by Alix Nichols
The longer I stare at her heart-shaped face, the more my hands itch to delve into her hair.
The table that separates us is so small I could easily reach behind her head and undo the bun at her nape. There’s nothing I’d like more right now. Nothing. I crave to let her glossy black hair tumble over her shoulders, long strands sliding over the backs of my hands and between my fingers.
Would she let me?
If the way she’s looking at me now—the way she often looks at me—is anything to go by, I think she would.
Uma is drawn to me. My Asian ginger candy wants me, perhaps as much as I want her.
Finally allowing myself to acknowledge what I’ve known for some time now fills me with joy and pride, but also with apprehension. It makes my head spin as if I’d had several vodka shots and not just one beer. This place with its dim lighting, sexy music, and couples kissing everywhere certainly isn’t helping.
Neither are Uma’s parted lips or her flushed cheeks.
“Has Noah ever kissed you?” I ask, barely recognizing my voice.
She shakes her head.
“Has anyone ever kissed you?”
Her blush deepens. “No.”
Jesus Christ.
I should get out of here as fast as I can. Except I know I won’t even if this place were burning. Instead of scaring me away, Uma’s innocence makes her even more desirable. It makes her irresistible.
“Curious to know what a kiss feels like?” I ask.
Slowly, without taking her eyes off mine, she nods.
God help me.
I swallow hard. “Want to try?”
She nods once more.
Leaning forward, I take her face between my hands and brush my lips against hers. They are soft and warm, and the contact is so sweet that my chest tightens. I will myself to go slow and keep the kiss light and tentative.
Mustn’t rush it. Mustn’t overwhelm her.
Don’t want to risk her calling this unhoped-for experiment off.
Moving my left hand to the back of her head, I find the chopstick-like contraption she uses to hold her bun together. Carefully, I pull it out. As I set it on the table, her hair falls to her shoulders in gorgeous silky waves. I press my lips a little harder against hers and delve my hands into her hair, letting it envelop them.
The caress feels so good I let out a ragged sigh.
Need more. So much more.
Grabbing a fistful of Uma’s hair, I bring it closer to my nose and breathe it in. Lavender. Must be the homemade shampoo she bought in Provence. The scent becomes her.
Everything becomes her.
I wrap a lock of her hair around my hand and draw back a notch so I can take a good look at her.
Uma’s eyelids are shut, and her face is turned up to me, flushed. When she opens her eyes, the black depths are filled with unmistakable hunger. For me.
Must taste her.
Sliding my hand to the nape of her neck, I pull her closer until our lips meet again. I sweep my tongue over her lower lip, lingering in the corner of her mouth and coaxing her to open it.
She parts her lips, and I push my tongue in.
I gasp as her taste invades my senses. Ginger soaked in honey.
The taste of heaven.
Angling my head, I lean into her and take her mouth in a hard, raw kiss. My tongue strokes hers, pushes, probes, and explores her palate and the backside of her teeth. My hands are on her neck, her face, and throat, holding her, so she won’t pull away. This is not the way to kiss a first-timer. This is no way to treat a virgin. She’s bound to find it repulsive—too rough, too wet, too intimate. Too much. She’ll hate me for this. Any minute now, she’ll plant her hands on my shoulders and push me away.
Only she doesn’t.
My sweet Uma takes her cue from me and glides her tongue against mine. The motion is tentative, hardly perceptible, but it’s there. I go wild. No more restraint, no more regard for her lack of experience, no holds barred.
I enclose her mouth even more fully, push my tongue deeper inside, graze my teeth over her lips, nip and suck her tongue.
When I break from her, it’s only for a moment to let both of us catch our breath. Her lips are crimson red and swollen from the kiss.
It’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.
We pant and stare at each other, but then something flickers in Uma’s eyes. She glances at her watch. “It’s five to eight.”
Sam.
“We have to go.” I jump up and stride to the bar where I pay for our drinks while Uma collects her handbag, pulls her hair back into a bun, and catches up with me by the door.
