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I’m ready to give this guy anything he wants, but Chris is made of steel.
“Come get it, little boy,” he says, mocking him.
The kid is getting agitated, waving his knife but not coming any closer, muttering to himself in French that I can’t understand.
“Let’s just give him what he wants,” I whisper to Chris, really preferring the excitement that awaits us at my place to the adrenaline rush of fear in this alleyway.
But we don’t have time to debate; the kid has made a decision and is taking long steps toward us. I feel Chris’s hand firmly grab mine, and I’m not sure what will happen next. Suddenly, from down the alley, comes loud barks, and they’re getting closer. The kid turns around just as a dog reaches him.
“Assis!” The command is bellowed from a young man farther behind, followed by forceful words in French that I can’t follow. After a few minutes of back and forth, the mugger takes off, shouting at us and our unlikely savior.
“Thanks, man” Chris says, walking toward our hero in the shadows. “I don’t know how I can repay you, but…”
“Pour ma belle bienfaitrice,” he says stepping into the light cast from the streetlight.
I walk out in front of Chris who’s been keeping a protective hand on me. “It’s you,” I say, starting to laugh, recognizing the accordion player from Gare du Nord, “and you.” I bend down to give the old dog a scratch behind his ears.
“Ici, Gus,” he yells, and the dog goes sprinting down the alleyway, following his master around the corner and out of sight.
I stand up, smiling and panting with relief. I turn to Chris who looks stunned and completely perplexed.
There really isn’t anything to say to each other, the entire situation is so completely surreal. We stop there, panting from the excitement and the sudden relief. Chris takes three steps and closes the distance between us, grabbing the back of my head and pulling me in for a kiss. He isn’t gentle or asking for permission, he’s claiming me right then and there, and his hands travel from my face, underneath the suit jacket still draped on my shoulders, grabbing onto my ass and pulling my hips against his.
“Fuck,” he groans in my ear, “I can barely wait the three blocks to get you alone. We probably shouldn’t press our luck in this alley, though.”
His mouth collides onto me again, pulling me into a deep kiss, his tongue exploring eagerly in my mouth, his fingers digging into me, showing his desperation and excitement. I can feel his cock pressing into my stomach, growing harder as we kiss and grope each other in the darkness. My senses are heightened from the scare from before, and his taste, his scent, the feeling of his lips on mine are experienced so acutely I feel like I could come without a single touch.
He draws back, this time he has a look of composure and restraint on his face. “Let’s go. I want to spend the night with you, Weaver.” It isn’t exactly a question or asking for permission, but he’s giving me an opportunity to put the brakes on this before it goes further. Despite my wet panties and the word “Yes” escaping my lips before I have time to think about it, I appreciate the gesture.
Feeling confident in my decision, I take his hand, and we walk the remaining few blocks to my studio.
I rented the studio for its location, not its luxury. It’s small; a single room with a lofted bed and a small sofa and coffee table beneath. There’s a dresser against the opposite wall, and a small bathroom with a toilet and sink. When I wanted to take a shower in the morning, I had to take my toiletry kit down the hall to a shared bathroom. The size doesn’t bother me at all since I’ve been sightseeing all day. Next to the lofted bed are three dormer windows, giving me an unimpeded view of the Seine and Notre Dame Cathedral in the distance. It’s clean, scenic, and the perfect size for me.
Walking up the six flights of stairs to my studio, I suddenly feel self-conscious about this apartment. Chris hasn’t said or done anything to give me the impression he’s a snob, but a single look at him and anyone can tell that this guy has money. And lots of it. My feelings about the rental are tangled up with my current housing problem in New York, and my dire financial problems as well. I know that. As we get closer to the seventh floor, I’m able to calm my nerves. New York is over 3,000 miles away. My problems are there, not here, in Paris. And if tonight has taught me anything at all, it’s that the universe provides for you, that karma is real. I gave that busker all the cash I had, and in return, he saved me from getting mugged and maybe even stabbed.
