by Harper Bliss
I can’t make head nor tail of this woman. It’s time to go into interview mode. Start with gentle, innocent questions. Then slowly amp up the depth and breadth and find out what it is I really want to know.
“As far as praying goes, my friend Amber is the best yoga teacher I’ve ever had, if you want a crash course in that particular practice.”
“I’m leaving in a few days. I think it better to focus on the other two pillars of my journey.” The gleam of the fairy lights above us catches in her eyes, makes them sparkle with something.
“Aren’t you supposed to go to different parts of the world for each? I strongly believe Australian food is underrated, but not many people come here expecting culinary orgasms.”
Camille chuckles. “I’ve had great meals here. And encountered wonderful hospitality. I dread arriving at Charles de Gaulle airport and facing all that French grumpiness again.” She shakes her head. “But I really must stop talking in clichés, lest you get the wrong idea of my country. We have our obvious problems, but I love France.” A melancholy look crosses her face. “And I miss my children. My daughter is giving birth to her first child in two months. I’m going to be a grandmother.”
“Surely you’re not old enough for that.” I know how cheesy that sounds and take a quick sip from my wine, hoping my comment will dissolve into nothing as I drink.
Camille tilts her head as if to say, yet here I am.
Thomas arrives with our dishes. Crispy bone-marrow for Camille and a fancy chorizo stew for me.
“Ah, that’s what I’m talking about,” Camille says. She forks some of the bone marrow onto a slice of toast and tucks in. “Délicieux,” she says with her mouth half full. Once she has swallowed the bite, she says, “You must try this. It would be a crime not to.”
I watch as she prepares me a bite, takes the piece of toast in her hand, and holds it in front of my mouth. As I part my lips, the sensuality of her action sends a shiver up my spine. Maybe Caitlin was right. Maybe it has been too long. Why else would a woman feeding me a slice of bread unsettle me so much?
I nod while I chew. She looks at me expectantly.
“How did you say that? Déliciose?” I massacre the French pronunciation.
“Close enough.” Camille grins.
“My husband cheated on me for almost as long as we were married,” Camille says. “So I have a pretty good idea of what you’re going through right now.”
We’ve finished our meals and polished off the first bottle of wine. Camille insisted I pick the second one and I’ve gone for a shiraz she seems to approve of. Conversation has been light and, so far, I’ve only managed to extract that she is, indeed, recently divorced from a man. Her current statement comes out of the blue, just after Thomas has cleared away our plates.
“How long were you married?” I ask.
“Twenty-six very long years.”
“Blimey.” I’m tipsy enough to have the audacity to ask the more probing questions now. “Were you ever happy in your marriage?”
“The first few years, I was. I didn’t yet know about his philandering. We had our children.” Her voice sounds a little deeper, devoid of its previous lightness. “That was a good time.”
“Why did you stay with him for so long?”
“Because I was young and stupid and naive. Mainly stupid, though.” She sips from her wine again, clearly eager to continue the Drink part of her journey. “Like all things in life, it was complicated. Well, at least I believed it was. Jean-Claude was a very promising politician. Older than me and already very much on the rise when we met and then married.” She waves her hand. “It’s a really long story I don’t feel like talking about on this lovely evening… in lovely company.” She straightens her posture.
“Why did you ask me out?” I study her face while I wait for her reply. The skin in the corner of her eyes crinkles.
“Because I was very charmed by you and I wouldn’t have forgiven myself if I hadn’t at least asked. I hadn’t really expected you to say yes, after what I found out about your recent break-up.”
“It has been six months. That’s half a year.” I can’t believe I’m saying this. “When I got your text, I believed it was because you had your suspicions confirmed that I’m a lesbian.”
“That too.” She sucks her bottom lip into her mouth for a second. “From doing a bit of research on you, I believed we had quite a few things in common.”
I try to phrase my next question as tactfully as possible. “But you were married to a man for twenty-six years.”
“Correct.” She pauses. “Emphasis on were.”
