by Nikki Bella
I didn’t know what he meant.
I’d never been to a proper club before. As I entered, the techno music sizzled up and down my spine. I inhaled the strange air, the mix of cologne and sweat and salt, and walked into the belly of the beast, down a long set of curving stairs. Everywhere I looked, I saw some of the most beautiful people. Hip, with curved mustaches and tight-fitting dresses and brooding stares. They danced lazily, their hips moving back and forth. I reached the bartender, ordering a gin and tonic in bad French. He delivered it and I stood, poised on the edge of the great sea of people, wondering if I would ever find release at parties. If I could compete in this world.
Why had I come? I tried to remember the reasoning. I knew I needed to build a life of my own, outside of Jack’s reality. I had to have my own wants and needs—and I needed to head into the world to discover just what those wants and needs actually were. Perhaps I would meet a man who would fulfill me, in ways that Jack couldn’t. Perhaps he would show me what love actually meant. Perhaps…
No. I couldn’t stand like a fool for much longer. I was getting strange stares. The Parisians were beckoning me, asking me to enter their circle. I did, stepping thin legs into the chaos of their dancing, and I flung my arms into the air, trying to match them. For a strange moment, I traced the exterior of the club, hunting for Jack. Some small part of me assumed he was there, somewhere, watching me. This was his scene. This was his world.
Why was I trying to claim it?
In the center of the pack, I found myself dancing alongside a tall, handsome Parisian man, who wear a blonde and red beard and scowled as he danced. With each beat, he seemed to draw closer to me, trying to grind up against me. But each time, I stepped away. No matter how much I said I wanted this life, in my mind I could not imagine having his cock thrust against me. I couldn’t imagine gazing into his eyes and giving myself over to him. In essence, he was just a plaything on the dance floor.
And already, I was wanting to go home.
But I forced myself to keep dancing. Keep diving deeper into the crowd. Falling into conversations with strangers, with men, with women. Everyone seemed open, wanting to touch my shoulder, my elbow. After the second drink, the music began to sound fluid in my ears. I nodded to it, allowing it to wash over me.
Just after midnight, I found myself near the far end of the pack. A man approached me, standing tall and broad. He winked at me, speaking to me in a lulling French.
“Voulez-vous dancer, mon trésor?”
“Non,” I said, then giving up and turning to English. “I’m too exhausted to dance anymore, honestly.”
But he didn’t listen. He began to dance too close, trying to touch his nose with mine. When I turned to race away from him, he pumped his groin against me, wrapping his arms around my waist. I flung my elbow back, trying to buck him off. My eyes swam with tears. Nobody seemed to notice us. I took another dramatic step away, saying, “Get off—“
With a dramatic burst, I shoved away from him. The lights flashed around me, giving me a horrible, drenching adrenaline. I huffed, trying to catch my breath. Beside me, the man I’d shoved had begun to curse at me and lurch toward me, his hands flapping. The world was spinning too quickly. I needed air.
I turned to the stairs, anxious to run through the crowd. But it was packed, teeming with assholes in slinky outfits, wearing glitter. I closed my eyes for a long, horrible second, wishing myself back into bed. Dammit. I didn’t have the strength for this life.
“Margot?” The voice was firm, dominant, calling out from worlds away. “Margot. Open your eyes.”
“I don’t want to,” I whispered, hanging my head. The lights continued to flash around me, making me feel so very small.
“Baby, you have to. If we’re ever going to get out of here.”
I pressed my lips together, hoping. Praying. As my eyes opened, I blinked several times, taking him in. Jack stood before me, tall and stoic, his five o’ clock shadow a masculine edge to his strong jaw. He was wearing a dark button-up and black jeans, looking cooler than any of the French kids around us. Several people had noticed him and I could see them whisper and then shrug. Movie stars weren’t chic enough for this crowd.
But I didn’t care who Jack was. I just cared that he was here.
“What are you doing here?” I whispered.
