I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.

.....

I’m sitting at the bar at Chez Ami Jean and fiddling with my new scarf, which is now knotted around my neck.

Yeah, that’s right, I’m wearing it anyway.

I snuck it out of the hotel in my purse so the fashion police wouldn’t see.

I’m scoping out the cozy, candle-lit bar and restaurant when I notice the bartender approaching.

He’s holding a spectacular bottle of Champagne (I recognize the label) and pours the pale golden liquid into a coupe glass directly in front of me.

“Mademoiselle Quinn, yes?” he inquires, still pouring.

I smile and nod.

“From your gentleman friend.” He hands me the glass. “He’ll be here soon. Enjoy.”

.....

I can feel Marcus in the room before I even see him. My pulse quickens. My stomach churns. The tiny hairs on my arms stand up like meerkats, sensing a change in the environment.

If only I had paid attention in chemistry class instead of wriggling out of most of the work by flirting wildly with my nerdy partner. There must be a fancy name for this. Frisson? Covalent bond? Wild rumpus?

Whatever.

What I do know is this: Marcus transforms the molecules in my air space. And he makes them dance.

“Hey gorgeous. How’s my favorite redhead?” says Marcus, pulling my hair to one side and whispering in my ear.

He spins my barstool towards him and sweeps me up and into his arms in one magic motion. How does he do that?

“Man have I missed you,” he says, nuzzling my neck. “I’m so glad you made it. Welcome to Paris.”

I sigh with pure pleasure at the feel of his arms around me and his lips so close to mine.

“Paris,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Such a hardship.”

I smile up at him just as he leans down to plant a soft kiss on my lips.

Ah Quinn, I think to myself as I sink into his kiss, you are doomed .

Once again, it appears we cannot stop kissing. But we are in France and nobody cares.

We eventually break apart and Marcus takes my hand and leads me to an intimate table for two. “You look absolutely beautiful,” he says, pulling out my chair. “And I was right, the scarf does match your green eyes.”

“I love it. Thank you,” I say as my hand flies to my neck. I had totally forgotten I was even wearing it. “The woman at the concierge desk didn’t seem to think it went with my outfit at all. She just shooed me away and provided no details.”

Marcus laughs. “Ah, that must be Claudette. She has rather specific opinions. And she’s not one for sugar coating.”

“So I gather,” I say as Marcus reaches across the table to take my hands.

“I’m happy to see you wore it regardless,” he grins. “Not many a woman would cross Claudette.”

“Full disclosure,” I whisper, looking around furtively. “I snuck it out of the hotel in my purse. Remind me to take it off before we head back.”

Marcus bursts out laughing. “I like you,” he says, shaking his head. “You’re a bit nuts, but in the best way possible.”

A waiter stops by and pours more Champagne as another brings a thick slice of country paté along with a baguette, Dijon mustard and crunchy cornichons.

“It’s their house-made paté and it’s delicious,” he says, spreading a bit on a hunk of bread and topping it with mustard and a tiny pickle. “Here,” he says, feeding it to me. “See for yourself.”

“Mmmmm,” I sigh, crunching through the perfect combo of rich meat, spicy mustard and tart pickle. “I could attack that whole thing with a spoon.”

Marcus has taken the liberty of ordering everything in advance, including the wine, which is absolute bliss for me. I don’t have to do a thing except eat, drink and shamelessly flirt with this unbelievably sexy man.

This is yet another reason why I date married men. I can’t bring myself to get off the ride. It’s too good. And when it’s just a fling, the ride never ends. There’s no opportunity for somebody to fall out of love. Or for passion to wane. It’s all sizzle, no boring guts.

The restaurant’s sommelier brings a bottle of Chateau La Conseillante from the Pomerol region of Bordeaux. I stare at the bottle, then look at Marcus. Then stare at the bottle again.

“How did you know? How could you possibly have known this is my absolute favorite wine in the world?”

“I have my ways,” he says, winking at me and grinning. “Do the honors?” he says, gesturing towards my glass as the sommelier pours a taste.

I slowly swirl the wine and gently breathe in that classic nose of violets, licorice and truffles indicative of the chateau’s terroir. It is a perfect, perfect Bordeaux. And he chose an excellent year, I might add.

“Please tell me we’re having beef with this,” I say, raising my glass to Marcus and taking a small sip. “And have a taste, tell me what you think.”

“Anything that makes you this happy, makes me happy,” he says. “And yes, meat is on the way.”

The waiter approaches and hands us each a small menu. “Viola,” he says. “The chef has prepared for you a special menu.”

Le Menu

Whole roasted artichokes with lemon aioli

Cote de boeuf for two with rosemary butter,

Bordeaux jus and white asparagus

Morel mushroom risotto

Assorted French cheeses

Apricot and fresh fig clafoutis with cream

“You expect to see me naked after all this?” I say, raising one eyebrow just as our waiter delivers warm bread with pots of sea salt and creamy, golden butter.

“Expect? No. Want? Yes,” says Marcus, slowly running a hand up my thigh and looking at me intently with those blue, blue eyes.

Oh boy. It’s wild rumpus time.

“I’m going to need a solid walk after all this,” I say, feeling my cheeks burn and my pulse quicken.

“I can think of other, more interesting ways to burn calories,” says Marcus slowly, his eyes never leaving my face.

“Oh yeah? How, pray tell, do you expect to accomplish that?”

“Come a little closer and I’ll whisper it to you,” he says, pulling my chair towards him as his fingers gently graze the tops of my thighs. “You see. It involves me, slowly driving this gorgeous, green-eyed redhead wild. For as long as she’ll let me.”

Oh. My. God. What beef? What wine? My brain is addled. But I’m so glad I nixed the jumbo, elephant panties.

Two hours and several orgasms later — sorry, lost count — we are tangled together, naked, feeding each other strips of cold, rosemary-scented beef, nibbling hunks of cheese and sipping my favorite red wine straight from the bottle.

My cheeks are flushed, my body feels as if I’ve had the best massage of my life and I’m nestled in Marcus’s strong arms.

Does it get any better than this?

The answer to that is emphatically NO. It does not.

.....

The next morning, after an equally sublime and significantly slower-paced round two, we are sipping tiny cups of room service coffee and sharing a trio of utterly perfect croissants.

“Why are these soooo good?” I moan, as I lick the buttery pastry flakes off my fingers.

“Because they are the real deal,” says Marcus, smiling at me. “Let me do that,” he says, gently taking my hand and slowly sucking my fingers. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” he asks, as his hands stroke my nipples through my diaphanous white gown.

I laugh as I fling the croissants aside and straddle him. “Okay,” I say, slowly grinding my hips against him. “But if we’re going for round three, you’re going to have to seriously feed me after this.”

“Done,” he says, grabbing my waist and pulling me closer. “So done.”

Me too, I think, closing my eyes and sinking into Marcus. I am so done.