Blame It on Paris by Jennifer Greene

foyer.
    Her head shot up at the same time he tried to get out of the way. And then her head seemed to somehow bump into his chin.
    They both let out a responsive howl, and Kelly was inclined to convulse in laughter again. She’d shucked off both shoes, where he still had one on. Both their jackets were draped and steaming on chairs. She’d managed to pull off her damp sweater, but she couldn’t wait to get the clammy wet socks off, and it was impossible to do anything fast. Both of them had chilled-clumsy fingers, and every time they bent down, they seemed to collide again.
    It was such an easy problem to solve.
    All they had to do was turn on a light.
    Move into the larger space of the apartment.
    Instead, in their shivering, laughing scuffle, there was an instant—at least for Kelly—when she suddenly remembered the night before. Remembered him as a lover, naked, evocative, demanding, challenging. Lusty.
    It wasn’t as if she’d forgotten that for a second all day.
    It was just that all day she’d been good at blocking it out.
    Denial was a learned skill. She’d practiced her whole life. And she was safe, she’d thought, because neither of them could possibly be in the mood. They were both cold and tired and had sore feet. He couldn’t possibly want her. She looked like a drowned rat.
    And she was about to sneeze again.
    Then in the blink of a second, his eyes met hers.
    There was a second of silence. A second when the laughter died. A second when the shivers and exhaustion and rain pelting the windows in torrents seemed to fade out, as if they were all background colors in an old picture.
    He was all foreground. Even in the shadowy foyer, she caught the clear shine in his eyes, heard his breath catch, could swear she actually saw the sudden arc of lightning between them.
    She didn’t mean to suck in a breath, but he seemed to take that as an invitation.
    Maybe it was.
    She was in his arms like that. As if she’d die if she couldn’t touch him that very minute. As if she’d die if she couldn’t have him. As if nothing in her life had created need like this, fire like this, a hunger to live like this. Until him.
    She surely accumulated a dozen bruises navigating the hall toward his bedroom, and him probably more. Darkness and dampness were only two of the obstacles. She refused to stop kissing him—to stop being kissed—refused to be severed from him for even a second.
    â€œWe’re going to kill ourselves,” he muttered against her mouth.
    â€œYou can always say no.”
    And then, when they finally reached the bedroom, when she finally had him naked, he mentioned, “You know, we don’t have to go this fast.”
    â€œYou want slow?”
    â€œNo.” His voice turned thick, just like that. Thicker than honey. Thicker than molasses. Thicker than a bluesy sax on a hot night in Paris. “I want you now. Totally. Every which way. Total dominion over you.”
    â€œYou got it,” she murmured, in a voice that wasn’t hers. Kelly—the Kelly Rochard she saw in the mirror every day—had a voice meant for a church choir. A voice that giggled with children, that played family diplomat in touchy moments.
    The woman’s voice talking to Will was a slut’s voice. A bad, bad woman’s voice. Conscienceless. Greedy. Wicked.
    It was all a trick, she thought. A trick her heart was playing on her. A trick that made it okay to be a brazen hussy—not in life, not in general, but with him. Will Maguire. Here. Now. In Paris.
    And that was the last coherent thought she had.

CHAPTER FOUR
    S OMEWHERE AROUND ten the next night, they both woke up, hungry. It wasn’t the first meal Will had brought back to bed. This time he made melted cheese sandwiches, and carted them in with chips and cookies.
    She laughed, knowing they were going to sleep with crumbs, not caring any more than he did. Still, something was