“Good. You do that.”

Before I risk draping a leg over his, wrapping an arm around him, or slamming my lips to his, I pat the hard chair. “What do you think this monstrosity costs?”

He pops up, strides over to the beanpole of a man running the booth, and asks. When he returns to me, he offers a hand, pulling me up from the chair and tugging me nearly flush against him.

In a low, sultry voice, he whispers, “This can be yours for a cool twenty-two-and-a-half-thousand euros.”

He doesn’t blink. He says it as if he would seriously consider it. I crack up, so loud I need to cover my mouth with my hands. In between breaths, I ask, “Does it come with the pillows?”

He shakes his head, a forlorn look in his ice-blue eyes. “Sadly, it does not.”

Raising my chin haughtily, I answer. “Pssh. Then I don’t want it.”

We leave the chair and wander around some more.

“How was your week?” he asks, and the normalcy of the question gives me pause. He asks it with ease, as if we’re used to the simple back and forth of “how was your day” and “what’s for dinner.”

“Busy. I was working on some new pitches for potential business at the ad agency I own.”

He asks more questions about my agency, and I share a few details then inquire about his day.

“Busy too. I had a translation job for a bigwig. That was a lot of fun. And then I helped my brother with a few projects. But mostly I spent a good portion of the week wondering if this beautiful Frenchwoman was going to let me kiss her tonight.”

I smile. “I’m only half French.”

“Which half?” he says, a little impishly.

“Which half of you is British?”

“My cock, of course.”

“My tits are French, then,” I reply. Two can play at that game.

His eyes drift to my chest. “J'aime ce qui est français,” he says, lingering on my breasts, as he tells me he loves French.

“Oh please,” I say, and he refocuses, meeting my eyes. “My parents are French, but I was born in America and raised in Manhattan. I have dual citizenship.”

“Do you feel more French or American?”

The question is a good one, and I’ve pondered it many times over the years. We grew up in the heart of the Upper East Side, speaking only French at home, as my parents wanted me to be bilingual. But my cultural touchstones were all American. “I feel like I straddle both worlds. What about you? Do you feel more Danish or British?”

“Would it be completely lame if I answered the same? I grew up in England for the most part, but I’m close to my mum and to my Danish relatives, so I’d have to say both.”

I’m glad he answered from the heart and not from his British cock. I like the teasing, but I like more knowing who he is. “I feel at home being both too.”

He takes my hand again, and another whoosh rushes through me. It lasts longer, spreads further.

“But would you feel more at home if you had that?” His tone is intensely serious. He grabs me by the shoulders and spins me around, and for a moment, I barely register what I’m looking at because his hands on my shoulders turn that whoosh into a wave of something a bit dirty, a little forbidden.

But there’s no time to focus on the longing since I’m taken aback when I see a bronzed, stylized sculpture of a gorilla head. It sits on a pedestal in an art gallery exhibit. Surprisingly, I like it. “Now that’s actually a really handsome gorilla.”

“It is,” he admits.

“I’m not looking for gorilla-head art, mind you, but I could see that in my house.”

“You could?”

“Yes, maybe if it was, say, three hundred euros. For the sheer conversational value of it. If I were hosting a party, I could say, ‘Yes, I have a lovely gorilla sculpture.’”

“Let’s bargain. Let’s get her to sell you that gorilla head for three hundred euros.”

He strides up to the woman running the booth, standing a few feet away. “Hello. Just curious how much that gorilla head is going to set me back?” He takes out his wallet as if he’s truly about to buy me a gorilla head on a pedestal.

With her blond hair cinched high on her head, the woman offers a faint, simpering smile. “It’s seven hundred and fifty thousand euros.”

I expect Christian’s jaw to drop, since I can feel mine coming unhinged at the audacity of such a price. Christian maintains a stoic face, asking, “Does it come with the pedestal?”

Blondie offers another faint smile. “We can throw in the pedestal for that price.”

He claps his hands. “Right. How generous. Thank you so much. We’re going to go out, have a drink, and discuss the needs of our foyer.”

We proceed to have a priceless time wandering around for the next hour, laughing about the cost of everything, and when we leave, empty-handed of course, I’m thinking how wonderful it was to do something irreverent and not at all designed to end with us in bed. Given the fun we had at the garden bar, I’m not surprised we had a good time. I am surprised I let myself enjoy it so much.

But a part of me wants to know what he’d be like behind closed doors. A part of me wants a little taste. When we exit, I yank him close and whisper, “That kiss you’ve been wondering about?”

“Yes?” His voice is husky, thick with desire.

“Take it,” I tell him, my eyes fixed on his. “Take it now.”

That’s all he needs to hear.

He slides a hand around the back of my neck, holding me. In his crystal-blue irises, I see heat and desire, then a blur of lust as I shut my eyes. He presses his lips to mine, dusting them softly. It’s a beautiful first kiss. It’s exploratory and hungry at the same time. His tongue slips over my lips, his mouth opening mine.

My mind goes hazy in a heartbeat, like I’m having a drink, like the champagne is going straight to my head. Trembles run down my body, and I’m warm everywhere. The delicious, tingly, liquid feeling tells me I will be replaying this kiss tonight, home alone in bed.

I’ll be wondering what it would have been like if I’d let him do everything I wanted, if I’d let him reach his hands into my hair and tug hard. The possibilities blast before me, and I jerk him to me for a few seconds, feeling the press of his erection against my hip.

He lets out a sexy, hungry moan that nearly breaks me. A moan that hints at how good we’d be together in bed. And how dangerous that would be.

I pull apart. “Good night, Christian. Same time next week?”

He tilts his head, the corner of his lips curving up. “Are you becoming my Friday-night affair?”

I raise an eyebrow and run a finger down the first two buttons on his crisp shirt. “Maybe I am.”

He hums a note of approval, brushing a barely-there kiss against one cheek, then the other, before he whispers, “I’ll see you in a week, Friday-night lover.”

I laugh lightly. “We’ll see about that last part.” I slide my hand into his hair one last time. It’s so lush against my fingers. Any trace of laughter fades away as I tell him, with complete seriousness, “For what it’s worth, it’s not easy resisting you.”