April in Paris
by Friend of Methos


Steam from his coffee cup on the vanity rose in soft puffs and joined the steam that smoked the edges of the mirror. As he lathered his face, he softly hummed bits of a tune, one he had known for years, one he had heard again only a few days ago. He felt for a moment the warmth of the sun on his face and almost heard the music in his ears as it sounded when he really saw her for the first time. He leaned a bit forward watching his reflection intently as he deftly moved the straight razor over his skin. The two-day growth of beard was beginning to disappear from the left side of his face, even as his thoughts went to the events of the last three days.



The day had been startlingly beautiful for early April in Paris and the coffee shop was uncommonly crowded. He had sensed her presence there but nearly missed seeing her. He caught only a glimpse of her pink dress from the back as she disappeared into the crowd leaving the shop, and he wondered about her briefly. Then he spotted her again in the open-air market. She was standing at the flower vendor's cart, laughing as she spoke. He was within earshot and found himself drawn closer by the sight of her accompanied by the sound of music coming from the vendor's organ grinder. The tune was April in Paris. That song had always aroused a touch of melancholy in him, but today when he heard it he felt something different rising inside him, something akin to hope.

He had watched her, knowing she would surely feel his gaze, look up and catch him watching. Yet he could not bring himself to turn away. He was surprised when she did not look up but instead, spoke with the vendor another moment, then took her flowers and turned to go. He felt a sharp pang of disappointment, then was surprised at himself. Ridiculous, he thought, I don't even know who she is. At the same moment he realized he wanted very much to know exactly who she was.

He had blinked and looked again and she was gone. The crowd eddied and flowed and he looked, and suddenly he was moving, looking and looking, and now more urgently, slipping through the crowd, pushing, breaking free, nearly running around the corner, running almost into her as she turned from the newspaper kiosk. He excused himself and she had looked faintly amused, then suddenly, quite unexpectedly, dropped her flowers when someone jostled her from behind. He knelt more quickly than she did, gathered the bouquet and handed it up to her from his knees, with an apology for startling her. He smiled what he felt was his most winning smile. She had blushed prettily, saying, "Pas de tout," and he had asked if she were all right. She had smiled and answered something, he was not sure just what because he found himself lost in that warm smile and in her eyes. They were blue as the wildflowers in a highland meadow, and he knew he had not seen a pair of eyes like that since his bonnie Heather's.

Despite a nagging little sense of something, a bit of warning, though not nearly so strong as a foreboding, he had persisted, introducing himself. She seemed to think she knew him, wondering where and when they might have met before. The sense of instant familiarity was strong between them and Connor knew how rare a thing that was; he determined that very moment to pursue her. He continued musing as he shaved, vowing he would not let her get away from him so easily again.

Several scents assaulted her senses as she approached the doorway of the bathroom - - the fresh fragrance of his shower gel, the cool lime of his shaving cream, the rich aroma of Columbian coffee. She paused, leaning silently against the doorframe, her eyes on him. She realized that she enjoyed looking at him, in fact could hardly draw her eyes away, and she was a bit surprised. But then, in the three short days she had known him Connor had done little else but surprise her.

He was of medium build, his body compactly put together. She shook her head slightly in wonder - - there was not an inch of loose skin or even a hint of extra flesh on him anywhere. The muscles in his back rippled beneath his fair skin as he shaved. He was supple, and he moved with the graceful intent of one of the big cats.

She smiled a bit thinking, How young he looks. He was barefoot and wearing only his silk pajama pants. His shoulders were round with muscle and his arms were much stronger than they appeared at first glance. Her cheeks grew pink despite herself as she remembered just how strong those arms had felt around her the night before. Ah, when he held her...Memories flooded over her and she closed her eyes for a moment, remembering the warmth of his breath on her face, the slightly sweet smell of Scotch filling her nostrils as he kissed her lips and face and neck, his low, rather husky voice murmuring softly in her ears.

She had giggled when his beard tickled her neck, then gasped when his lips moved down her body. She was utterly surprised, yet again, at the erotic effect of his beard scratching gently at first, then insistently beneath her breasts. Lost in thought, she was unaware that her mouth had opened in a little gasp.

However, Conner saw, stopped mid-stroke and said softly, "I don't have to shave it off, you know."

She blinked quickly and her eyes, blue as the spring sky and wide in disbelief, met his in the mirror. How could he have known what she was thinking? She swallowed hard and said faintly, "Pardon?"

A smile flitted across his lips as he looked down, holding the razor under the faucet. Then his eyes found hers again in the mirror. "It's up to you," he murmured. Razor in hand he waited, watching the color heighten in her cheeks.

She ducked her head, overcome with sudden shyness, and to Connor at that moment, she looked sixteen instead of the thirty-two year old woman she was. He recalled her unwillingness to tell him her age lest he think her too old for him. Hmph, he thought laying the razor on the sink, too old indeed.

He felt her presence before he looked up. She had moved to stand behind him, so close yet not touching him. He was nearly overcome with the desire to take her right then and make love to her on the bathroom floor. Instead he closed his eyes, inhaled deeply and waited. She began to hum, picking up the tune where he had left off as her fingertips moved lightly over his back and around his mid-section. He exhaled slowly and relished the pleasure her touch and the sweet sound of her voice produced in him. Her lips, warm and moist, pressed the base of his neck and a shiver of anticipation went over him. Then her arms slid around him, and the thin silk of his striped pajama shirt could not hide the soft, luscious curves of her body touching his, then not touching, then touching again; at last fully against him, melting into him.

He leaned his head back into the curve of her shoulder. Since they were nearly the same height, his scruffy cheek found hers, smooth and warm. She choked off humming rather abruptly and laughed softly. He was delighted by her. Her laugh was feminine and musical, pleasing to him. He opened his eyes, found her reflection in the mirror and saw her eyes dancing with amusement, her face half covered with lather from the yet unshaven cheek.

He turned, gathering her in his arms. The moment was sweet as they laughed together embracing. Then, just as she reached to brush the lather from his face, his slender fingers gently removed the soapy foam from hers. He cradled her face in his hands, memorizing her, wanting to hold her in this moment forever. He saw eyes blue as the sky...not since his bonnie Heather...smiling at him...did he dare?...caressing him...he shouldn't, should he?...welcoming him...how could he not...love her...

So he did.



Extra Special Thanks to Celedon for the Frus!


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