Foreign Love (An International Sports Romance) (Love in Shades) Read Online Free
Author: Cassie-Ann L. Miller
in an airplane washroom and that was enough for me. Why isn’t it enough for you?”
He looks at me, his eyes scoping out the terrain of my face. He leans across the tiny table between us and his voice becomes dangerously low and raspy. “Because I want to have you on a bed, on your back, with those beautiful legs wrapped around my neck.” I feel his hand under the table. His fingers trail up my thigh. His words and his touch pluck on a string at my core, and I feel the note resonate throughout my body. He continues as his eyes focus on my lips. “Because I want to see your lips wrapped around my cock as I tug on that beautiful, golden hair.” I feel heat warming up my neck. “Because I want to see the way your mouth puckers and your eyes squint when I sink into you, balls deep…is that what you want me to say?” He casually leans back in his chair and glances around at the people strolling unhurriedly along the sidewalk. “But I also just want to know your favorite color.”
He changes gears so fast it makes my head spin.
I exhale in a rush, releasing a breath I hadn’t even realized that I’d been holding captive.
“Now that we’ve clarified my intentions, can we please have a normal conversation like two adults enjoying each other’s company at a wonderful little café in beautiful Paris on a sunny afternoon in June?”
I nod, biting my bottom lip to tamp down a smile. He’s kind of domineering. I like that.
“So, you’re an athlete?” It’s more of a statement than a question. “...Because Cynthia works only with athletes.”
I nod again, except this time, there’s no smile trying to force its way to my lips. “I’m a ballerina. A corps dancer for the Opéra Nationale ,” I say somberly.
His eyes drink me in, scrutinizing me in a light of this new piece of information. He brings his espresso to his lips before he continues. “And you got injured?”
“Dislocated kneecap,” I mumble staring down into my empty cup. I haven’t said those words to many people and each time I say them, it feels foreign. Like I’m speaking about someone else, some poor unfortunate soul who had her dream snatched away from her because she landed wrong out of a grand-fucking-jété.
He leans back, his eyes riveted to me. His expression is a mixture of fascination and confusion. “But when we met on the airplane, you said nothing. I told you about my injury. Why did you say nothing about yours?”
I look up, into his face. In my mind, a take a snapshot of each of his features; his smiling, coppery-gold eyes, his soft, full mouth, that beard, thick and coarse. I imagine it bruising my neck, my stomach, the insides of my thighs.
He moves closer and his hand slides across the table, clasping over the top of mine. It’s large and warm and I want it all over my body. “Why didn’t you tell me about your injury, Julia?”
“Because I didn’t want to see that look on your face…”
He shifts back in his seat. “What look?” His brows furrow, confused.
I sigh deeply. “That look of pity. That look that says ‘Poor, little broken girl. She had her dream stolen away from her and now I feel sorry for her’. When you sat next to me on the plane, I could tell you thought I was sexy. I didn’t want you to stop seeing me that way.”
He tilts his head to the side. “But that is ridiculous, Julia. You are sexy. You are beautiful. Effortlessly. Without trying.”
I offer a small smile to the handsome Frenchman sitting across from me, not because I’m completely convinced by his flattery, but because it’s noble of him to try.
“You have to understand, Julia. Every emotion that you are feeling about your injury, I have felt it too. I know the feeling of helplessness, the feeling that your own body is conspiring against you, rioting against your dream. For you it is performing at the Opéra Nationale . For me it is the Olympics. But
He looks at me, his eyes scoping out the terrain of my face. He leans across the tiny table between us and his voice becomes dangerously low and raspy. “Because I want to have you on a bed, on your back, with those beautiful legs wrapped around my neck.” I feel his hand under the table. His fingers trail up my thigh. His words and his touch pluck on a string at my core, and I feel the note resonate throughout my body. He continues as his eyes focus on my lips. “Because I want to see your lips wrapped around my cock as I tug on that beautiful, golden hair.” I feel heat warming up my neck. “Because I want to see the way your mouth puckers and your eyes squint when I sink into you, balls deep…is that what you want me to say?” He casually leans back in his chair and glances around at the people strolling unhurriedly along the sidewalk. “But I also just want to know your favorite color.”
He changes gears so fast it makes my head spin.
I exhale in a rush, releasing a breath I hadn’t even realized that I’d been holding captive.
“Now that we’ve clarified my intentions, can we please have a normal conversation like two adults enjoying each other’s company at a wonderful little café in beautiful Paris on a sunny afternoon in June?”
I nod, biting my bottom lip to tamp down a smile. He’s kind of domineering. I like that.
“So, you’re an athlete?” It’s more of a statement than a question. “...Because Cynthia works only with athletes.”
I nod again, except this time, there’s no smile trying to force its way to my lips. “I’m a ballerina. A corps dancer for the Opéra Nationale ,” I say somberly.
His eyes drink me in, scrutinizing me in a light of this new piece of information. He brings his espresso to his lips before he continues. “And you got injured?”
“Dislocated kneecap,” I mumble staring down into my empty cup. I haven’t said those words to many people and each time I say them, it feels foreign. Like I’m speaking about someone else, some poor unfortunate soul who had her dream snatched away from her because she landed wrong out of a grand-fucking-jété.
He leans back, his eyes riveted to me. His expression is a mixture of fascination and confusion. “But when we met on the airplane, you said nothing. I told you about my injury. Why did you say nothing about yours?”
I look up, into his face. In my mind, a take a snapshot of each of his features; his smiling, coppery-gold eyes, his soft, full mouth, that beard, thick and coarse. I imagine it bruising my neck, my stomach, the insides of my thighs.
He moves closer and his hand slides across the table, clasping over the top of mine. It’s large and warm and I want it all over my body. “Why didn’t you tell me about your injury, Julia?”
“Because I didn’t want to see that look on your face…”
He shifts back in his seat. “What look?” His brows furrow, confused.
I sigh deeply. “That look of pity. That look that says ‘Poor, little broken girl. She had her dream stolen away from her and now I feel sorry for her’. When you sat next to me on the plane, I could tell you thought I was sexy. I didn’t want you to stop seeing me that way.”
He tilts his head to the side. “But that is ridiculous, Julia. You are sexy. You are beautiful. Effortlessly. Without trying.”
I offer a small smile to the handsome Frenchman sitting across from me, not because I’m completely convinced by his flattery, but because it’s noble of him to try.
“You have to understand, Julia. Every emotion that you are feeling about your injury, I have felt it too. I know the feeling of helplessness, the feeling that your own body is conspiring against you, rioting against your dream. For you it is performing at the Opéra Nationale . For me it is the Olympics. But
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