I’m wholly tempted to say that bliss personified is Jameson doing wickedly wonderful things to my body.Like… Kneading my breasts and tonguing my nipples, while his cock is pumping into me and there’s this insanely vibrant buzzing against my clit, so that my body is thrashing and my spine is bowing and my hips are raising. And I’m begging for more. So much more.Naturally, he’s not the least bit hesitant to give it to me.But I reach a point where I sort of comprehend there’s a more that’s clawing at me and a bliss personified that I haven’t yet achieved.Because although the multiple orgasms blaze through me and we’re damn lucky no one can hear me scream his name, I want him in a different way.The desire slams into me and somehow, I have super-human strength to give a shove at his chest so that he flops onto his back, bringing me with him. I straddle his lap and he continues to thrust into me.He shreds the strands at my hips and tosses aside the battery-operated, butterfly device.
~ Nikki ~ The Christmas decorations and the cloud cover add to the romantic atmosphere. I’d read that it rarely snows in Paris, but rain can be expected this time of year. Fortunately, that’s not currently the case.All in all, I am completely mind-blown.Even as we come upon a large park where a huge crowd is gathered and people are waving the French flag and some are popping corks on bottles of champagne, there is a fantastical, mystical ambience that permeates the entire city.“What are they celebrating, do you think?” I ask Jameson. I tear my gaze from the park and look at him over my shoulder.He’s quiet a moment, as though he’d been lost in thought as he’d watched me take in the scenery.He seems to catch himself and chuckles.“What’s so funny?” I press, which deepens his laugh.“They’re probably celebrating losing the World Cup.”My gaze narrows. “I’m confused.”He tells me, “The French are celebratory people, in general. They also think quite highly of their country. Second,
~ Jameson ~I’m not familiar with Nikki’s pensiveness.She’s out on the balcony, pacing.I’m observant enough—and highly attuned to her—to understand her frustration. Language barriers are a complicated hurdle to jump. And I can see, quite clearly, she’s considering this to be a fault of hers, a failure on her part. She’s blaming herself for having had difficulty keeping up during the meetings.She’s used to excelling, and that’s one of the things I admire and respect about her. She’s accustomed to being wholly present, in the moment, so that even when I’m contemplatively mulling something over and only murmuring to myself, she’s fully immersed and engaged so that she can mentally catalogue what I’m working through and instantly—instantly—pick up my lead when I latch onto where I want to go. She doesn’t hesitate or falter, she simply falls right in line with me, and we continue as though there was no disruption or delay whatsoever.Thus, for her to be trapped in a vortex of prior disc
~ Nikki ~I’m definitely swept away.I can’t describe how I’m feeling about a breakthrough happening—on many levels—amid disaster.I know I fucked up today.But Jameson is right… How am I to suddenly be a pro at everything, all at once, overnight?I take a few breaths and try to ground myself.We have the work-related stuff under control for the time being, I think.We’re on the same page and I’m willing to do whatever the hell I have to in order to exceed expectations. Also, I already have a good rapport with Molly, so I’m not terrified with having to broach the topic of a mentorship with her. I actually believe she’ll glom onto the concept, particularly knowing I’m a devout student, eager to shine for the “greater good.”What I’m currently most curious about, though, is Jameson’s contemplative expression.He’s ruminating over something deeply profound, and I’m the dying quail in this scenario, with no direction, no clue as to what has suddenly consumed his thoughts.I want to prompt
~ Nikki ~When we’re settled in the back of the limo, Jameson serves champagne.We clink rims and sip. Then he tells me, “Formal dinner times are seven and nine. We have a nine o’clock seating this evening.”“Then we are hellaciously early,” I quietly quip.“We won’t be.”The sun has set and the stars are out. Paris is lit up with all its sparkling magnificence. So, clearly, we’re going to tour the city.As we leave the Champs Élysées, we first come upon a spectacular bridge that is too breathtaking for words, with tall, sculpted pillars topped with golden statues, glowing lamps and artistically designed gilt accents that make my jaw drop.Jameson says, “This is the Pont Alexandre III bridge, crossing the Seine.”I am stunned into silence. This isn’t a bridge. This is a masterpiece.I can only snap certain angles of it, and Jameson comments, “Don’t worry. It’s on millions of postcards. We’ll pick some up for you.”I want to make a joke that my generation doesn’t send postcards, but I
~ Nikki ~A very snazzily dressed maître d’ receives us in the foyer of yet another overly stated restaurant, one of many that make me wonder if I’ll ever be able to eat at a chain franchise again. Or if I’ll be spoiled into believing there’s no sense in dining out if there aren’t five stars associated with the restaurant, and a tuxedoed host (with tails and gloves, even) to gush over us. He swiftly divests us of our outerwear and there is a lovely coat check woman to whisk the garments off to a closet for safekeeping.We’re ushered along the perimeter of the room, to a table for two in a cozy corner, by a fireplace, and with a gorgeous view of the Eiffel Tower from our private, panoramic window. The place settings are elegant, the flatware fancy, the water goblets and wineglasses all intricately crystal-cut. As expected, and yet… Still so astounding.There is a starburst chandelier hanging above our table, emitting a dim, romantic illumination. Candles serve as centerpieces.An atten
~ Nikki ~I love how he simply, though so sexily, simmers. Like… He’s all about his carriage and squared shoulders and dignified posture.And yet…He smolders in the most sensual way.But, no… It’s not just sensuality enveloping him. It’s this molten, scintillating aura he possesses, and which draws me in, instantly heightening my arousal, making me burn for him.I have the very real desire to snicker at him, for being so damn commanding of my senses. However, I’m much too captivated at the moment to utter a single word. He’s perfectly aware of his allure. Still… He acts so cool about it, so cavalier.The funny thing about that latter sentiment is that Jameson is cavalier about nothing. Not really. Sure, when he wants to lighten a mood he can be impish, or throw out a joke or two. But even in those instances, there’s a riveting undercurrent radiating from him.I’ve come to not only appreciate, but to also anticipate the undercurrent. I thrive on the undercurrent. It’s mysterious and,
~ Nikki ~My knees are knocking together as we leave the limo and make our way toward the suite. I’m drowning in delirium and gazing up at Jameson with fluttering lashes. He chuckles.I have an arm twined around one of his and I’m swaying a bit from the wine and the orgasms… And the exciting thoughts of things to come.I snicker at that notion. Somewhat ecstatically.Jameson gives me a knowing look and I try to contain all the impulses clawing at me. No easy feat, but at least I’m not terribly dizzy and giggling like a schoolgirl.I’m damn close, yes. There’s plenty to be said for aphrodisiacs and decadence. The primary aphrodisiac being Jameson, of course. I’ll give the food and beverages all kinds of kudos, but it’s the man who has my blood humming and my body thrumming.There’s an electric palpitation to my heartbeats and I might actually be floating on air.Jameson seems to know it.That only sets me more on fire.When we’re in the suite, he suggests, “Why don’t you go into my bat