Free Frenched by Melanie Harlow

from it.”
    Lucas stopped walking and stuck a hand out in front of me to halt my steps. “Tell me you’re not serious.”
    I laughed. “I’m serious. He didn’t even like blowjobs. Maybe he heard that story about the French President and got scared.”
    Lucas stared at me for a moment, then slowly shook his head. “Nah. I’m pretty sure he was just an asshole who didn’t know what he had. You deserve a lot better.”
    Was it the compliment or the alcohol that gave me the fleeting urge to reach over, grab him by the cardigan and smash my lips to his? What would he do? He said flirty things to me sometimes, but other times he acted totally platonic and casual, even a little aloof. Was he waiting for me to make the first move?
    We stood there in silence for a full ten seconds, during which I couldn’t help wondering what he’d be like in bed.
    I’ll bet he’s a million times more generous than Tucker. I’ll bet he’s fun and hot and willing to take it slow sometimes. Just talking about sex with him felt so easy…and damn if I wasn’t turned on again thinking about him that way. My stupid nipples were hard, poking right through the thin material of my bra and cotton tank. I don’t have huge breasts or anything, barely a C cup, but my nipples get incredibly hard and they’re ultra-sensitive. Naturally, Lucas’s eyes were drawn right to them, but then it was obvious what he was looking at and he dropped his gaze to the ground, his cheeks coloring.
    I opened my mouth, racking my brain for something clever or flirty to say, but the moment had dragged on too long, and Lucas just gave me a quick smile and started walking again.
    Shit.
    Next time, I’d be braver. What did I have to lose, anyway?
    As we got closer to the river, the towers of Notre Dame came into view, and Lucas began telling me a little bit about the Île de la Cité , the small island in the middle of the Seine on which the cathedral stood. I listened with interest as he told me about narrow medieval streets, stone walls, and the construction of Notre-Dame, which took almost two hundred years.
    “God, imagine dedicating all that time and labor to something you knew would never be finished in your lifetime,” I said. “Or even your children’s lifetime. You work your ass off for something and then you never even see it completed.”
    Lucas shrugged. “I think it was less about the finished product for them and more about their faith. The reason they were building it.”
    It may have been an offhand comment, but it made me think about the huge, ridiculous wedding I’d planned for myself, and how mad I’d been that it didn’t come off. I should have been thinking more about the reason for the marriage, and less about the wedding. But I’d never felt the kind of devotion to him I should have, nor had strong faith in the relationship. Thank God we didn’t get married.
    Lucas insisted the outside of the Gothic masterpiece was even more magnificent than the inside, so we spent quite a bit of time looking at its exterior—from the bridge we crossed over the Seine, from the square in front of the cathedral, from the garden behind it. I wanted to know the names of all these things but Lucas wouldn’t let me open my guidebook.
    “What does it matter what the name of the bridge is? You don’t need to stick your nose in a book right now, Mia—look at the damn cathedral.”
    “I don’t think you’re supposed to call it a damn cathedral.” I handed him the book. “How about if you read to me while I look?”
    Lucas nodded. “That is acceptable.”
    We found an empty bench and sat down. Leaning back, I studied the church while Lucas read to me about buttresses, barrel vaults, and gargoyles. After a few minutes, though, I stopped being fascinated by characteristics of Gothic cathedrals and starting rhapsodizing about the low, fluid sound of Lucas’s voice, the expressive way he read, the charming hint of an accent that sometimes crept beneath