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smiled, flashing a set of poker-straight white teeth, sensing her confusion.
    â€˜Would it be easier if I spoke English, Mademoiselle?’
    â€˜Er ... please,’ smiled Amy, thinking that her school French teacher, Mr Hawker, would be horrified that she had managed no more than three words before crashing and burning. But there was shopping to be done and language could not stand in the way. English it was.
    â€˜Thank you Didier,’ said Amy. She immediately liked him. His manner was as pleasing as his attire. ‘I am looking for something …’ She hesitated before adding ‘… un peu sexuelle to wear for my boyfriend. Perhaps a negligee. Something simple yet feminine and frilly. Something memorable …’ She left the sentence hanging, happy that she had attempted at least some kind of Franglais even if her French was rustier than a forgotten girder on the Eiffel Tower.
    â€˜Oh Mademoiselle, I have many delights to show you. If you would like to follow me,’ grinned Didier, leading Amy to an army of mannequins located at the centre of the store. All of them sported the most fantastic array of intricate stitch work and iridescent fabrics. ‘Now where shall we begin …?’
    Amy inhaled again as the blanketing scent of Didier’s cologne hit her nostrils. It was like an aphrodisiac, immediately lighting the touch paper of carnality within her. She felt a sense of awkwardness run through her as she felt herself becoming slightly turned on. Were her cheeks flushing in front of Didier? She hoped not, she’d hate to give him the wrong impression.
    â€˜Well you can start by telling me where I can buy that aftershave you’re wearing too. It’s just divine.’
    Didier’s face lit up at her question. ‘I am so pleased you like it. It’s “Babylon Pour Homme” by Montana Phoenix, the Hollywood star. It’s in stock at the perfumerie my boyfriend runs just around the corner from here. I can direct you there afterwards if you wish. It has been selling like … what is the phrase the British use? We say se vendre comme des petits pains … I think you say warm cakes , non …?’
    Amy giggled, any boudoir-talk awkwardness disappearing at the mention of Didier’s boyfriend. ‘It’s hot cakes, Didier, hot … which is exactly what I want to be for my boyfriend tonight in one of your creations. Now, where do we start?’
    Didier reached towards a rack of negligees alongside him and took the first one in his hands. The sheer fabric, dotted with ditzy embellished flowers was a work of art and Amy’s eyes lit up immediately. Didier could already tell that both he and his boyfriend would be discussing how they had sold items to the pretty British tourist with the lucky boyfriend over dinner à deux that night. He was right.
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    R iley hadn't returned to their Paris hotel suite until the early hours of the morning. When he had, he found Amy asleep, her body seeming somehow tiny in the enormity of the hotel bed, wearing the most beautiful negligee. The flowery piece of femininity, something she had obviously bought in his absence that evening, had caused a lusting between his legs as he stared down at his beautiful wife. He felt his cock stiffen within his jockey shorts. It took all of his willpower not to wake her, lift up the material and work his way across the curves of her body. He felt pumped – business had gone well and making love to Amy would have been the perfect end to a profitable evening. But the serenity of Amy's repose stopped him. Wrapping his body around her, he lay down alongside her and allowed himself to sleep.
    As Amy awoke a few hours later, the Parisian daylight already seeping into the room, Riley's body was still pressed close to hers. She immediately smiled, a ripple of intensity working through her. He was so sexy, all she'd ever wanted – why hadn't he been back in time to enjoy