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Category: Erotica/Erotic Romance/Romance
Description: Celia is in Paris trying to acclimate while she explores "green building" for her American company. She meets Ronan, a true Frenchman, and gets an up close and personal lesson in the French language...and love.
eBook Publisher: Excessica Publishing, 2008
eBookwise Release Date: August 2010

1 Reader Ratings:

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Available eBook Formats: OEBFF Format (IMP) [139 KB]
Words: 8591
Reading time: 24-34 min.

"In 'French Lessons', author Selena Kitt creates two unforgettable characters that make you long for more. Do they end up together, or do they break up?... It is so hot that it makes you want to go to Paris and find your own Frenchman...[a] steamy story of unforgettable sex..." -Kris, HEA Reviews, 4.5/5 CUPS

"Le bras," he whispered in my ear. I tilted my head to look at him in the dimness, loving the sound of his accent, but puzzled by the word. He was smiling at me. I could feel it.

"Le bras," he repeated, more slowly. "Comprends?"

"Ummm..." I stalled, searching my ever-limited French vocabulary. All I could think of was my own "bra," in a pile with my jeans and panties next to the bed.

"Think, Celia. I will teach you. This is a lesson...le bras," he repeated for me, slowly, his voice encouraging. "C'est une partie du corps...a part of the body."

"Ohh, let me see." I sat up to look down at him. I could see the outline of his face in the moonlight, his eyes gleaming. He repeated it again softly, slowly. I bit my lip, trying to remember if I ever knew this word. "It is...this?" I tickled his stomach and he laughed, rolling slightly away from me.

"Non, non, c'est le ventre, ma petite!" he chastised, and I giggled with him.

"Well, if I find it, can I kiss it?" I asked coyly.

"Oui," he breathed, his eyes brighter.

"Is it a fun part?" I asked, looking for hints.

"You like them wrapped around you." He chuckled and I laughed out loud.

"Arms!" I straddled him triumphantly and ran my hands up and down his biceps. "Les bras." I lifted one of his arms and kissed his forearm, feeling the hair there, so soft on my lips. My accent was horrible, but he just smiled. "Ok, I can do this...this is fun! Give me another."

"Mmm...la main." He squeezed my hand. I lifted it and kissed his palm.

"Hand," I whispered. He nodded his approval, watching my lips move across his skin. Cradling his hand against my cheek, I quoted, "''Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much, which mannerly devotion shows in this: For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch, and palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss.'"

"Ummm..." I could see him searching now, knowing it came from Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet, and he smiled and said, "Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?"

"Very good! I played Juliet in college and I could probably still quote the entire balcony scene. Let me think... Oh, yeah, 'Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer.'"

I waited, watching him. He shook his head. "Je ne sais pas."

"Oh then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do," I prompted, pressing my palm flat against his, my fingers smaller than his. He smiled as I leaned down to kiss him, but he turned his head aside.

"La bouche," he said softly.

"Mouth." I touched his lips with my fingertips.

"Oui," he whispered, as my mouth touched his, a small sound of wonder escaping my throat, our bodies pressed together.

Then, for a while, there were no more words. We didn't really need them. This was a language all of our own, our bodies talking to each other, understanding, comprehending, flesh speaking to flesh without a need for translation.