by Alix Nichols
Could he be afraid of hurting me?
“Come here,” I say, tugging at his neck without any tangible result.
He smiles apologetically. “I’m too heavy.”
“You’re silly.” I hope he doesn’t expect me to beg. Because it’s not gonna happen. “You won’t hurt me, I promise.”
He doesn’t budge.
OK, I’ll beg. “Please, Hugo. I need you closer.”
I tug again and this time he lets me. I add my second hand and pull hard. A moment later, he stretches his full length over me. Our chests, stomachs, and hips are crushed together, his mouth devouring mine. He cups my breast. It’s a handful for him, and I’m struck again by the joy of how unalike we are.
He nudges my thighs wider apart, positioning himself.
And then he pushes inside.
I gasp and arch, meeting the force of him.
So good. So freaking good.
Why didn’t we do this before? How could I live all these years without it? I know there was a reason, a good one, something to do with what I am. But in this moment I couldn’t care less. No reason seems to make up for what I’ve been forgoing.
I close my eyes to enjoy his slow invasion more fully. After a few moments, I rock my hips, urging him to start thrusting.
So he does.
It takes only four or five strokes for my mind to go AWOL, leaving my body to its own devices. Which is a polite way of saying “out of control.”
All the wild things a woman might do while being bonked—my body is doing them all at once and with a total lack of coordination. My hands grip, squeeze, rub, and pinch. My fingers dig into his flesh, and my fingernails rake his back and nick his skin. My hips buck. I moan like a wild cat in heat. My thighs quiver and my internal muscles clamp around him and throb as I peak.
This time the climax is so powerful it shakes me to the core. It’s not just a firecracker or even your run-of-the-mill fireworks; it’s a full-on Bastille Day blast of color and light shot into the night sky from the top of the Eiffel Tower.
Hugo comes, too. I grip his neck with both hands and hold him close while he groans his pleasure.
I wish I could stop time and freeze us in this moment for a few hours, just to give my frenzied brain a chance to comprehend what’s going on here.
This intimacy, this proximity bordering on fusion—I’ve never, ever experienced it before. It’s so much more than a well-timed joining of two bodies, followed by a release of endorphins.
All my previous physical sensations pale in comparison. All my past emotional highs fade into the background. I’m blown away.
Several long moments later, Hugo gives me a gentle kiss and rolls over. I stretch out next to him, still a little dizzy and disoriented. He turns onto his side and pulls me closer. I breathe in his musky scent and snuggle into the warm, comforting crook of his arm. As the marbles in my head rush toward the exit, I kiss his shoulder. As they clatter across the bedroom floor, I prop myself up and run my tongue over the salty skin around his nipples. With a worshipful keenness, I kiss every single freckle on his chest and shoulders.
Then I settle back into the crook of his arm, head empty and heart full to overflowing.
He threads his fingers into my hair and strokes the back of my head.
The blissful emptiness inside my skull thickens into a wooly cloud, and I begin to drift off.
“My pichune,” he whispers.
I tell myself it’s just a sweet nothing, a cozy little postcoital endearment. It doesn’t mean he has feelings for me.
Don’t read too much into it, Chloe. Don’t panic.
Ha! It’s easier said than done.
An ice-cold wave of fear washes over me, sinking my body through Hugo’s, through the bed, and hundreds of meters below, right into a foul-smelling, dark place that’s all too familiar.
Welcome to Chloe’s personal quarters in Hell.
The darkness seeps through my skin, poisoning my blood, and paralyzing my muscles. Just before I let it lull me into a slumber full of nightmares, I remember the reason why I convinced myself Hugo wasn’t my type. The reason why I denied myself the joy of his touch.
To keep him from harm.
To save the love of my life from being my next victim.
Chapter 14
It’s no secret that Yvette and Hervé Bonnet are very well liked, and so are their children, Jeanne and Hugo. It’s also widely known that the best bakery in Nîmes is run by an exceptionally kind and hospitable couple.
