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Sunday 28 December 2014

Post #37: Reflecting on First Loves

The first cut is the deepest. If you've been there, then you know this cliched saying is so true.

Usually it's easy to forget, but Christmas at home always bring back memories because he was not only my first love, but also the only boy (or rather man) I ever brought home to meet the parents - to spend Christmas with us.

I'd gone all the way to England for school and uni only to meet a boy from down the road. His parents and my parents move in sort of the same circles, though they're not close. They may both be from old money, but his family live a simple rural idyll while mine tend to be extravagant and live it up (yes, apples and trees, I know already!) Clearly there was still enough solidarity between the families for eyebrows to be raised when I brought him home, though.

Let's just say that by the age of 23 Sébastien had already racked up enough of a reputation to warrant his parents uninviting him from Christmas dinner. He drove a motorcycle, drank too much, partied too hard, had his first tattoo. I still have a thing for tattoos and motorcycles.

But that wasn't why his parents all but disinherited him. What upset them most was that Bastien dropped out of university, stopped his music studies, and decided to live instead off the trust fund he'd just come into.

My parents, needless to say, were not particularly happy either.

He was the boyfriend who shared my twenty first birthday and we spent one magical summer together in Paris, living in a tiny apartment, screwing like rabbits and generally believing that the world began and ended with us. But the relationship didn't survive the following spring, and so we went our separate ways. He stayed in Paris. I returned to England. Devastated.

I'd had boyfriends before and I've had boyfriends since, but Sébastien was the only man I've ever lived with. The only man I've ever truly, madly, deeply fallen in love with.

It was inevitable we'd burn out, I guess, and probably for the best, but it's days like these, snowed in with my family with too much time to think and not enough to do, that I remember.

I heard through the neighbourhood grapevine that he's not so much of a party animal these days. He's reconciled with his family, and apparently he's even married with a kid on the way. I'm not jealous of her. Really, I'm not.


Courtesy of www.pexels.com

Sunday 14 December 2014

Post #35: My First Time

June, and I'm home for the holidays. Not the house in Neuilly, where at least I’d have the shops and cinemas and buzz of the city to keep me entertained, but the house in the country. It’s too quiet and deadly boring. My friends are all across the channel, or away on way more exciting holidays, and I’m cooped up alone at home. My big brother, dull as always, has a summer job in Paris kissing someone’s ass, my little brother’s away with a school friend, my father’s working, as always, so it’s just me and my mother hanging around in this enormous house.

There’s not much to do but lie beside the pool and read. I’m working my way through Emma Holly’s books and the summer sunshine has nothing on the heat that’s burning me up from the inside out. God, I want to know how sex feels for myself. According to my best friend Olivia sex is nothing like it is in books or movies. She says it’s hugely over-rated. But it only has to be half as good as the scenes between the pages of Emma Holly’s books to make me happy. It would definitely be better than this boredom.

I’ve been home nearly a week when I see him for the first time. How could I have missed the new gardener? He is unmissable. All tanned, lean muscle, narrow hips and dark hair. Not just the lush mop on his head, but arrowing down beneath his waistband too…

I’m pretty sure Papi would have a heart attack if he knew the gardener worked shirtless. I’m pretty sure Mom insisted on it. And I’m pretty sure if I play my cards right, I can get him to notice me. He’s not that much older than me, after all – perhaps twenty two or twenty three to my sweet sixteen.

I always wanted to lose my virginity to someone older, someone who knows what he’s doing. It’s why I never let the boys back in England do more than have a kiss and a grope. I like kissing. I like the groping too. But of all the boys I’ve been out with, only Jonathan came close to being a good kisser, and even he fumbled the moment he had to use his hands rather than his lips. I don’t want my first time to be full of fumbling and sloppy kisses.

I watch the gardener as he prunes the hedge across the pool, the muscles in his shoulders and back flexing and contracting as he moves. He’s breathtaking to watch. My sunglasses slide down my nose and I’m barely aware I’m staring until he turns and catches me. He winks.
At least, I’m sure it’s a wink. It’s hard to tell from this distance.