“Looking for you,” he said. He reached forward, placing his hand on my ruby red cheek. He traced a line from my eye to my chin, using his thumb. “I caught up to your babysitter and convinced her to stay so I could come after you. I had to come after you.”
“The driver told you?”
“Margot, what’s going on?” he asked me. “Why did you come out here alone? Why are you avoiding me? Why can’t we talk about this?” He gripped my shoulders firmly, then traced his hands down my thin arms. He held onto my hands, squeezing them. “Baby, I can’t live in that house anymore if we aren’t going to be honest with each other.”
I shuddered into it. “I was honest with you,” I told him. “I told you I couldn’t sleep with you unless—unless you were willing to love me.”
Saying it out loud seemed to open me up. I no longer felt the ache of it. Around us, the techno beat continued to fall.
“I’m sorry you felt I was using you,” Jack said. “I never wanted that. But I realize, now, that it was horrible to ask you to do so much for me. I didn’t offer you enough in return. And I never should have taken your virginity like that.”
I sighed, dropping my chin. “It needed to be taken eventually. And now that you’re my husband?” I shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. It really doesn’t.”
“Are you glad we slept together?” he asked me. His eyes were somber and soft, as if I could readily hurt him, if I wanted to. “Like. Do you regret it?”
“No,” I admitted. “It was one of the best nights of my life.”
He took a step forward, bringing his arms around my waist. He held me tight, making my anxiety fall away. My heart slowed in my chest. I only had eyes for him. Tears traced down my cheeks. He knew, even without me saying it, that I was so happy to have him there with me. That we belonged together.
“I didn’t want this club tonight. I didn’t want anyone else here,” I said into his ear, as the sobs shook me to the core. “All I want to do is be in love with you. Be allowed to love you.”
Jack waited for a long, horrible moment. He looked as if he were trying to memorize my face, tracing every line. He reached forward and kissed me, sucking at my bottom lip, bringing his tongue along mine. I fell into him, wrapping my arms around his neck. He tasted so perfect. All I wanted was this, forever.
When he drew back, breathless, he finally spoke.
“All I want is to fall in love with you…but I think it already happened.”
We kissed on the dance floor for another ten minutes, grinding against one another, wrapping our bodies tight. As the crowd grew denser, the music louder, he ticked his head toward the door. “I told the babysitter I’d be back by one,” he said. “Remember, baby. Even if you want to be a partier, we have a daughter to take care of. You gotta learn to juggle.”
“I think this is my last night out for a while,” I laughed, taking his hand. It felt so good to laugh with him again. I followed him from the bottom of the club, easing through the crowd and up the steps. Several people patted him on the back, crying out his name, but his eyes were piercing, seeing only the exit. There, the private car was awaiting us, the engine still running.
“You found her?” the driver asked us as we fell inside, lost in each other’s arms.
“She was waiting for me,” Jack answered.
“I don’t have anyone else in the world,” I said, dipping my nose into his. We drove, wrapped around each other, not letting go. In the distance, the Eiffel Tower whipped around in circles, drawing its light over the top of the buildings.
Back at the house, we paid the babysitter again. She left. We stood in the center of the living room, gazing at one
another. We were still dressed in our club outfits, black and tight fitting, showing his muscles and my curves. As we inhaled, exhaled, tension filled the room. I hadn’t been touched in ages, and I felt high from it, wanting him to line my every curve, stroke my breasts, take my tongue against his.
After a short eternity, Jack pressed me against the wall and kissed me. His hand was firm on my shoulder, pinning me. I closed my eyes, allowing our mouths to toy with each other. His other hand moved down my dress, pulling it off and away and letting it fall to the ground. I stood in just my underwear, my bra, with the flatness of my stomach gleaming in the light. He nipped down my chest, removing my bra with expert hands and tossing it behind him. His lips wrapped around the darkness of my nipple and he moved his tongue around the tip, making me shiver with desire. I played with his dark, curly hair, as he kissed my stomach, my belly button, moving toward my pussy.