A conjuncture of these two well-established facts explains why so many people have traveled by plane, train, and automobile to a restaurant thirty kilometers south of Nîmes to celebrate the couple’s thirtieth wedding anniversary. Aside from the core family, siblings, and cousins, the vast majority of guests fall into the category of friends. This large group includes not only the couple’s own buddies, but also their children’s, accompanied by their significant others.
I’m being introduced to an amigo of Jeanne’s right now.
“Chloe,” I say, cheek kissing a Spaniard named Pepe who’s here with his wife Nana. “Nice to meet you.”
Jeanne points to an impeccably dressed and groomed blonde standing next him. “My buddy, Amanda.”
We rub cheeks.
“And her fiancé Kes,” Jeanne says, pointing to a group of three men laughing at something a few meters away from us.
The one with blond curly hair is Mat, Jeanne’s husband. I’ve never seen the other two before, but all three are undeniably hunky, each in his own way. They’d make a great cover for GQ.
I give Amanda a wink. “Let me guess. Kes is the starchy Mr. Tycoon in a black suit, yes?”
“Nope.” She grins, encouraging me to take a closer look at the other man. “My fiancé is the relaxed Mr. Tarzan in blue jeans.”
Really?
I wouldn’t have guessed.
“The black suit is Sebastian Darcy,” Jeanne says. “Mat’s friend and backer.”
The name sounds familiar… she’s mentioned him before. Oh yes, the “rich and influential hotshot” whose name made Diane wince as if she’d known a distasteful truth about him.
I glance at the tycoon who’s cracking up at something Kes said. He looks boyish and kind of sweet when he laughs.
“So you’re the architect,” Amanda says, breaking me from my thoughts.
I nod.
“And you”—she points to Hugo, who’s just joined our group—“are the handyman.”
I open my mouth to protest, but Hugo guffaws.
Everyone laughs, too. How can they not? You’d have to be Victoria Beckham not to chuckle when Hugo does.
“Handyman and proud,” he says when he’s able to speak.
“I’m impressed by you, Amanda,” Pepe says. “You made time to come down to Nîmes now that you’re such a VIP!”
“You should be impressed by me.” Amanda gives him a perfect little Parisian shrug. “But I didn’t make the trip specifically for this occasion. I’ve been… camping just a half-hour drive from here for a week already, and I’ll stay in the south another week.”
Pepe raises an eyebrow. “You, camping? For two weeks?”
“Well, not in the classical sense of the word.” Amanda smiles and points to her Tarzan of a fiancé. “I’m staying in a Traveler caravan area with Kes’s clan.”
“No way!” Pepe widens his eyes. “Amanda Roussel camping with gypsies.” He shakes his head in mock awe. “Perhaps I should see if there are any pigs flying in the sky. Could be a great photo op.”
“You’ve been married for, what, three years now?” Amanda pushes her hair back. “You must have noticed that married life is made of compromise. Besides, didn’t you know about my camping plans? Remember when I asked your sweet Danish wife to help me locate someone who regularly dines in Noma?”
“Noma…” Hugo screws up his face, like he always does when he’s trying to remember something. “Isn’t that a museum in New York?”
Amanda gives him a polite smile. “It’s a world-famous and Michelin-starred restaurant in Copenhagen.”
Pepe nods. “I’ve never been there myself and neither has Nana, but she did find a friend of a friend who goes there regularly.”
Jeanne turns to Amanda. “So how’s that related to your living in a gypsy caravan for two weeks?”
“It was my price.”
Pepe frowns. “I’m not following.”
“Kes and I are taking my mother to Copenhagen in December for a dinner at Noma.” Amanda beams. “It’s been number one on her bucket list for years.”
“Still not following,” Pepe says. “Why did you need Nana to find you a regular?”
Amanda sighs. “Obviously, you haven’t met my mother. Her main reason for dining at Noma is to have the occasion photographed.”
Jeanne gives her a wink. “Another selfie junkie, huh?”