I need to get closer, but I don’t want to seem too obvious or too desperate. Nothing screams ‘schoolgirl’ like desperate.

So I roll over onto my stomach and pretend to concentrate on my book. I lose all sense of time. Perhaps it’s only ten minutes, perhaps half an hour, before a shadow falls over me. I look up into a pair of eyes blacker than midnight.
“Be careful you don’t burn,” he says in French. “Your skin is very fair.”

I shrug. “I don’t burn.” Except perhaps for you.

“What are you reading?”

I hold up the paperback. The cover features a couple in a clinch. The content is unmistakable. “A sexy love scene,” I say, trying to look as if sex is an everyday thing for me, as if the mere thought of the word doesn’t turn me to mush.

He grins, brushing a curling lock of hair back from his forehead. “Aren’t you a little young for that?”

I work hard not to bristle. “I’m sixteen. And legal.”

His gaze slides down my body, and I move onto my side to give him a better view. I wish my breasts were fuller, my body more mature, but he seems to like what he sees. The front of his jeans is definitely fuller. I want so badly to reach out and touch that bulge. I know how boys like to be touched there, know how to rub them until they moan and push my hand away.

But this gardener isn’t a boy. He’s a man.

“I’m Lena,” I say.

“I know.” His eyes burn almost black in his tanned face. “I’m Paul.”

I nibble my lower lip, wondering what more I should say to keep him here. Not that he seems in any hurry to get back to his work.

“Turn over, and I’ll rub the sun cream on your back,” he says at last.

I oblige, and he picks up the bottle from the ground beside my lounger. I close my eyes as his hands begin to slide over the bare skin of my back. His hands are big and rough, and a little cold at first, growing warmer. I think I’ve died and gone to heaven. No fumbling here.

When he’s done, he gives my bottom a playful smack. I roll up onto my elbow to see that he’s holding the bottle back out at me.

“Aren’t you going to do my front?” I ask, hoping I sound more coy than desperate.

He grins again and shakes his head. “You can reach there yourself.”

And he turns and walks away. He actually walks away. I clench my fists and grit my teeth to hold back the frustration. I turn back to my book, but I can’t see the words through my humiliated tears.

It’s another two days before I see Paul again. This time he’s weeding the rose beds edging the south lawn. I ask one of the servants to carry a sun lounger out to the shady patch beneath one of the massive, spreading oak trees. Close enough that Paul won’t be able to miss me. Not so close that it will be obvious I’m stalking him.

I’m wearing another bikini. This one’s black and lacy and tiny. I bring another book. I want him to see me as more mature, to take me more seriously, so this time it’s not a bodice ripper but Anaïs Nin’s Delta of Venus. But I’m not reading. I’m watching him work.

He’s shirtless again. Even his broad back is muscled. His arms are so strong and beautiful, and he’s tanned to a delicious golden brown. He makes the English boys I know look like scraggly weeds.

He looks around and catches me watching, grins and waves his hand, but he doesn’t approach me. I’m prepared for this. And I’ve given a lot of thought to how I’ll behave now that I have his attention.

While he watches, I remove my bikini top, then I turn around and lie face down on the lounger and pretend to ignore him. It worked last time. Please god it works again this time.

Over the hum of the bees and the swish of movement in the leaves above my head, I can hear him working, hear the sound of his movements carry over the lawn on this incredibly still, hot summer’s afternoon.

In spite of the layer of sun cream I lathered in earlier, my skin burns, and I’m burning up inside too. I can feel myself growing moist between my legs and I have to resist the urge to rub my thighs together to ease the ache growing there. I want so badly to dip my fingers between my legs, but that’s not what today is about. I’ve had enough of rubbing myself as I imagine what sex will be like. I want the real thing.

When I can’t take the heat any longer, and the sweat begins to trickle between my breasts, I stand. Leaving my bikini top and my book where they are, I head towards the gate in the hedge which leads to the swimming pool. I have to pass close by where Paul is working.

“You look hot,” I say as I pass. “You should come for a swim.”

I leave the gate unlatched and ajar behind me as I enter the secluded pool area, hidden behind its high hedges. I dive into the cold, crystal clear water and begin to swim. The cold is a welcome relief against my heated skin, and the water feels so good on my bare breasts.

