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I explained that I was English and had moved to Belgium looking for new adventures. As the drinks flowed, it became more obvious that we were interested in more than a friendly chat. Max spoke in an animated way, moving his hands around as if they helped guide the words out of him. When it was my turn to speak, he'd let his hands fall and rest wherever they landed - on my knee, my thigh, a little bit higher. I couldn't help but notice how his dark brown fringe fell over his forehead, how his green eyes sparkled, how inviting his lips looked when he smiled. "I'm sorry, Lola," he blurted out, interrupting me mid-sentence, "but I would like to kiss you now." My smile was obviously a sufficient reply, as he leant over and pressed his lips hard against mine. The kiss was slow, intense, probing and when he pulled away, I could feel my heartbeat in his lips. Wordlessly, Max took my hand and guided me out of the bar. He hailed a taxi and started to give the driver his address. I'd already. David speaks a little French but I do not. I hoped that they would stay in English.As it turned out, there were two of them, Robert, pronounced 'Ro-bare' and Jacques, who looked like Hollywood's idea of a ski instructor, just down from the Alps. He was what some would call 'drop-dead gorgeous' with a tiny, tasteful mustache and a flat stomach.Robert kissed me on both cheeks in that nice way the Europeans have and then Jacques brought his eyes up to my eye level and took my hand and kissed it, while his eyes smiled into mine. 'Very engaging, ' I thought.The restaurant was French of course and looked out on the town from the second floor of one of the newer five star hotels in town. David and Robert, led the way to the maître d' and Jacques touched his hand to my waist, lightly guiding me. He also noted that the dress slipped smoothly over the body stocking I was wearing. I sensed that he noticed and thought to himself, "how interesting!" Don't ask me how I knew that from just one.
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