Mike's final forceful thrust sent Fleurette's squeal of orgasmic rapture soaring into the Parisian night.
Mike, fingers skimming warm breasts, eased his weight off her. Despite his having little French, she had to know. "C'est fini," he growled.
"Finis? Mais pourquoi?"
Mike sighed. Wildly demanding all night, Fleurette needed to realise that this could not go on.
Her eyes showed dismay. His softness slithered out of her, leaving an empty cavern, a heaving heart, and a wet thigh. "Je t'aime, Mike. Ma vagin sera si seul. Regard ca te pleure deja."
Mike could not understand a word she said, but guessed, by the way she parted her thighs and pointed, just what she meant. Her sweet pussy was weeping both of their juices.
He longed to find renewed strength as her fingers stroked his limp cock and her mouth offered to favour him once more. God, she was the sexiest, shapeliest, most ardent woman he had ever known. From meeting her on that boat ride up the Seine, having her respond instantly to his touching her breast, they had spent three weeks caressing, sucking and fucking each other.
He had often thought about how great it would be if they had a language connection. But she had little English and he had even less French, and this he'd been telling himself that sensuous as their relationship was, it lacked that major component, with words of love.
On the following day his business would take him to Rome and then on to Lisbon. Normally he would be hurrying back to Fleurettte hot welcome. But this was the chance to make a clean break. Marvellous as it had been he was beginning to consider the future.
Fleurette's ministrations were beginning to have an effect. Well, maybe one last glorious, goodbye fuck!
~~~~ ~~~~ ~~~~ ~~~~~
Winter was over, yet the Paris drizzle had remained into April. Little sun, and the dark grey skies matched the mood of Mike as he scanned each passing seductive female. Paris is so large. His failure to find one beautiful, much- beloved, face after seven months searching was dragging him down.
Seven months added to the three years since he'd last been in Paris. When his firm opened an office in the heart of the city, they offered him the management. He had jumped at the chance, not just of career advancement but of rectifying the gross error he had made those years ago.
He had travelled the world, meeting and often bedding women of every race creed and colour. But too slowly he had realised that none could compare with the woman he now desperately hunted. There was only one Fleurette.
Now as the drizzle continued, he strolled into Boulevard Montagne and headed for his favourite café, Manion's, which held many memories and where he had searched many times during these months. Always without a sign.
But on this day, even though the sky remained grey, he was struck by instant sunlight.
"Mike! Can it be you, at last?" That unmistakable sultriness of voice, and the bright-eyed lovely face. His heart performed a dance at the sight of that curvaceous figure in the summer dress..
"Fleurette? Yes, it's me. Idiot Mike. I'm surprised you even want to speak to me." So gorgeous in yellow. Gorgeous out of it, as he'd learned so many times all those months ago.
Mike breathed in deeply, "But you're speaking English."
Fleurette stood up from the table where she'd sat alone. "Ah, yes," she whispered. "We let language split us apart. I took a course in English."
She came and pressed against him, her thigh pushing between his. And there in the crowded café they kissed their so familiar passionate kiss. Their audience applauded as their lips parted but their bodies clung. Eyes clouded, Fleurette looked up into his, "I recognise your hardness," she sighed wriggling against it. "I've missed it so much."
"You've had no one else?" he asked with some trepidation.
"No one comparable. You?"
He laughed, joy welling inside him, "No one good enough."