I’ve skinny-dipped before, but only at night, in the safety of shadows. This feels glorious, the sun and water and air on my skin. I want to be completely naked, to feel the water on my pussy, so I strip off my bikini bottoms and toss them to the side of the pool.

I do a lazy lap, and I’m on the return leg when I notice that Paul is standing at the pool’s edge. Not far from my discarded bikini, so he has to know I’m naked.
I pause mid-stroke.

“Come in,” I call as I tread water.

He hesitates a moment, uncertain, brushing his hand through his thick, dark hair. Then he strips off his jeans and dives in. It’s a perfect dive, cutting the water cleanly, and he resurfaces not far from me.

I swim towards him, until the water is shallow enough for me to stand with my breasts above the water.

“That’s not fair,” I say, putting on a pout as I finger the underpants he’s still wearing. “If I’m not wearing anything, you shouldn’t be either.”

He grins, and it lights up his dark eyes. “You are a wicked little temptress,” he says. But he makes it sound like a compliment, not like the way Jonathan says it, on a desperate sigh.

I shrug and wade closer. “Does that mean you’re tempted?”

“Of course.” His gaze strays to my bare chest, and I push it out a little further. My nipples are pulled tight from the cold water and the adrenalin pumping through me.

“Does your mother know you’re here?” he asks.

“My mother’s out for the day. It’s just me… and you.” I reach out and touch him, as I’ve wanted to since the moment I saw him. His cock is not yet completely hard, but it’s bigger than I’m used to, filling my hand. I rub along his length, and he grins, like a feral tiger.

Then he brushes my hand away and bends down to remove his underpants, tossing them out the pool to land close to mine.

I look and look. Even through the shimmer of the water, he’s gorgeous to look at. Big, growing bigger, the skin of his cock darkening as it becomes engorged.

I wrap my hand around it, and rub slowly up and down. I’ve never done this before, jerked off a guy in broad daylight, where anyone can see. Where I can see. I’ve only ever done this in the dark, in the back seat of Jonathan’s father’s Jag.

Paul moans, moving his hips with me as I massage his full length. After a while he gently removes my hand from his cock, and brings it to his mouth. He kisses my open palm. “No more. I don’t want to come before I’ve given you pleasure too.”

I shiver. “Are you cold?” he asks, concerned.

I shake my head, but let him lead me out of the pool, to one of the sun loungers. The sun prickles my wet skin. He lays me down on my back on the lounger, kneels between my legs and begins to caress my breasts. It’s a sensational feeling, and so much better than the gropings I’ve experienced before. I was right about Paul – he is the right man to take my virginity.

His hands are all over me, on my stomach, my hips, my thighs, even running down my calves. He skims my ankles, then heads back up, parting my thighs with his hands, pushing me open so he can see me.

I feel completely exposed, vulnerable, and yet so needy. I want this so badly, but I’m also scared. What if it hurts? He looks so big. Surely he can’t fit that erection inside me?

He dips his head, and touches his tongue to my pussy lips, and I freeze. I’ve never done oral sex before either. Not with anyone.

Oh god, it feels so good. His tongue licks up and down over my clit, where only my own fingers have ever been, and then he sucks, hard, on the little button that gives such pleasure, and my limbs start to melt with that boneless feeling I know means I’m coming. I’m so far gone I don’t realize his finger is at my slit until he pushes into me. My muscles clench around his finger, protesting the intrusion. His finger seems to fill me, but it feels so nice, and when he starts to move it in and out I want to cry from the pleasure.

“You’re so tight,” he says, and his voice is rough. Then his eyes suddenly widen. “Oh my God, you’re a virgin!”

“Not for much longer.”

He sits back, pulling his finger out of me, and I grab onto him. “Please don’t go. I want this. I want you to be my first.”

He sits back, gazing hard at me with those dark, deep, inscrutable eyes. I feel so naked, so lost. What if he walks away now? How will I ever be able to live with the humiliation of throwing myself at him and being rejected?

“You don’t know what you’re asking,” he says at last.

