by Alix Nichols
I shift closer.
Taking my cue, he lifts me onto his lap. My hands bracket his face, and I press my mouth to his, loving his taste, his scent, everything about him. We kiss and caress each other for a long while. His kisses grow harder, his touch rougher.
I’m boiling inside. There’s a hot, wet, urgent pulsing between my legs that will no longer be ignored. It builds up to fever pitch. My core pulls, needing to be filled.
Touch me there, I pray silently. Touch me, touch me, touch me…
I shift on his lap, and my outer thigh meets his throbbing erection.
Ooh, I’m not the only one dying for a more intimate touch.
Bucking up, I press my thigh to his hardness even as I bite his lower lip. And then—finally—he places his hand on my inner thigh and squeezes lightly. I spread my legs a little. Our mouths still kissing, he inches his hand up, up, up, bunching my skirt, until his fingertips touch my panties.
My soaked panties.
Drawing away a little, he rakes his eyes over me. My first impulse is to hunch, but I push my shoulders back instead and let him look his fill. There’s simply too much want and admiration in his dark gaze for me to be self-conscious.
When his fingertips press against my clit and start rubbing, it feels so good I gasp. Needing to lean against something so I can fully savor his ministrations, I shift and turn until my back is against his chest and my legs on either side of his.
He brings his lips to my ear. “That’s my girl.”
As I breathe in his heady, oh-so-masculine scent, he rains hot kisses to the side of my neck. Pushing his fingers a little farther along my seam, he applies more pressure and rubs in deliciously firm circular motions. My vagina clenches in response, squeezes… and finds nothing. I nearly whimper at the emptiness.
Soon, I comfort myself. He’ll get there.
The last thing I want is to rush it. What we’re doing now, this exquisite, unhoped for moment—it’s precious. I want to lounge in it, luxuriate in it.
When Thomas slips his fingers inside my panties, the contact of his velvety skin against my slick folds adds more flavor and another layer to the splendor of what I’m experiencing. His hard member, still tucked inside his jeans, is pressed against my backside. It throbs and strains. Thomas must be dying to enter me. But he seems determined to ignore his needs.
I tip my head back against his shoulder. With his left hand fondling my breast and his right hand working between my legs, he has become the pinnacle of my entire world.
“Guide me,” I hear him say. “Tell me exactly where you need it. Tell me how you like it.”
And I do, punctuating my laconic commands with groans and whimpers. “A bit to the left… Right there… Mmm, yesss… Harder… Oh, God!” That last one, cried out multiple times while I tremble and spasm around his fingers, erupts from me as much in release as in surprise. I’ve never come so quickly, so easily before. This is so not like me.
Then again, nothing I’ve said or done tonight is like me.
“Dana, I want you. So. Much.” I can feel his hot breath against my cheek. “Yes?”
“Yes.”
Without another word, he scoops me up and carries me to the bedroom. It’s always been my secret wish to be swept into a lover’s arms and carried, but I thought men didn’t actually do it in real life. Or they used to as in those glorious black-and-white movies, but not anymore.
Turns out, they still do. At least, one of them. And I freaking love it.
I can’t believe this is happening.
In the bedroom, he gently settles me on the bed. We begin to undress each other. When the last pieces of clothing are torn off, we pause and look.
His body is gorgeous—both lean and thick with muscle, full of masculine grace. A woman’s fantasy come to life.
Shamelessly, I eye his large, thick erection. A pull inside me answers it, aches for it.
He gets a condom from somewhere, slides it on, then stretches out by my side and looks at me again. I hold his gaze. Judging by the look of satisfaction that laces the hunger in his eyes, he likes what he sees in mine.
I part my thighs and he settles between them, his erection sliding across my pelvis, the tip kissing my damp folds. As I wrap my legs around him, my eyelids drift shut with pure, giddy joy. The force of my desire for this man staggers me. The anticipation of what’s to come makes me tremble.
It’s been so long!
