"What if I slapped you? Can I slap you?" she asks.
"Absolutely," he says immediately, and she bursts out laughing.
"Okay, okay, okay," she says, "so you have to proposition me and I have to slap you."
So they film it and it takes a few tries because both of them screw up and laugh. He sees that afterwards her smile changes just a shade when she looks at him. "Paris is a great town," she says at the end of it all, with an expansive, satisfied breath.
He watches her look down at the little tiny world below them, her blonde hair loose around her shoulders. She's wearing a red and white striped shirt and an honest-to-goodness French beret, which she seized immediately upon entering the first little shop they found and which he insisted on paying for. The smile that curves her lips makes him smile too. How did one get eyelashes like that, he wonders, and eyes lit from inside like hers.
She moves and he catches her perfume and shampoo and, amusingly, laundry detergent because she got coffee on her shirt earlier in the day and the staff washed her shirt while she sat giggling with him over cups of hot tea (which, she declared, were exquisite, and their hotel was magnifique, and he was très beau) and waited to start being inappropriate on top of historical monuments.
They get to go back to the hotel for a while after filming and before dinner, so she disappears into her room to shed her outfit and put on sweatpants. She switches her heels for Uggs and breathes a sigh of relief. Even in a fashion mecca Uggs are a necessity. And where are the heels higher than in Paris?
She goes next door and knocks on his door and when he opens it he's in a t-shirt and jeans and socks, like a not-famous person. Another thing she likes is that air of easy familiarity he has about him, as if he were already your friend and you just didn't know it yet. He lets her in with a wave of his hand.
His room is like hers, only in mirror image. "Do you have a bigger bed than me?" she asks suddenly, kicking off her boots and taking a flying leap into the mound of covers and pillows that he's already managed to make. She peeks out from all the soft bedding and says, "I think you have a bigger bed than me. We should switch rooms."
"Hell no!" he says, laughing and sitting on the big padded chair next to the bed. "I'm an old man, I deserve the better bed."
"Oh, please," she says, and he can't help that he's still smiling at her. She rolls over on to her back and regards him. "I'm a delicate lady. I should have the better bed."
"Age before beauty," he says. "So ha. I win."
She lobs a little pillow at him and misses and then grins up at him. Surrounded by blankets and pillows and fabric he thinks she looks delicious.
He looks at her with a languid kind of expression in his eyes. "Ah, yer breakin' me heart, lassie," he says with a very Scottish inflection. His voice is a little scratchy, like she could smooth him over a little bit. She knows he's tired and more jet-lagged than she is. He sits low in his chair with his long legs bent at the knee and his feet apart. Slouched. Easier than he is on TV, where he has to maintain his camera presence.
She likes him as himself, when he doesn't have to pay attention to the camera and he can focus on her. She likes the easy lines of his body when he relaxes, how more than six feet of human being can look even longer when he sticks his feet out. He always teases her and says she went to high school instead of getting taller, but really he thinks she's sexy.
And because she thinks he looks tired, she climbs up and out of all the covers and settles herself in his lap like she owns him. Immediately his hands go around her hips.
"You know," he murmurs, "there's something I've been wanting to do."
"And what is that?" she asks.
"Well, we're in Paris," he says, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. Then he smiles that million-watt smile of his, that makes his eyes disappear into lines of mirth, and murmurs, "You have to let me lick your pussy in Paris. How could you pass up the opportunity to tell that story?"
She blushes immediately and laughs in delight. She really likes the idea, actually. She puts her hands over her face and says, "Oh, Craig."
He likes that. He smiles again.
"Okay, then we have to do it somewhere awesome," she says. "I wish you could have gotten away with it at Versailles."
He imagines putting her on her back on the Queen's bed and laughs. "We'd be arrested."
"Worth it," she declares. "Totally worth it."
He adores her and he shows it, and she loves it. She puts soft kisses on his cheek and the corner of his mouth. "Actually, fuck Versailles," she says after a moment. "Do it right here."
He laughs and says, "I wasn't planning on waiting," low in her ear, and she feels his lips graze her jawline. She clambers off him and back onto the bed, smiling like a little kid who's gotten a great birthday present. He laughs at her enthusiasm and says, "Come here." He hooks his fingers in the waistband of her sweatpants and yanks them down and off. He grins at her between her knees and buries his face between her thighs.
"Oh, fuck," she says, and her hands go to the back of his head.
It doesn't take long for her to come (it never does), but he doesn't let her go after the first one, until she's shuddering and whatever power of speech she might have had dissolves into just noises. Good noises. Fuck. He starts to feel the change in her from limp and tired to wound up tight, and every time he does he grips her hips to keep her there. She arches her back, again, how many times she doesn't know anymore, curls her fingers into his hair again (she pulls just a little but he really likes that), and moans, her hands over her face.
Finally she has to push his head away so she can breathe. "Oh, fuck, yeah," she says, feeling like a someone who has just run a mile in the best way possible. His lips and chin are wet and he looks a little bit dazed for a moment. Then he smiles and swipes a hand over his mouth and says, "And that's for slapping me."