I shake my head. “I do. Please.” I’m not above begging.

Slowly he leans forward, until his mouth is so close to mine I can feel his breath warm against my lips.

“Then we need to do this right,” he says. “We don’t want to rush this, and I don’t want you to get sun burned.”

What does that mean? Is he brushing me off? Will he make me wait? Because I don’t think I can wait. I want him NOW.

He kisses my lips then, tender and soft at first, but when I kiss him back and he realizes I’m not a stranger to this, his kiss grows rougher, more insistent. He forces open my mouth with his tongue, and I let him in. He kisses better than anyone I’ve kissed before, and tastes somehow darker and more sinful.

We kiss and kiss until I’m squirming against him, pushing my body against his, but he pushes me back with a firm hand and breaks the kiss.

“Wait here,” he says, rising from the lounger.

Where the hell does he think I’m going to go, naked as I am?

He pulls on his jeans, not bothering with his underwear. He’s nearly at the gate before he turns back. “Touch yourself while I’m gone.” He winks, and then he’s gone from sight.

I do. I slip my fingers between my legs, rub in that way I know will bring the most pleasure, and I come almost immediately. But it’s not enough. I rub more, dipping one finger then another inside me, and that’s how I am when he returns. He stands over me, eyes burning bright. I can’t imagine the mess I must look, with my face red from the sun and the stimulation, but he looks at me as if he’s never seen anything more beautiful.

He holds out his hand and I take it, letting him pull me up off the lounger. He leads me to the small, shady patch of lawn on the far side of the pool, half-hidden behind the shed which contains the pool pump and other equipment, and he spreads out the blanket he’s brought with.

I lay on my back on the blanket and watch as he strips off his jeans again. He’s not as hard as he was when he left, but it’s still a magnificent sight. Now I can see his cock properly, I notice how the veins stand out, how the head is darker than the shaft.

He lies down beside me on the blanket, and I take him in my hands, stroking very slowly, admiring. A bead of white fluid gathers at the tip of his cock.

“Pre-come,” he says, wiping it away with his thumb. Then he lifts his thumb to my mouth and I lick it off. The taste is saltier than I imagined. Not so bad, though.

“The greatest thing you can do for any man is to swallow that when you’re giving him a blow job.” Then he grins. “The next greatest thing, after offering him your virginity.”

“Would you like me to give you a blow job?” I ask shyly. I’ve only ever tried once, and I’m not sure I’m any good. But I plan to be, if Paul will teach me.

He takes my face between his hands. “Not today. Today this is all about you.”

He kisses me again, and it sets a low fire burning inside me. Again, his hands seem to be everywhere on my skin, both rough and gentle at the same time.

I stroke his back, his arms, his chest, his buttocks, exploring the feel of his hard, naked muscles. I run my hand through the fine dark hairs on his stomach, which arrow down to the pale skin where his tan doesn’t reach.

His hand dips between my legs and I widen them for him. He takes his time, exploring me, pleasuring me, until I’m moaning against him.

“Quiet,” he warns, but I don’t care who hears me.

His thumb circles my clit, and then his finger is inside me again. Gently he strokes in and out, the glide sending delicious waves spiraling out from my lower back. Then he slips another finger into me, and another, stretching me. It’s a strange feeling, so good, so alien. He’s preparing me for his cock, I realize, and flinch against the thought of that enormous erection inside me.

“Relax,” he whispers. “This will be a lot less painful if you’re relaxed.”

I’m so far from relaxed, it’s unbelievable. Every bit of my skin prickles, and my pussy is so wet I’m almost embarrassed.

He rolls on top of me, holding his weight off me with one arm. His muscles stretch and flex like poetry. He kisses my breasts, my stomach, my clit. And then, just as I’m wondering if he’s ever doing to do anything more than kiss me, he presses the head of his cock between my legs.

Instantly, my body tenses.

“Relax,” he says again. He strokes the head of his cock up and down over my engorged pussy lips. It feels so wonderful and my body reacts of its own accord, pushing up against him. And then I gasp as he thrusts inside me. Not far, just the tip, and he waits, waits for me to adjust to him.

