Introduction
French Wanker is a standalone story inspired by Vi Keeland and Penelope Ward’s British Bedmate. It's published as part of the Cocky Hero Club world, a series of original works, written by various authors, and inspired by Keeland and Ward's New York Times bestselling series.
Chapter 1
Kara
As the cable car jostled me around, I scooted to the back to let the other passengers inside. Of course, most of my traveling companions consisted of young couples in love. Two different couples locked lips as if the swarm of strangers around them had disappeared. After a quick glance, I averted my eyes. Must be nice to be happy.
The smell of lust permeated the air, and the kissing couples didn’t care if anyone noticed them.
I envied them. Their freedom. Their confidence.
It sucked being alone. No sisters. No friends.
No husband.
Just as the doors were about to slide shut, a man scooted inside with an ass my fingers tingled to touch and find out how dense those muscles might be. I’d never actually. In black pants and a black sweater, he was the epitome of what a hot Frenchman might look like. My blood stirred, rushing through my veins. I admired his chiseled jawline and the outlines of his dimples.
If I’d known I’d have such visceral reactions to men in Paris, I probably would have booked more time here.
I heaved a sigh. I wanted one more look at the iconic phallic symbol I’d flown all night to see—the Eiffel Tower—before moving on to my next adventure.
Soon I’d be in Rome.
This European trip would have to serve as my now single vacation where I hoped to figure out how happy and free felt. This started with following my plans, despite Marlon, and I’d scheduled this whole vacation to see places I only ever saw in movies.
My dreams of riding to the top, viewing the sparkling city with my new husband standing by my side, faded into oblivion.
Marlon, the ex who’d canceled our wedding and ruined my dream vacation, didn’t deserve a second thought. Since I’d already paid for everything, I would enjoy myself with or without him.
As if under the spell of a magnetic pull, my eyes snapped to the hot stranger. What if all men looked like him?
All the rom-coms I’d seen made me think Italian guys were the hottest men on the planet, but the man near me spread goose bumps on my arms.
I checked my collar and wished I had the guts to kiss a stranger.
He spoke French on his phone, but then he said “wanker” and laughed before saying, “Au revoir.”
I giggled to myself. I decided right then and there he was Mr. Wanker, and I could stare at those muscles of his in that black, form-fitting sweater that hugged every sculpted plane of his body in a fabric embrace. I stepped out of the cable car, but my feet arched the second he smiled.
My body tingled like he was behind me, but I let my hair bounce and refused to glance backward.
On the short walk to get my ticket, I swayed my hips. If he watched, I wanted him to notice me.
As I glanced back, he stood there, watching me. Those dark brown eyes smoldered.
And those full lips… damn. He’d star in my fantasies from now on.
French men had the reputation of being great lovers. With him, I’d fantasize about finding out if that were true. He probably kissed better than the fish-like kisser I’d almost married and taken forever.
With the ticket in my hand, I headed into the turnstiles. I turned again, but he evaporated into the crowd.
The elevator line moved, and I adjusted my jeans and plain purple sweetheart neck T-shirt. As the rest of the passengers departed, I waited my turn for the ride up the metallic penis.
A second later, a hard body pressed against my shoulder. Electricity coursed through me when I faced Mr. Wanker himself. The others in line faded away, though the lush green grass beckoned, calling to me as the perfect place for a fantasy.
Earlier today, lovers kissing and families playing filled the garden, not caring people rolled on the grass. Now, I didn’t notice anything but Mr. Wanker and his real, hard, and heavenly muscles.
I skidded in my Nikes stopping myself and glanced up as he said, “Est-ce que ton père a été un voleur? Parce qu’il a volé les étoiles du ciel pour les mettre dans tes yeux. Si on prenait un verre un de ces quatres?”
Zaps of sweet ecstasy danced in my veins, heating and liquifying my insides. “What?”
“American?”
“Oui.” I whipped out one of the few French phrases I understood, though he sounded British when he’d said my nationality.
He tapped his chest, those sexy muscles of his flexing as his dark eyes bore into me, making me feel naked in the middle of the green grass near the Eiffel Tower.
“I asked if you were alone and would want to get a drink after.”
My heart thrashed like I’d just met the perfect man. Not that one existed, but I wanted to believe anyhow. I sucked on my bottom lip. No one could handle the adrenaline pumping all the time from his nearness, but maybe he’d be the guy to help me forget my ex.
Or maybe that was another fantasy brought on by too many movies about Europe and how I’d planned my honeymoon based on romantic comedies. I let my lip go and said, “Depends on how you kiss, I guess.”
“Une belle femme ne devrait pas avoir à demander un baiser.”
My body trembled, and my lips tingled. I’d asked a stranger to kiss me. Feeling half insane, I met his gaze. As I stared into his eyes, a flush spread through my body, landing on my cheeks. I shouldn’t have asked. If I kissed a total stranger, did it prove I was completely over my ex? And Mr. Wanker made me all achy just from those dark eyes of his, but I turned away. Losing my nerve, I said, “Never mind.”
His arms wrapped around my waist, and I shivered. Goose bumps popped out on my skin as I melted from the nearness of a man who smelled of adrenaline and a cologne I couldn’t quite place but had a woodsy, almond scent.
My nipples pressed against him as my eyelids fluttered closed.
I’d never see him again, but it didn’t matter.
And as his lips brushed against mine, I tugged him closer.
He deepened the kiss of all kisses, and my body weakened in his muscular arms.
Time stood still, electricity crackling between us, for the forever perfect kiss that would fill my wicked dreams for a lifetime. As it ended, he gave me a wink and inched closer.
I held onto his muscular shoulders for support as he stepped onto the elevator and disappeared. Touching my lips, I felt them quiver from the aftershocks.
I’d probably never see Mr. Wanker again. The drink request must be over, but it didn’t matter. At least I knew what a toe-curling kiss actually felt like.
I vowed never to marry without having this feeling.
I regained my strength and glanced at the reason I made the trek up here.
It wasn’t to kiss Mr. Wanker. The view at sunset was supposed to be magnificent. As I glanced around, I noticed most people wore jackets because of the temperature change, though I couldn’t feel it.
Maybe some cooler temperatures might help my overstimulated nerve endings to relax. I needed a minute.
No one was around me when I made it to the first level of the elevators and took a seat on a bench to enjoy the view. I’d head up in a minute. Mr. Wanker played in my mind. The tower still seemed so high now that I caught my breath. I let out a giggle.