But he was worth the wait. A yearlong fast—and then this man to break it. I could’ve waited even longer for a treat like this.
Propped on his forearms, Thomas presses soft kisses to my face. His breath is warm, arousing, sweetly familiar after all the kissing we’ve done. I inhale the scent of his skin mixed with his aftershave. An intoxicating blend.
Having kissed his fill, he pushes his torso up, supporting himself above me on his strong arms. His tip is at my entrance now, his eyes locked with mine. I spread my thighs wider still, shift a little, and—Oh, dear God, it’s happening!—he penetrates me.
The pleasure is intense. I’m so primed that his progress is perfectly smooth and unobstructed. He enters me slowly. His flushed face tells me how much he’s savoring every moment of the slick friction. My body welcomes him with an almost religious fervor, as if he were a loved, eagerly awaited sovereign returning to his kingdom.
Whoa! Hold your horses, woman. I take that back.
I am the only sovereign of my kingdom. If there ever was a king, it was Marius. Except he won’t be returning from where he’s gone to.
Thomas pulls out and then pushes in sharply, hitting all the right spots. Rational thought flees. A sense of sweet indescribable fullness overwhelms me. I arch up and squeeze his well-muscled ass. I hear myself begging him to do that again. Another vigorous thrust.
So good!
Hot, large and relentless, he pounds into me and throbs against my core. I writhe and push back on him, meeting his every thrust. On a particularly delicious plunge that brushes a kiss to my womb, my thighs begin to tremble.
“Don’t stop,” I breathe out. “Don’t stop, don’t stop.”
His face contorting as he struggles to maintain control, he rocks into me again, and again, and—
I’m coming.
A powerful orgasm swells and explodes in me. It shakes my whole body. It breaks me apart and puts me back together.
He says my name on a low groan of pleasure. A heartbeat later, he comes, too.
With the aftershocks of my release still pulsing in me, I lift my head, touch my mouth to his straining throat, and trail my tongue over his skin. I taste salt. And him. I love it so much I decide I must lick the rest of him sometime. All of him.
A short time later, he collapses on top of me, heavy and relaxed.
Slowly, my body returns to itself.
God, this was good. So—freaking—good. Best sex ever.
Better than with Marius?
The thought shocks me.
Of course not.
Nothing, with anyone, ever, could be better than what Marius and I had. That’s a given, a fact. What worries me is why I am pondering that question. Why would I even raise it?
How dare I compare anyone to the love of my life?
Part II
Thomas
13
I wake up with a diffused feeling of contentment.
Life is good.
Without opening my eyes, I know it’s dark outside. But there are cars speeding, and a garbage truck noisily emptying a trash can outside my building. I’m guessing it’s somewhere around six in the morning.
My eyes still closed, I probe into this weird sense of well-being I haven’t experienced in a long time. Ever since Armelle disappeared. Suddenly, I know why I’m feeling this way.
Lying on my side, I have an arm wrapped around a woman’s upper body and a knee touching the back of her thighs. I’m well aware that the woman isn’t Armelle. Tucked under the duvet, she smells warm and sleepy. Dana, the reason for my
uncommon equanimity this morning.
If I were a cynic, I’d say the real reason is that I got laid. After a year of holding out, determined to remain faithful to Armelle, as if that would magically improve her chances of coming home to me, I gave in to my baser needs.
Dana and I had great sex, better than what I’d ever had with Armelle. If I were a cynic, I’d say I’m fooling myself. I’d say I’m feeling this way because I just came out of the longest abstinence in my life since I first had sex.
Trouble is, I’m not a cynic. I’m a vet.
When you choose this profession, you know you’ll train as long and as hard as an MD with half the earning potential. You don’t do it for the money. You do it because… Because, as sappy as it sounds, you love animals. And because you care.
Dana stirs and makes a cute little noise, still in the arms of Morpheus.