By slow increments, he pushes inside me. I stretch to take him in, and it’s painful, and he feels so big and there’s so much of him. At last his balls are pressed up against me and I have all of him inside me. I didn’t even feel my maidenhead break, but I suppose it must have.

I’m so tense. I ache with the unaccustomed pressure.

“God, you’re so tight,” he says. “So fucking tight. It feels so good.” I can see the strain in his face. It’s costing him to hold back, to take this gently, and I really owe him for that.

I owe him a good experience of this too, so I shift beneath him, moving my hips, like they do in movies, and he groans.

“I’m okay,” I say to encourage him. “Don’t stop.”

He moves in and out, slowly at first, then thrusting harder and wilder as he loses control. His balls slap against me as he rocks into me. His soft moans of pleasure become grunts. His face pinches with the strain. I bite my lip against the pain, wondering why the hell everyone thinks this is so great and so pleasurable. Then he comes, withdrawing out of me so suddenly that his ejaculate spurts onto my stomach, thick and sticky.

“I’m so sorry,” he says. “I didn’t think to fetch a condom.”

And neither had I. Geez, how much more stupid and naïve could I be, setting out to seduce him and not even remembering the one thing that’s been drummed into us since we started high school?

He rolls off me. He’s breathing hard, and his eyes are still wild, a little glazed. He turns to me, looking abashed as he returns to himself. “I’m so sorry,” he says again.

“Don’t be.” Then, as an after-thought, “thank you”.

He helps me to my feet and into the swimming pool, where we wash ourselves clean. I feel raw between my legs, sore. When we get out, he dries me with the blanket. He dresses, and then he fetches my things from under the old oak tree. He watches as I put my bikini on. I feel awkward and don’t know what to say.

When I’m done, he takes me in his arms, holding my head against his chest. His skin is still sun-warmed, and he smells of sweat and sex. It’s a scent I could easily get addicted to. He kisses me, gently this time, a mere brush of our lips. Then he holds my face in his hands, and tips his forehead down to mine.

“Next time will be better,” he promises.

And it was. That was a glorious week, before my little brother came home from visiting his school friend and the whole family travelled down to the villa on the south coast for the summer holidays. I didn’t want to leave.

In that one week Paul taught me so much. He taught me how to give him pleasure, and how to take my own. He taught me that sex wasn’t all pain, and that it could bring immense pleasure. He gave me my first real orgasm, not hidden in a corner of the garden behind a hedge, but in my big bed in the frilly pink bedroom I’d had since I was a little girl, with servants moving around the house and my mother entertaining visitors for afternoon tea downstairs in the salon.

We returned home at the end of July. I ached to see Paul again, to feel him inside me again, but he was gone.
“To Paris,” the housekeeper said, when I finally screwed up the courage to ask for him. “Something about needing to do a summer course before the new semester starts.”

I didn’t even know he was a student. We’d never talked about our lives, or our interests, or about anything other than our mutual pleasure.

That was the last I heard of Paul. I was too proud to go looking for him, and he certainly never came looking for me. Do you know how hard it is to find someone on Facebook when all you have is a first name?


Sunday 30 November 2014

Post #33: Beautiful Bastard

So I finally got around to reading Beautiful Bastard, the first in Christina Lauren's Beautiful series.

I think I avoided this for so long because I was sure it would be a disappointment. After all, how could it possibly match Beautiful Stranger? But it did. If anything, I even liked this book better.

The sex sizzles from page to page without ever getting boring, and the sparky dialogue between these two had me laughing out loud.

The magic in these books lies in that quirky mix of erotica and humour - it's so intense and so clever, and these ladies' writing leaves me in awe.

It's reading books like this that makes me wonder if I should quit messing around with trying to write my own erotic romance and find  a new hobby. Except this doesn't feel like a hobby. It's something I've always done, without realising it. I've been telling myself stories since I was a kid, and I've always loved working with words - and it's perhaps the only thing (aside from partying) that I do well. Which is why I get to draft all the press releases at work. Just not as well as Christina Lauren. Yet.

