Free Learning Curves 1 - French Cooking 101 by Olivia Rigal

The desire in his eyes was intoxicating. She was undone.  
      He kissed her and wrapped his arms around her, pressing on her buttocks as if she could possibly curve further into him. Heat pooled at the core of her body. Her nerve endings were twisted so tight, she felt like a ticking time bomb. She could no longer breathe.  
    Just once, she would let herself go. Just once.  
    Her brain came back from its morning stroll around the block when she realized that the bottom of her dress had risen to her hips. His hands slid underneath the lace of her panties.
    She said, “Curtains. Door.”
    “Don’t care,” he said.
    “Neighbors—”
    “Shouldn’t look.” He pushed her against the wall in the corner of the room that was less visible from the outside. He slid one hand between her legs.      
    Her body caught fire, and her brain vanished in a puff of smoke. The entire world could be watching; she no longer cared. She could only concentrate on the gentle stroking that was catapulting the pulsing between her legs to new heights. He kissed her again, and she moaned in his mouth. In an instant, her legs would no longer be able to hold her. She was about to combust …
    “Oh merde! Pardon, Ariane. Désolée, j’ai rien vu. J’laisse le pain à coté de la porte.”
    Peter froze, and Ariane crash-landed back to reality.  
    “Merde, merde, merde,” Ariane swore, teeth clenched, and pushed her skirt down. By the time she dared look over Peter’s shoulder, the teenager had fled.
    “What was that?” asked Peter, not releasing her from his embrace.
    “Martine. Bread delivery.”
    “How old is she?”
    “Seventeen.”
    A look of relief washed over Peter’s face, and his laughter came out on a big rumble. “Seventeen! For a second, I thought we had caused a major trauma. Come on, at seventeen, I’d be surprised if she hasn’t done more than what she’s just seen. Seriously.”
    “You’re probably right.”
    “What did she say?”
    “Oh, crap. Sorry, Ariane. I did not see anything. I’m leaving the bread by the door.”
    “See, no trauma.”
    Ariane relaxed a bit, rested her head against Peter’s shoulder, and joined his laughter. “This is the story of my life. If I’m proper and reasonable all the time, it’s not that I don’t want to act crazy. I swear, inside of me is a naughty girl who dreams of doing wild things. I just can’t let her free because every single time I step out of line, something bad happens.”
    “Don’t worry about it. Now I know that when I wanna see the wild girl in you, I need to make sure we’re in a more private setting.” He caressed her hair. “I want next time to be perfect, so it can’t be tonight.”
      She looked at him, puzzled. What did he mean?
    “You see, I’m a great believer in delayed gratification. Just this instant, I decided that next time will be when I return.”
    The last part of his sentence was all she heard. “You’re coming back? To Paris?”
    “Yes.”
    “Why?”
    “To be with you.”  
    “When?” Ariane asked.
    “In a few weeks. At the end of the spring term at the end of May.”
    “For how long?”    
    “Don’t know yet.”
    “How?”
    Peter said, “Would you stop asking questions for a minute? I want you. You say you won’t have me if we have no time, so I’m making time. Isn’t that enough?” Not giving her a chance to answer, he kissed her again.  
    Then the part about deferred gratification registered. She had to ask. Every time she tried to do so, he shut her mouth with another kiss. She wanted to hug him and strangle him simultaneously. Finally he relented and let her speak.
    “I have one question before the others arrive.”
    “Okay, you’re allowed one more question.”
    She said, “I’m not sure what you mean by delayed gratification. For me, delayed gratification is… self-inflicted frustration? Like you have to diet first to lose some weight later. You have to learn your keys before you can play an