“Absolutely not.” Amanda wags her finger side to side. “You’ve met Vivienne, Jeanne. Does she strike you as a selfie type of person?”
“No,” Jeanne concedes. “I guess selfies aren’t dignified enough for her.”
“Cheap is the word my mother would use.” Amanda pokes Pepe’s chest with her finger. “And that’s where your wife’s friend comes in. Vivienne has talked to her already. She’ll snap a pic of us in Noma and post it on social media.”
“Wow.” Pepe salutes her. “Respect.”
Amanda nods and turns to me. “I hear you and Hugo have given La Bohème a hell of a facelift. Can’t wait to see it!”
“That reminds me,” Jeanne says. “Everyone is invited to our reopening bash on the twelfth! Get your calendars out right now and mark the date.”
I do and so does Amanda.
Monsieur Bonnet joins our group and wraps his arm around Jeanne’s shoulder. “Are your mom and I invited, too, daughter mine?”
She gives him a wink. “If you promise to be appreciative of your son’s and Chloe’s work.”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” He turns to me. “Chloe, you must know that I bear you no grudge whatsoever for hiring my son.”
I grin. “Thank you, Hervé. You’re very kind.”
He nods.
After that everyone takes their seat. I’m placed at the main table next to Hugo. This makes me wonder which of my roles in his life has earned me the honor. Am I seated next to him because I’m his childhood friend or as his current business partner? A part of me can’t help wishing it was for being his girlfriend.
Even if we’re just lovers. Even if I plan to end to it very soon.
Just before dessert, Hervé taps the side of his glass with a knife, commanding everybody’s attention.
“I won’t make a speech,” he says.
His wife lifts her eyes to the ceiling. “Thank the stars above!”
A few people chuckle.
“But I’ll do you one better.” Hervé smiles enigmatically and marks a long pause.
“It’s sonnet time,” Hugo whispers in my ear.
I give him a quizzical look.
“It’s a family tradition. Dad becomes a minstrel at family meals and sings sonnets to Mom.”
“He does?”
“Well, singing isn’t the right word. He slams them. Occasionally, he raps them.”
“Wow,” I say.
He smiles. “They’re terrible.”
“Oh.”
“But Mom loves them.”
Hervé clears his throat and turns to Yvette. “My dearest wife of thirty years. Joy of my life. This sonnet is for you, as always.”
Yvette gives him a loving smile and smooths her hair, looking pleased.
Hervé puts his glass down and begins to recite:
Croissants are bent,
Baguettes are long.
My dear Yvette,
I wrote you this song.
You’re the apple of my pie,
The cherry on my cake,
Till the day I die,
I’ll love you like I bake.
“And, man, does he bake!” someone shouts from the far end of the table.
Everyone claps and cheers.
Yvette gives her husband a loud smooch on the mouth.
I watch them, mesmerized. A previously uncharted area of my soul soaks up their happiness and their unashamed love for each other. That emotion-hungry area begins to grow in size, glowing from the reflected beauty of what Hervé and Yvette share.
They have no idea how lucky they are. They have no clue about the danger I’m putting them in. I should stop seeing Hugo. It’s not just his life on the line, even if it’s the most precious life in the universe as far as I am concerned. If something happened to him, it would hurt these amazing people, it would destroy their happiness beyond repair. They’d never recover.
It’s decided; I’m ending it with Hugo tonight.
We’ve only been seeing each other a week, each night more magical than the one before, but it’s enough.
More than enough.
I’m staying with Claire until Monday, then taking a train to Marseille to visit Charles, and then back to Paris on Wednesday, even though I could linger in the south until the end of the week. Our new project has been postponed because our clients can’t move into their furnished rental until next Sunday. But I’m going back to Paris anyway. I’ll use the time to do administrative work and prepare new drawings and pricing estimates.
Hugo will spend a few days with his folks and then hike with his buddies in the Calanques National Park before returning to Paris next weekend.