I'll leave you with this delicious quote from the book:





Sunday 23 November 2014

Post #32: First Attempt

What does a girl do when her house mates are out on dates, and she's not interested in going out alone to score her own? She lies in bed with a bottle of Californian sparkling wine and her laptop, and starts to write a book.

So what do you think of my first attempt?

This was too good to be true. The doorman asleep downstairs, the usual security detail absent, and now the door to the penthouse stood wide open. She hadn’t expected to make it this far.
Lexy tapped tentatively on the door. “Mr Sinclair?”
A stifled moan answered her. Anger burned through her trepidation. Oh great, the legendary Lothario was no doubt at it again. At this hour of the morning!
A grunt.
She stepped across the threshold, shutting the door quietly behind her, and followed the sound. If he couldn’t be bothered to keep the door closed when he had company, then she wouldn’t be bothered to wait for an invitation.
Her heeled boots reverberated across the white marbled floor. The walls were white too, and the high ceiling. The only splash of colour in this vast entrance hall was the modernistic painting hanging on the far wall.
Jasper Sinclair’s art collection was almost as notorious as his love life. It was the art collection that had brought her here today. She couldn’t give a damn about his love life.
She’d come to retrieve what was hers, at any cost.
The door across the hall stood slightly ajar. She pushed it open. Another palatial room all in white, but this one she recognised. This was the living room where he’d been photographed for the article on his foundation’s charity fundraiser. The view beyond the windows was unmistakeable.
The armchair he’d posed in wasn’t in the same place, though. The photographer must have re-arranged the furniture. She frowned. The painting she’d spotted at the edge of the photograph wasn’t here either.
But at least two paintings were missing. Against the stark whiteness of the walls, the marks showing where they’d hung were unmistakeable.
Oh God, he couldn’t have moved them, could he? If he’d put that painting on display, or sold it to a gallery, she’d cut off his balls and feed them to him.
Another low moan. Closer this time. She didn’t care if she interrupted him in the middle of the throes of passion. He deserved it. And she wasn’t leaving without her painting.
She strode across the room, through double doors that stood wide into another living room, smaller, cosier but still that cold, impersonal white. Another painting had been removed in this room. She pushed open the door across the room, the final door, and froze.
Jasper Sinclair. Blindfolded and tied to a hard-backed, spindle-legged wooden chair that looked like it could be an antique, in the middle of a bedroom the size of her entire flat. The white sheets on the bed behind him lay rumpled as if he’d just got out of it.
His hair looked rumpled to, as if hands had run through it.
His head seemed heavy as he tried to lift it, as if he was just waking. Or coming around. He moaned again. It shouldn’t have sounded so sensual. It shouldn’t have sounded do arousing. But it did.
He was even better looking in person than on TV. He wore nothing but long black silk pyjama pants. His arms had been tied behind him, forcing his chest forward. And what a chest he had. Strong, tanned, almost hairless but for the dark arrow above his waistband.
As for those abs...her fingers itched to stroke across that smooth, solid flesh.
“Who’s there?” His voice rasped, dry and weak, and he licked his lips.
This wasn’t some kinky game she’d walked in on. She glanced up at the walls. Another painting gone.
He’d been robbed.
Fury bubbled up. He’d been robbed and her painting was gone. How could he keep such valuable works of art in an apartment with so little security? Did he value them so little?
“Who’s there?” he asked again, his voice stronger now. Almost cocky. Definitely more like the Jasper Sinclair she knew and loathed. “No one you need know,” Lexy answered.
He lifted his head, looking straight at her, and she was relieved the thieves had the forethought to blindfold him. She’d been afraid of what he might say, or do, if he recognised her. This way was so much better.
“What do you want?” He bit out. “I don’t keep cash in the apartment, and if you so much as touch one of my paintings, I’ll hunt you down and kill you.”
“I haven’t touched any of the paintings.” Yet. “How long have you been out?”
He licked his lips again, a movement that drew her gaze to them. She didn’t normally notice lips on a man, but God, he had a beautiful mouth, full and sensual. She licked her own lips.
“You’re not one of them?” he asked. “What time is it?”
“A little after seven.”
Jasper shook his head, as if trying to clear it. “It was still dark when I woke. Someone was in the room. I think he must have knocked me out.” He looked straight at her again. “Untie me.”
Not if her life depended on it.