We run all the way to the activity park.
“Don’t worry,” Uma says as we enter the premises. “We’re on time.”
“Thanks to you.”
Twenty minutes later Sam, Uma, and I drive home to Inry.
Uma is sitting next to Sam in the back of the Beamer. She always sits there when he’s in the car. He gets carsick easily, so she holds his hand and keeps him distracted with stories or songs. If it’s dark outside, she sings him Nepali lullabies, which are very effective in making him doze off.
I glance at her in the rearview mirror before forcing myself to look away and focus on the road. It’s a tall order, considering what went down less than an hour ago.
Just a chat in a cafe where it’s safe for Uma to be around me, huh?
The hell it’s safe.
Here’s the bitter truth. She isn’t safe from me anywhere. Certainly not in my house and not even in a public space while waiting to collect Sam. I can no longer trust myself to keep my hands off her when we’re alone.
So, I’m never going to be alone with her again.
TEN
Uma
“Is everything OK?” Mathilde asks as I rush to the door to leave the house.
Sam is eating his breakfast in the kitchen.
I frown. “Yes, why?”
She shrugs with a funny look in her eyes. “I just noticed that Zach doesn’t come down to the kitchen until you’re out of the house.”
The woman is too observant for her own good.
I feign surprise. “Really?”
“Yes, really.”
“He must’ve just changed his habits,” I say. “He gets a bit of work done first and takes his breakfast later. Or maybe he just sleeps longer than before.”
Mathilde cocks her head. “Uma, darling. I’m forty-three and—trust me—I’ve been there.”
I give her a whatever-do-you-mean look.
“Are you sleeping with Zach?” she asks in a quiet voice.
My eyes dart to the kitchen door.
“Relax,” she says. “Sam can’t hear us. Neither can Zach.”
I look at her. “No, I’m not.”
“Has he made advances? Have you rejected him?”
I hold her gaze, refusing to answer.
She shakes her head. “Don’t take this the wrong way, please. I’m not asking out of curiosity. I worry about you. And about him.”
“There’s nothing to worry about,” I say.
“Oh, I think there’s plenty to worry about. You’re very pretty and very inexperienced. And you live under the same roof as a handsome single man.”
“That doesn’t mean—” I begin to protest.
“A handsome single man,” she repeats, cutting me off, “who’s lonely.”
I jut out my chin. “He isn’t. He has Sam, and his parents, and his water polo buddies—”
“I meant lonely as in sex-deprived,” she says.
“What are you saying?”
She lets out a sigh. “I guess I’m trying to tell you to be careful.”
“He’ll never force himself on me, if that’s what you’re hinting at.”
“Of course, he won’t! That’s not who he is.” She waves her hand dismissively before giving me a sad little smile. “What I fear is that he won’t need to force anything.”
I look away.
“
And then there’s Sam,” Mathilde says.
My eyes shift back to her. “What about him?”
“Your relationship with the boy… It’s getting too close, too personal.”
I chew on my lip.
“He isn’t your kid, Uma.” Something like pity flashes in her eyes. “Sam has a mother. Colette may have freaked out when he was diagnosed and failed him for years, but she’s coming around now. She’s ready to become part of his life.”
“She has no right!” I spit out, forgetting myself.
Mathilde exhales again, her sigh so long and heavy I almost expect her to run out of oxygen and collapse to the floor. “Do yourself a favor and think about what I said, OK?”
I open the door. “Got to go or I’ll be late for school.”
“Please don’t hate me,” Mathilde says behind my back as I step onto the street. “I really like you, you know. Believe it or not, it would pain me to see your unguarded little heart broken.”
On the métro, I take Mathilde’s advice and think about her words. Gradually, my anger melts away. As I stare out the window at the black wall of the tunnel, I remind myself she meant well.
She was just trying to save me from probable heartbreak.
Can I still be saved?