With a shove, he pushed my feet as far apart as he could and moved my underwear down to my ankles. With his eyes burning up at me, he put his tongue directly against the hard bit of my clit, then traced it all the way down. My brain felt like it would explode with pleasure. I tossed my head back, arching my back. Meanwhile, he explored my peachy, wet folds, inhaling me. I loved the feeling of his tongue on me, taking me in.
When I thought I would release all over his gorgeous face, he stopped. He drew back, waiting for me. I pulled him up and kissed him, busying myself with his pants. I unlatched them, ripping open the button and allowing his incredible girth to burst forth: dark and thick and veiny, rock-hard. I held it in my hand, memorizing every line of it. His eyes closed as I began to move my hand up and down, first slowly, then faster and faster. I’d only done this one time in my life—and only with him—but the motions came back to me easily.
Wanting to push him to the brink of pleasure, I got down on my knees, closed my eyes, and wrapped my tongue around and around the tip of his cock, inhaling the small bit of cum on the edge. With a motion, I pushed my mouth down on him, deep-throating it, and feeling it pulsing in my mouth. He gasped, thrusting back. I held onto his thick, muscled thigh, using my other hand to cup his balls. I knew he was losing his mind.
Not wanting to waste another moment, Jack lifted me into the air and carried me into his bedroom. When he placed me on the bed, directly in the center, he gestured around him. “This is your world, baby. This is your bedroom, if you want it. You’re my wife. And if you want to act like it, I want to love you for it.”
I lifted up and placed my hands on either side of his cheeks. I could hardly believe what was happening. What I’d wished for—a love that could last forever—was actually coming true.
“I never needed you to be anything else but yourself,” I whispered.
“I know. And I want to be that for you,” Jack said.
After that, we fell into the bed, on top of the sheets. He eased into me, filling me and rubbing at the top of my clit. I felt him so deep inside me, striding against my G-spot. I cried out, ripping my nails into his back. We fell into wave after wave of pleasure, making love deep into the night. The first rays of the sun washed over us, as we lay, cradled in one another’s arms. I couldn’t have imagined a more perfect way to fall asleep.
And I was going to have it that way for the rest of my life.
Epilogue: One Year Later
It was August again. During August in Paris, everyone flees for the beach, taking refuge along the water to avoid the heat of the Parisian streets. Jack and I spoke about it for a long time before finally decided to go to Lisbon, Portugal for the month: celebrating our one-year anniversary as “husband and wife,” and showing Gigi another part of the world. I could hardly wait.
We packed up the private car, guiding the now nine-year-old Gigi into the back seat. As we drove to Charles de Gaulle, she spoke excitedly in a mix of both French and English, telling us all she’d learned about Portugal in her history textbooks. Behind her head, Jack and I held hands, passing glances to one another when Gigi gave us a particularly wonderful bit of information.
She really was the best kid in the world.
The past year with them had been the best of my life. We’d scoured Parisian streets for our favorite restaurants, the best baguette, the most wonderful scoop of ice cream. We’d flown my parents in for Thanksgiving, and I’d cooked them a remarkable turkey, pies, stuffing, along with several French dishes that they “just weren’t into” due to their Midwestern roots. My mother and father had been enamored with Jack, at first, until he’d proven himself to be a modest, normal guy—one my dad could speak to about sports, if he wanted to. My heart swelled as I watched them discuss play-by-plays over dessert and bourbon. “I’ve never had bourbon before. I’m mostly a beer drinker. But damn, isn’t this good?” my dad had said.
Our private plane arrived in Lisbon two hours after takeoff. The moment the plane door opened, we inhaled gorgeous ocean air. It tasted just exactly like freedom.
The city was almost as romantic as Paris, but draped along the cliffs near the sea. The streets were steep, like San Francisco, and our feet were sore by the time we neared the house we’d rented for the month. The house was tucked into a Cliffside, painted yellow and lined with rocks and stones. It was gorgeous, alight with the sun, with the windows glinting.
“I don’t know how I’ll ever leave,” I laughed.