And now we're getting to the really interesting stuff... what would you do with a gorgeous, naked, blind-folded man who's tied to a chair?

Sunday 16 November 2014

Post #31: Pinterest

I'm on Pinterest!

Please come join me for many happy hours of pinning pictures of expensive clothes, frivolous cocktails, hot (mostly) naked men and Paris.

I'm here: Lena on Pinterest.

PS: You can also come find me on Wednesday at the Giovanni Battista Moroni exhibit at Burlington House. I'll be the one with a drink in my hand.

Sunday 31 August 2014

Post #20: Beautiful Stranger again

Because it's been a week of meetings, work, and late nights out, and because this weekend is all about devouring Beautiful Bastard (and because Max is still haunting me), here's another teaser from Christina Lauren's Beautiful Stranger:


Sunday 17 August 2014

Post #18: Beautiful Stranger

Would that this blog title applied to my life, but sadly that wasn't meant to be. Seven weeks since I gave The Argentinian the "it's not you" speech and I'm almost regretting it. Okay, only late at night or when I've been reading something thoroughly igniting.

Beautiful Stranger is the Christina Lauren book that kept me entertained on the cross-Atlantic flight last weekend. The perfect read for a trip to New York, though it would have been even more perfect if life had imitated art just a little.

Sexy, funny, darkly intense, thoroughly igniting. I loved it! Only after I read it did I realise this was actually book 2 of a series. I've already downloaded Beautiful Bastard to my Kindle and can't wait for a quiet few nights to read it. Accompanied by a dark red and even darker chocolate, of course.

My favourite quote:

"And then everything in the moment became about the feeling of his mouth on me, his tongue moving over me, his lips pressing words into my skin."



Sunday 20 July 2014

Post #14: The One

After spending the better part of the last week in a haze of champagne as one of my oldest friends Olivia celebrated her engagement to Stuart at this amazing venue, I'm now pondering this crap about The One.

Olivia's been calling Stu her 'One and Only' since they met years ago at Pembroke. Personally, I think she's wasted some of the best years of her life and should have at least played around a little more in her twenties before settling down, but hell, life would be dull if we all did the same things.

Do I believe in The One? You are kidding, right?

I thought I did years ago when... let's not get into that, okay? It didn't work out and there's all the proof I need that if the universe meant for you to be with only one person then you wouldn't connect on such a deep level only to go off in different directions.

Have I found anyone else I had that deep a connection with since? No, but the ongoing search for another connection like that has been one hell of a ride, and I've had some amazing fun, and met some incredible people along the way. And the sex has yet to get boring.

But what do you think? Is there one special person out there meant for each of us, or do we randomly connect with people at certain times in our lives and some last and some don't?

For Liv and Stu, I really hope this works out for you guys. Thanks for the opportunity to drink copious amounts of imported champagne, and I look forward to what will no doubt be The Wedding of Summer 2015. I love you guys.



Sunday 6 July 2014

Post #12: Tangled Book Review

What does a girl do when she's no longer having rampant, regular sex with a wild Argentinian? She curls up in bed with a bottle of French red and a good book, in this case Emma Chase's Tangled. Scrap good book. This book was what the Americans would call "friggin' awesome".

If you haven't already read Tangled, then you should. It's funny, hot, and best of all, it's written entirely from a snarky man's point of view.

I might have loved it a little more though if the book's hero didn't remind me quite so much of my little brother. They even live in the same city. Change his nationality and his profession, and Drew Evans could be my player petit frère. And there's the fact that my little brother is NOT going to be settling down any time soon. As he'd be the first to tell you, his life is "freaking perfect" just the way it is.

So for the purposes of this blog, I'll be calling my little brother 'Drew' from now on.

My favourite quote from the book? Hard to pick one, but I'll go with:
"Her warm, soft hand slides perfectly into mine, and two thoughts enter my head simultaneously.

The first is: God hates me. The second is: I have been a naughty, naughty boy for most of my life, and this is my payback. And you know what they say about payback, right?