Maybe. If I think rationally, Mathilde is right. Zach may be a fantastic dad and a wonderful person, but he’s still a man. He wants me because I’m there, easily accessible, and clearly wanting the same thing.
A low-hanging fruit ripe for the picking.
I think about my parents, Marguerite, and Noah… about the lonely future that awaits an unchaste woman from a family with no money, status, or connections. Maybe I should run. I could ask Noah or Freja if I could crash with them until I find another job and then get out of France the moment I graduate.
I’m not suicidal, after all. I don’t want to suffer.
But then I remember Zach’s kiss, and rational thinking flies out the window. That kiss was the sweetest, most powerful, and most addictive thing I’ve ever experienced. The intimacy of what Zach’s lips and tongue did to my mouth astounded me. It took my breath away. Never in my life did I imagine another human being—a man—getting so close to me and connecting with me so deeply. That kiss rocked my world, and now I want more of it.
I want more of Zach.
It’s scary how vulnerable to him I’ve become—and at the same time, it’s exhilarating. My body, my entire being, aches to give him more. Anything he’d like to take. Everything I have to offer.
Even if doing so will hurt me and several other people who are dear to me.
Shame warms my ears as I try to imagine Noah’s disappointment. If what Marguerite has been telling me is true, he’s bound to feel let down. And angry. He doesn’t deserve that. Not to mention Marguerite to whom I owe so much.
Giving myself to Zach would make me an ungrateful little snake who bites the hand that feeds her.
Just yesterday, when we talked over Skype, Marguerite went on and on about how happy it would make her to see her favorite protégée and her son together.
“You’re perfect for each other,” she said for the umpteenth time.
“I’m not so sure,” I dared to argue.
She knitted her eyebrows. “Why would you say that?”
“It’s the way Noah looks at me… like a friend, not a man in love.”
“Oh, Uma.” She rolled her eyes. “I see Parisian mores have gotten to you already. Don’t you know how corrupt the men are who look at women that way? Don’t you know what they want? Noah respects you. That’s precious and rare. It’s something you should cherish.”
She’s right.
And Mathilde is right.
I’d do better to heed their sage advice.
All is not lost.
As long as I’m strong enough to fight my attraction to Zach, I’ll fight it.
Just like he’s fighting his.
ELEVEN
Zach
Uma opens the door before I can ring the doorbell with my forehead, as I have my hands full carrying Sam. He fell asleep in the car while listening to the CD with his favorite Nepali lullabies that Uma got for him. I’m so glad he slept. Otherwise, we would’ve been stopping for him to puke every twenty minutes, just like we’d done on the way to Yvelines three hours earlier.
I took him there for a checkup with his doc.
“So, what did he say?” Uma whispers as I carry Sam upstairs.
I glance at her. “Were you waiting by the door?”
“You were late, and I got a bit anxious, but I didn’t want to call you while you were driving.”
With my shoulder, I push the door to Sam’s room open. “I’ll tell you everything once he’s in bed, OK?”
“You’re putting him to bed without dinner?”
“We grabbed a bite before heading back.”
She nods and tiptoes to the family room.
When I join her there with a bottle of champagne and two flutes, she’s cross-legged on the couch, embroidering. I sit next to her and open the champagne.
Uma sets her work aside and points to the bottle. “Does that mean good news?”
“Very.” I hand her a flute. “The doc ran some tests and confirmed what we’ve been suspecting. The new antiseizure drug is working like a charm.”
Her grin broadens.
“Wait, it gets better. If Sam goes seizure free for a year, the doc will start weaning him off the meds.”
“Really?”
I nod. “Apparently, there’s a sixty-five percent chance he won’t have another seizure after that.”
She claps a hand over her mouth.
“But whatever happens,” I say, “even if he continues to have seizures, the doc is confident they can be controlled with this drug and the diet he’s on.”
Uma’s beautiful eyes glisten when she says, “He can have a normal life.”