Man, I’m so pleased the hunch I had about her turned out right. For a while now, I’d suspected that a complex, fascinating woman was hiding behind those practical clothes and downcast eyes. Our lovemaking last night brought that woman out.
Before I have time to make a conscious decision, my hand cups her perfectly shaped breast, and I nuzzle the back of her neck.
Damn. Now, I’m hard again.
Think of Armelle!
What if she reaches out again? What if she comes back?
Four months ago, I received a text message from an unknown number, signed “Armelle.” It was more of a letter in which she said she loved me, and missed me, and listed all the ways I was a terrific guy. She didn’t pick up when I called back, but the message had been definitely written by her. I could tell from the words she used, the style, the nickname she had for me.
To me, it was proof that she’d been taken and held against her will. To the cops, who never believed in the abduction scenario, it was just another piece of evidence that they were right. That, for whatever reason, Armelle had chosen to disappear and start a new life in a new place.
Apparently, a lot of people do that sort of thing, even people with spouses, and people with young children.
So now, I’m suddenly buying the cops’ arguments, huh?
Of all mornings, it’s on this one that I find myself giving credence to their lazy excuse for not searching for Armelle.
How convenient.
Disgusted with myself, I let go of Dana’s breast and draw away. It’s one thing to stumble because I’ve been lonely and sexually frustrated for over a year. But it’s quite another to want to keep stumbling. It feels wrong. It feels like I’m betraying the woman I committed myself to.
“Last night was a mistake,” Dana says, turning toward me.
Her husky morning voice restarts my softening erection. But I’m not going to do anything about it. Because she’s right.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
She gives me a feeble smile. “Do you mind turning away for a sec?”
Smiling back, I turn toward the wall.
I can hear her lift the duvet, jump to her feet, rummage around. “My clothes are all over the place.”
She pads away.
I fumble for my pajamas and pull them on.
“May I use your bathroom?” she calls from the main room.
“Of course!”
On her way, she passes the bedroom, fully dressed. I don’t think she plans to shower here. Will she at least stay for breakfast?
I head to the kitchen, make coffee and, when she walks in, hand her a cup.
“Mmm.” She closes her eyes, inhaling. “Thank you!”
“How do you like your eggs?”
She shuffles back. “I’ll just drink this and run home.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.” She drains her cup. “When I said it was a mistake earlier, I didn’t mean the brainstorming, which was fun, and really helpful. I only meant what happened afterward.”
That stings. “I’m sorry you didn’t have fun with that part.”
She gives me a blank look, and then her eyes widen. “Oh my God, that came out all wrong! I did enjoy it. Very much. I loved it, if you want to know. That’s not what I meant.”
My shoulders relax.
“What I was trying to say is…” She hesitates, visibly looking for a gentle way to break it to me. “It’s something about me, about my past, about Liviu… I think it’s best if—”
“If we act like nothing happened and continue as good friends,” I cut in. “Works for me.”
She shakes her head. “I was going to say, it’s best if we limit ourselves to being good neighbors.”
That’s… radical. As much as I agree we shouldn’t have had sex, I do not see why we can’t be friends.
“It’ll be easier not to be friends.” She puckers her brow apologetically. “And the best way to guarantee we don’t mess up again.”
Hard to argue with that. But I try. “What about Nico? How about the pretend boyfriend idea?”
“I don’t want him to stay away from me only because he thinks I have a man.” She combs her hair with her hands, pulls it back, and twists it into a bun. “If we go down that road, he might be back the day we stop pretending.”
“Then I’d like to talk to him, not as your pretend boyfriend, but as your friend.”
She shakes her head.
“So, what do you intend to do?” I ask.
“I will impress upon him that I’d rather be single than be with him. And I’ll convince his mom that if he doesn’t leave me in peace, I’ll ruin his new life before I let him ruin mine.”
She stands up, rinses her empty cup, and heads into the hallway. “Goodbye, Thomas.”
“Promise you’ll come to me if your conversation doesn’t go as planned or if he shows up again.”