Yep. She's one hairy bitch."

Sunday 1 June 2014

Post #7: Book Review - High

Thank God. A quiet weekend at last. (Aside from the Katy Perry concert at the O2 on Friday night. Yes, I'm a fan. Don't mock me.)

Today I finished reading High by Zara Cox and she's just shot up to the top of my favourite authors' list. Who would have thought that an erotica that doesn't have sex for probably the first quarter would be able to hold me so gripped?

The sexual tension between these characters is so hot, hot, hot that quite frankly the book doesn't need sex to be one of the most erotic books I've read. The scene in the airport where Zachary pats Bethany down is incredibly intense, and it just keeps getting better from there.

I bought the book on my Kindle. You can find it here: Amazon UK.

This is the first in the Indigo Lounge series, and there's another book out, Higher. Bring it on!

Sunday 11 May 2014

Post #4: About Me

The girls (aka The Cuplrits) tell me I can't gossip about them until I've told you about me first. So here are twelve completely random facts about me.
  1. My father's French, my mother's English. Gallic charm vs English stoicism - not a pretty mix.
  2. I have a boring older brother who's in training to take over the family business, and a fun younger brother who now lives in new York. Both of them dutifully followed my father to the Sorbonne. I am the only disappointment who didn't go along with The Plan.
  3. I was thrown out of two schools in France before they finally moved me to an English boarding school. Best. Decision. Ever. That's where I met my BFFs Sophie and Olivia.
  4. I'm still in love with my First Love. (He wasn't my First, though!) He just doesn't know it, and I haven't seen him in years.
  5. I work in PR. Even I don't know what that means. But it's fun and I seldom get bored.
  6. I'm a Gemini, and I share a birthday with Lenny Kravitz.
  7. My favourite food is veal ragoût, like my Grandmaman makes. Followed by a classic lemon soufflé.
  8. My favourite drink is... champagne, a good Bordeaux, a Pimms in summertime, cocktails, a decent craft beer... hell, as long as it contains alcohol, I'm happy.
  9. I hate exercise. But I do (occasionally) use the gym equipment we have at home, and do yoga classes because, well, one has to - and because The Culprits make me.
  10. I'm not good with discipline of any sort, which is most likely why I don't like to exercise. I think it's a reaction to the fact that I did ballet for many years.
  11. I like to read. A lot. It's kind of my guilty secret, since everyone thinks I'm such a party animal and they can't imagine me sitting still for so long. But I do.
  12. Oh, and last Wednesday Sophie took me to see the the Sony World Photography Awards Exhibition. Yes, I'm scraping the bottom of the barrel here.

Monday 21 April 2014

Post #1: The Dare

Yeah, yeah, I know that posting anything online when you've been drinking is a bad idea. But this doesn't count. This is a dare.

My friends (and you can thank the Easter chocolate that you still are!) tell me I'm useless at seeing things through. In fact, they seem quite adamant that I don't finish the things I start. Apparently I flit from idea to idea and project to project like a butterfly high on pollen (or whatever butterflies get high on).

So...this blog.

I am going to blog once a week, every week, for the next 52 weeks. That's one year for the numerically challenged.

And if I do it, there's a bottle of Krug in my future. And not just any Krug. The winner gets a bottle of Clos d’Ambonnay. Yes, please!

52 posts. That's do-able.



Monday 7 April 2014

One life

Anyone who knows me knows I don't do newspapers. And unless it's to catch the results of the boat race (yesterday was a sad, sad day) I don't watch much television news either. There's enough misery in the world without dwelling on it.

Besides, I figure the important stuff will get through, and today it did. Today someone younger than me died tragically. Okay, so people die every day but this one touched me. Our lives may have been nothing alike, but she's someone I've met. Maybe not to talk to, but close enough to wave to during London Fashion Week.

About a year ago someone I worked with died suddenly. It was only after she was gone that I realised how little I knew her and how much I'd have liked to know her better.

Today just reminded me what I promised myself then: we only have one life to live, so let's damn well live it the best we can. Let's drink the vintage champagne, let's rock the party, let's hold nothing back.