“Are you trying to say that this long trip to a country on the other side of the world was about more than getting away? Are you, er, finding yourself?” I sound ridiculous. My interview skills don’t thrive on wine and sitting across from a gorgeous woman who has just started flirting with me.
“I found myself a long time ago. I just didn’t have the courage to do anything about it.” She scoffs. “But then something amazing happened in France. We elected a president who is not only an out lesbian, but was in a very similar position to mine not long before she ran for office.”
“Dominique Laroche.” I can’t keep the admiration out of my tone. “One hell of a woman.”
“I said to myself, if the president can do it, and face all that public scrutiny, be ridiculed by the old boys’ club, and stand proud with her partner next to her while taking the oath, then what’s stopping me?”
“She’s such an inspiration.” I can feel myself light up when I talk about Laroche. “I keep dreaming she’ll come on a state visit to Australia and I’ll get to interview her on my show.”
“Never say never.” Camille’s eyes are really sparkling now. “Jean-Claude is a minister in her cabinet. We’ve met many times over the years and we’re well acquainted.”
“You know Dominique Laroche?” My eyes widen.
“I was at her victory party, crying my eyes out. Not only because I wanted her to win so badly, but even more so because I took it as a sign.”
“Wow.” It’s all I can say, that’s how stunned I am.
“I hope that answers your question.” She quirks up her eyebrows.
“In a way I couldn’t possibly have imagined.” Maybe it’s the wine, or the fairy lights, but most likely it’s simply sitting across from Camille, listening to her accented tones and getting to know her better, but I feel enchanted. Enraptured. And to think I didn’t want to come tonight. I was going to catch up on work. Watch television. Or just stay at Caitlin’s and get wasted while I remained pissed off at Rebecca.
“I knew it was a long shot, but…” Camille pauses. “I’m very attracted to you.”
“You’re wooing me.”
“I feel like I have no choice.” Her voice goes low. “I’m on the clock and I have no time to waste.”
“Every minute is precious.” I gaze into her eyes and I know she feels the same way. I actively remind myself of Caitlin’s words. I truly have nothing to lose. I only stand to gain. Despite claiming, only a few hours ago, that I’m not a one-night stand kind of person. But this is different. This is a woman passing through. A unique opportunity. What did Caitlin call it? Serendipity. Camille is sexy and smart and I find even the tiniest movements she makes with her hands sensual. I want her. I still don’t know her last name, but it doesn’t matter. It’s time to put Caitlin’s theory to the test. Will I feel like a different person once I’ve had another woman’s hands all over me?
“I have an idea,” Camille whispers. “Why don’t we take the rest of this bottle up to the flat? I’m under the impression you need to reacquaint yourself with the place.”
“Let me get the check.” My heart beats in my throat. I haven’t felt this alive in years.
Chapter Five
“Listen,” Camille says when we enter the apartment. “No annoying beeping sound. It’s heavenly.”
“Thanks to the masterful and swift service of the own
er.”
“No doubt.” She takes two wine glasses out of the kitchen cabinet.
I take the bottle out of the bag Thomas put it in and pour us both a glass. What is the protocol for this? It’s been more than sixteen years since my first time with a new woman. I’m guessing that instead of familiarity and the kind of intense intimacy it creates, this encounter will be fueled by desire driven by the new and unfamiliar. It’s exciting, but also rather scary.
We make our way into the lounge, where I’m instantly reminded of Rebecca’s taste in interior design. It’s classy and functional and pretty, like she is. But it comes across as a little soulless now. Generic and devoid of coziness. Was it really this afternoon that I sat across from her in that bar in the CBD? It feels like forever ago. Just like it feels like years ago that she left me and broke my heart.
“It’s a nice enough place,” I say, just to break the silence.
“It’s very comfortable.” Camille sets her wine glass down on the coffee table. She holds her hand out for mine. I give it to her.
As she takes the glass from me with one hand, her other one wraps itself around mine. “Just so we’re on the same page, I’m going to kiss you now.”