She hesitates.
I go up to her and give her a pointed stare. “Dana?”
“I promise.” Looking up, she gives me her shy, infinitely charming smile. “It’s good to know Liviu and I have a neighbor we can turn to if we need help.”
I find myself dying to pull her into my arms, caress her, kiss her… “Have a good one.” I say, stepping back.
She skews a weak smile and walks out.
14
As I walk to the clinic, a lone ray of sunlight sneaks through layers of clouds. It bounces off the wet sidewalk of rue du Faubourg Montmartre, spotlighting everything on its way.
Beware of false hopes!
The skies are as low and gray as ever. It drizzles. It’s murky and chilly. In this weather, even the most elegant limestone buildings on my path look dreary, their cream façades streaked with dirty water.
The streets have been wet for over a week now. Nonstop rains have darkened their grainy, gray asphalt to a shiny black with blotches of color having fallen from balding trees.
A typical October in Paris, I am told.
It isn’t without charm but, as I pass Dana’s building, I wish my first autumn in this city were a little more… joyful.
She must be vacuuming the stairwell at this time, so I can’t spy her from here. But earlier this morning when I went for a jog, I saw her sweeping outside her building. We nodded a hello. These past couple of weeks, I’ve been chancing upon her almost daily when I jog, and often at the gym.
Then again, it would be strange if I didn’t, since I’ve timed my fitness routines to enable those accidental encounters.
I’ve seen Liviu twice at La Bohème where I’ve become a regular. The first time he was with two boys his age, and we just greeted each other from afar. The second time, he was doing homework in a corner, Baloo at his feet. When Liviu spotted me, he sauntered over with Chewie in tow. I petted the bubbly mongrel who gave me a lick. Then Liviu and I talked about his holiday at his gran’s in Romania, and the pros and cons of international espionage as a career choice.
It’s crazy how much his eyes, cheekbones, and nose resemble his mom’s!
Two weeks ago, when she left my apartment, I walked out two minutes later, as soon as I pulled o
n some clothes and laced my sneakers. It’s hard to know if she realized I was there, and if that mattered to her. But it sure mattered to me. Nico could be waiting in front of her loge. I couldn’t stay back in my apartment and hope things would work out for the best. I needed to make sure he wouldn’t try anything funny.
Planting myself outside the entrance, I could hear them argue in the hallway. Dana told him exactly what she’d planned to say. He insisted she owed him a second chance. She insisted she owed him nothing.
After thirty minutes of that back-and-forth with Dana, he left the building, muttering, “This isn’t over.”
The loge’s door banged shut. I reached for the intercom button. Dropped my hand. Pulled my phone out. Stuffed it back into my pocket. Paced the sidewalk for a few minutes.
Then, reminding myself she promised to come to me if she needed help, I trudged back home.
She hasn’t come to me, which is a good thing from a rational point of view. It means Nico has backed off.
Last week, I mustered the courage to ask her for an update, and she said she’d called his mom as soon as she’d sent him on his way. Nico’s mother had nearly lost it hearing Dana’s account. She confirmed that Nico’s story was true. He really had quit drinking, found a respectable job, and turned things around. As intended, Nico’s mom panicked that her wonderful son would lose everything again, and it would destroy him. She swore she wouldn’t let that happen.
Dana told me she hadn’t seen or heard from Nico since. She believes his mother was able to talk some sense into him.
I step into the clinic, greeted by the big poster of a dog’s intestinal tract on the wall and a blend of animal musk and disinfectant that’s unique to vet practices.
Walking through the waiting area, I greet an elderly gentleman with a little Yorkshire terrier on his lap.
“Hello, Doctor.” The man says, pointing his chin to the dog. “This is Papatte.”
They’re both new to me. But they must’ve been here before as Marc’s patients because Papatte whines with anxiety. The man strokes her to soothe her.
“I’ll see you in a moment,” I say to them, continuing on.