“Yes.” I pick up the second glass. “He’s come a long way.”
“Here’s to his health!” She raises her flute.
I raise mine. “To Sam.”
The champagne is damn good. No wonder, considering it’s a Bollinger. I refill our glasses, and we empty them. I refill them again. It would be a crime not to finish the bottle.
“Good thing it’s Saturday tomorrow,” Uma says on her third flute. “It would be a pain having to get up early after this.”
I shrug. “It’s just champagne. You’ll be as fresh as ever tomorrow morning.”
“Speak for yourself.” She rolls her eyes. “We aren’t getting the same amount of alcohol per kilogram of body weight, are we?”
“Touché.”
She cocks her head. “Tell me, is it a requirement to be as big as you are to play water polo?”
“No.” I smile. “But it’s certainly an advantage for the hole-set—that’s me—and the hole defender. Remember Julien?”
She nods.
“And, of course, for the goalie. Noah is about the same size as Julien and me. For the other players, it doesn’t matter that much.”
“Why does it matter for the hole set?”
“My job is to score, right?”
“So?”
“The opposing team’s job is to prevent me from doing that. So, every time I get ready to shoot, two or three guys jump at me, trying to stop me. One would hang on my back like a human backpack, another would try to drown me, and a third would kick me underwater where the ref can’t see.”
Her eyes widen. “That’s awful.”
“It’s part of the game,” I say. “That’s why the hole-set must be big and well-trained, so he can fend them off.”
She leans forward a little. “I have another question.”
“Ask.”
“When Sam and I attended your match against Toulon, I noticed something…” Uma looks down, hesitating.
“Yeeess?”
“You and some of the other players were shaved everywhere—legs, chest, the whole body.” She lifts her eyes. “Why
?”
My lips curl up. “Picture the situation I just described when the other team’s players try to hurt me beneath the surface, so the ref won’t know.”
“Do they—” She frowns in disbelief. “Do they pull your body hair?”
“They’ll rip it out if given the chance. Armpit hair and the hairs under the Speedo are a preferred target.”
She squirms. “Oh my God.”
“That’s why I make sure I’m shaved everywhere before all important games.”
She picks up her flute and sips slowly, keeping her eyes on her beverage.
Am I imagining it, or have her nipples hardened under her T-shirt?
My cock sure has.
Walk away before it’s too late.
This whole “celebration” was a terrible idea. Hadn’t I promised myself to never be alone with her again? But I was so happy about the doc’s conclusion that I had to share it with Uma. For some weird reason, I wanted to share it with her before anyone else, even before I called my parents and Colette. I should’ve resisted that urge.
As I brace myself for the salutary retreat, Uma places her glass on the coffee table, uncrosses her legs and lowers her feet to the floor.
I watch her, my thoughts getting increasingly muddled.
She turns toward me. “Would you like to kiss me again?”
Sweet Lord.
There’s nothing I’d like more right now.
Nothing at all.
Before I can dissuade myself, I hoist her onto my lap. She trails her small hands along my jawline, through my hair, and rests them on my nape. Our gazes lock. Her touch, her scent, the look in her eyes combine to intoxicate me in a way that no amount of alcohol ever has.
I come undone.
Gripping the back of her head, I pull her face closer, and claim her mouth. Unlike in the gay bar last week, I skip the tentative part and push my tongue between her parted lips. That’s how much I crave her taste. She opens up. The more I demand, the more she gives, her need matching mine.
I can’t get enough of this woman.
Releasing her mouth for a moment, I rain hot kisses on her eyes, cheeks, nose, and chin. I trail my tongue along her neck and down her shoulders, tugging at the neckline of her tee. It will have to come off sometime soon. Very soon. Because I need to kiss and stroke more of her, taste every inch of her skin. Because I need to learn the shape of her breasts and the shade of her nipples. My hands ache to rub them, to pinch them gently, and to feel them go hard against my palms.