This gives me plenty of time to think things through and, hopefully, find a way to end our affair without ruining our friendship or our business partnership.
I turn to him. “We need to talk after you get back.”
“Yes, we do,” he says with conviction.
Ah bon? I give him a quizzical look.
He smiles. “I haven’t been honest with you, Chloe. I need to come clean.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You’ll know soon enough.”
Without a prior warning, he grabs my hand, pulls me up from my chair, and drags me to the middle of the room where a joyous crowd is dancing the farandole.
The rest of the evening is a succession of wine drinking, dancing, and background singing to Yvette’s clear soprano when she’s persuaded to perform.
Hervé doesn’t need persuading to read more of his sonnets. They’re all dedicated to his wife, and every one of them is a plucky, resounding slap on Baudelaire’s and Rimbaud’s long-dead cheeks.
At around two in the morning, Yvette declares herself too tired to sing and Hervé runs out of sonnets, at which point the party winds down.
Hugo drives me to Claire’s. The country road is empty, and he takes advantage of the easy drive and places a hand on my thigh. As he begins to stroke, the full price of the decision I made tonight sinks in, making my stomach clench.
Hugo Bonnet will never make love to me again.
Chapter 15
Claire is asleep when I send Hugo on his way and tiptoe upstairs. Fifteen minutes later, I change into my nightgown in the first-floor guest bedroom that used to be the room I shared with Diane.
Lionel’s semi-independent studio on the ground floor has been unoccupied since he passed. Four years ago, Claire decided to empty it out, refurbish it, and rent it out. She still hasn’t “gotten around” to doing it.
I doubt she ever will.
As I climb into my bed, someone knocks on my window. I pad to it and, after a bit of struggling with the wonky handle, open it. Hugo is hanging from the iron railing, flashing me a toothy smile.
I fold my arms over my chest. “You’re crazy.”
“Can we debate this inside?” His smile gives way to a grimace as he pulls himself up a little and adjusts his grip. “Unless you’re curious to see if I’ll scream when I hit the ground.”
I step back and let him climb in.
“Phew.” He closes the window behin
d him.
His presence in my bedroom fills my body with a foolhardy joy I can’t suppress.
“You’re mad,” I say. “Or drunk.”
“I had only two glasses of wine since I was driving us back.” He gives me an expressive look. “I’m a responsible person.”
He shrugs off his jacket and takes a step toward me.
“All right, then. You aren’t drunk.” I stare at him, my heart beginning to hammer. “You’re a responsible madman.”
He inches closer, eyes riveted to my breasts. I follow his gaze. My nipples are tenting the silk of my nightie in a way that leaves little to the imagination.
When I look up, my cheeks and ears are flaming. Good thing the light of my night lamp is so dim.
“Pichune,” he says and encases my face with his hands.
For the life of me, I can’t send him away.
Just one more night, I tell myself.
Our last night together.
He bends down and kisses me on the lips. His kiss is hungry and immediately deep, latching onto my welcoming mouth, and his tongue pushes in and strokes mine. I stand on tiptoe, throw my arms around his neck, and kiss him like there’s no tomorrow. My body is ready and willing so much that my engorged pelvis aches.
Oh, and by the way, there really is no tomorrow for Hugo and me.
But I refuse to dwell on it now.
Without breaking the kiss, he slides a hand down my back, cups my behind, and lifts me off the ground. I lock my legs around his waist, reveling in how he holds me as if I’m weightless.
Then, for a few brief moments, I’m supported by only one sinuous arm while he unzips his fly. I help him with the condom, and a few seconds later he’s inside me.
I’m impaled to the hilt, arching and abandoning myself completely to the sweet ecstasy of this act.
He begins to pound into me right there in the middle of the room, making my breasts bob with each thrust. My legs are wrapped around him, and my ass is supported by his large hands, tight and comfortable, thank you very much. All my sensations are heightened, building to a fever pitch. Before I know it, I’m hovering on the edge, and when I climax, I bite my wrist to stop myself from moaning.