“I would like that very much.” I tilt my head and lean in. It’s been too long since I’ve felt another woman’s lips against mine. Too long since I’ve felt someone’s desire when their mouth opened for me. When our lips meet, I feel it all the way to the pit of my stomach. And it doesn’t stop there. I’m immediately compelled to wrap my arms around her neck, draw her closer to me. Even though this can only be a very short-lived fling, the effect a single kiss is having on me is already unmistakable.
Camille’s tongue dances in my mouth. She tastes of wine, mostly, but also of something I can’t put my finger on. She tastes decidedly unlike Rebecca, who I’m ready to exorcize from my soul—via Camille. I don’t just want this—feverishly, madly. I need it. One kiss and already I’ve got past the point of no return.
When we break from our lip-lock, I find her gaze.
“Just so you know, I haven’t been with anyone else since Rebecca and I split,” I say, needing this moment of honesty.
Camille hesitates. “I haven’t gone all the way with a woman ever before.”
“Are you serious?” I have to keep my jaw from dropping.
“I had a fling once, but it remained platonic. For some foolish reason, I’ve always taken my marriage vows very seriously.”
“Loyalty is a quality to be admired.”
“Not when it’s blind with ignorance.” She puts some distance between us, retreats a little.
“Hey, it doesn’t matter. The past doesn’t matter right now. Only this moment is important.”
She breaks out into a soft smile. “Is this the Pray moment of my journey?”
“Yes,” I say, “let’s pray.” I shuffle closer to her, able to completely ignore that I’m sitting on a couch Rebecca picked out. I cup Camille’s jaw and kiss her again, deepening the intensity of our lip-lock. I push the thought that it’s her first time to the back of my mind. Although it bears a certain significance, I can’t focus on it too much. Because this is a kind of first for me as well. This moment is saying a lot of things about me as well.
During the last few years of our relationship, Rebecca kept accusing me of no longer having any passion for her. I always denied it because I didn’t experience it that way. But right now, as I’m sitting here kissing Camille, all the neurons in my brain firing simultaneously in a frenzy of building lust, I have to admit that if this is passion, these sensations running through me at this very moment, then Rebecca was right. I did not have any more passion for her.
Camille brings her hands to my jaw and our lips keep meeting and we’ve become this intertwined entity of fingers and skin and lips and tongues. When we catch our breath, she runs a finger over my lips. She doesn’t say anything, just looks into my eyes as her finger skates along my lips, denting them.
“Tu es si belle,” she whispers.
I don’t understand what it means but I automatically take it as a compliment. When she speaks French, her voice sounds different. More confident. More her, even though I don’t know her at all. It sounds much more sensual than anything she says in English, and I feel something pulsing between my legs. A very ignored body part is reminding me of its presence.
The tip of Camille’s finger slips into my mouth. She comes across so self-assured. Is this really her first time? Perhaps, when you wait long enough, the desire becomes so ingrained within your person that actions just happen, hands know what to do instinctively—like right now, she’s pushing her finger lightly into my mouth. I suck on it and it’s a new sensation that thrills me. I want to feel more of her. Her skin on mine. The weight of her body pressing into me.
She removes her finger from my mouth and I start pushing her down onto the couch. Camille suddenly looks so vulnerable on her back like that, looking up at me, her hair fanned out around her face. She looks less composed. More insecure. But I’ve got this. My instincts, though oft neglected, are quickly coming back to me. The couch is wide enough for me to lie next to her on my side, gluing myself to her, gazing down at her.
I run the back of my fingers along her cheek. How did this even happen? Was it only this morning that I stood in this very apartment, making a fool of myself in front of my temporary tenant? Did my subconscious already know that something was brewing? Is that when the heat started building in my veins? A heat that is now ready to explode out of me, take over completely. I’m consumed by the desire to give Camille pleasure. To let her know how it can be with a woman. Soft and intense and utterly satisfying. This wave of lust we’ve decided to ride is crashing over me. It’s about to drown me in its force. I drag my finger along her jaw and between her collar bones, straight into her cleavage.