Graciously, our driver and other hired movers took our stuff up the steep path, leaving us to make our way. I gripped Gigi’s hand, and Jack gripped mine, making sure we made it. Jack drew out the key at the front step, inserting it into the lock and opening the massive, almost two-story door. Behind it was an enormous foyer, with hardwood floors and long, Persian rugs. On the far side of the room, there was a large, antique mirror, which reflected us back.
In that reflection, Jack reached over and touched my belly. It was growing at an insane rate, now, putting me at five months’ pregnant.
“Perhaps our baby should be born in this house,” he said, as Gigi raced ahead and twirled in the center of the room. “If you feel it’s right.”
The moment he said it, I knew that was what I wanted. The wide-open space, the lack of Parisian chaos—it all did my soul well. I’d been sweating buckets in the Parisian summer, growing fatigued of the constant hustle. I wanted more nature, like what I’d grown up with in Michigan. Running through fields. Playing in streams. Maybe the ocean would give me what I lacked.
“There are so many rooms!” Gigi called from the second floor, running from each to each. They were completely furnished, with traditional, antique wardrobes and beds, which had been built in the same era as the house.
“Choose the one you like the best!” Jack called.
“There’s even a baby room!” Gigi said. “Wow!”
I gave Jack a large, bright smile. I hadn’t known he would have a nursery supplied to the house. I wrapped my arms around his thick, muscled form, inhaling him and thanking him, with a soft whisper. “You don’t know how happy you make me.”
“Right back at you.”
Jack’s year had been steeped with success, as well. His movie with that redhaired actress, Theresa, had generally bombed, which had made him rethink the types of movies he wanted to do. He’d filmed an artsy movie at around Christmas of the year before, with “some of the best dialogue he’d ever read.” It had premiered at Cannes to intense acclaim. “Jack Garrington is a man who takes risks, when it comes to films,” a review had read. “After years of rom coms and action movies, he’s actually stretching his chops. He’s one to watch.”
I’d discovered I was pregnant in February. Along with the intense morning sickness and fear, I’d found myself in an incredibly rich creative period. I spent long days, while Gigi was at school, writing a book about expats living in Paris. The characters flowed through me, becoming three dimensional and fully formed. By the beginning of summer, I had a complete draft to send to an editor. And by the time we’d left for Portugal, the second round of edits had been comp
leted. I’d never imagined myself as a writer—as an anything, really. And now I was a wife, a mother, an expat, and a professional writer, living somebody else’s dream. Or maybe it had been my dream all along.
Kelsey Bonner, Gigi’s mother, had ultimately moved to Los Angeles and begun a relationship with a rock singer nearly ten years younger than her. She was beaming, confident, in all the magazine articles I saw her in, and she took several high paying action star roles, putting her face on countless billboards. “I never feel like Mom’s that far away,” Gigi had said, joking one day. “She’s always around me.”
Kelsey had visited Paris exactly three times since our wedding, taking Gigi out for a few dinners, a random museum trip, before leaving in a mad rush to return to her laissez-faire life, where she didn’t really have to be a mother. In passing, once, she’d told me she’d only gotten pregnant because she knew it was something Jack had always wanted. I respected her for that. That she’d given him Gigi. “I just got lost along the way, is all,” she told me, as if this made up for her trying to take Gigi away last year. It almost did.
We all made mistakes.
We settled into life in the Lisbon mansion, eating fish and salads on the terrace, watching Gigi learn how to surf on the water, making friends with several locals and celebrities, alike, and diving into the Portuguese way of life. They were a vibrant people, dancing in the streets, playing music loudly into the night, and demanding the best type of friendship you could give. They would honor you with the same.
It was exhausting, but it was nourishing. Sometimes, I longed for the dark souls of the Parisians: how secretive they were, how they forced you to earn their trust. But I fell in love with the Portuguese in a different way.
Gigi and I experimented with making “cocktails,” sans alcohol, and ultimately came up with several varieties, including pineapple, mango, and lime-based drinks. We would ask Jack to taste test, making his tongue blotched with color, with blues and greens and yellows. He was always a good sport.