The thrill of discovery is unmistakable. Camille is much slighter than Rebecca. Her skin so pale. Her bones so fine.
“I want you,” I say, the words getting half-stuck in the back of my throat. “So, so much.”
“You have me.” The smile she sends me is sensual and knowing, though I have no idea what she might actually know. Because, in this moment and in this situation, there’s not much more to know than what is happening right now. There is no future. Our pasts don’t matter. It’s just now.
While I slip a hand inside her blouse and, in one swift motion, inside her bra cup, I lean down to kiss her.
When I feel her nipple between two fingers and press down with the lightest amount of force, she groans into my mouth.
I might be lying half on top of her, but it doesn’t mean I feel in control of this situation. Should I ask her what she likes? Does she even know? Just let it all go, I remind myself. Be in the moment. I intensify the pressure of my lips on hers and my fingers on her nipple. She squirms against me and I relish every second of it.
When we break from this kiss, I’m overcome with the urge to see her naked. My subconscious desire, of which I’m now sure it was there all along, is catching up with me, steering me. It has lost patience. I retract my hand from her warm breast and start unbuttoning her blouse. I push the sides away and drink in the sight of her. She has three freckles underneath her left breast and I connect them in an invisible line with my fingertip. I bow down and kiss her just above the belly button. The touch of my lips on her skin there sends a shiver up my spine.
Her own hand gets busy and finds a way inside my top from my neck down. It reaches the back of my bra and starts fumbling. I can only conclude that her impatience matches mine. She has been waiting a long time for this. So have I. To feel this alive again, this overtaken by lust.
“Maybe we should go into the bedroom,” she says, when our eyes meet next.
I chuckle, then nod. “Let’s go.” I maneuver myself out of the couch and take her hand in mine. We rush into the bedroom, where the bed is pristinely made. Camille pulls the covers off unceremoniously, then stands in front of me.
“This might be easier from this angle.” She slides her hands underneath my top and has my bra unhooked in a matter of seconds.
I follow her example and we keep undressing, taking off items of our own clothing while disrobing the other. It’s as functional as it is sensual, because by the time I stand in front of her in just my panties, my pulse has picked up speed and the throbbing between my legs has intensified.
We slide into bed, end up lying on our sides, facing each other.
“Now what?” she asks.
Her question takes me aback. “Er…” I know what to do, just not really how to put it into words.
“I’m just joking,” she says, and shuffles closer. “I know what I want.” She brings her mouth to my ear. “You,” she whispers.
Her words are just as enticing as when she slipped the tip of her finger into my mouth. We kiss again, but this time our almost-naked bodies press against each other. Her hard nipples push into the soft flesh of my breasts and her belly is warm against mine. Our legs slip in between each other’s and we become so tangled up in each other, there’s no way of telling where one body begins and the other ends, but by the color of our skin.
When we catch our breath, she brings her hand to my mouth again and, this time, rubs two of her fingers along my bottom lip. She slips them inside my mouth and I suck on them eagerly. It’s an intimate gesture that ignites my arousal even more.
“You look so hot like that,” she says. She stares at me intently, taking in every last detail of my face.
She slides her fingers out of my mouth and, all wet, she runs them over my lip again, then down to my breast. By the time they reach my nipple, the wetness has gone cold, and her fingers leave my nipple unbearably tight.
“I want you,” I whisper, because it’s the only thought left in my mind. My brain is only ruled by lust, by desire for this exquisite creature who is torturing my nipple, even though she’s barely touching it. I feel it everywhere. In every nerve ending, in every cell, despite knowing such a thing is not possible. But my logical mind stopped working the instant Camille took that wine glass out of my hand and told me she was going to kiss me. Because what is happening right now is not normal Zoya Das behavior. I have never jumped into bed with a woman I just met. Not once in my life. Now, as I lie here, and Camille’s delicious fingers travel down, I have to ask myself why the hell not? What was I so scared of?