Passion in Paris

by Allie Hayden

  “Well, I guess it’s decided,” I said, rising.

  “Sorry, Cess,” said Bill as I left.

  Chapter 8

  (Cecilia)

  Twenty minutes later, I was back on my laptop, writing to Darius Wilde. I looked admiringly at his photos, wondering if he had sent them to me with some sort of purpose in mind. After all, he knew who I was, and these were not the sort of photos one would send to a potential tenant. Or were they?

  I didn’t know anymore. The world had changed so much; I didn’t know what to think. I began composing an email.

  “Dear Mr. Wilde: It turns out that I’ll be flying solo for this vacation. Is that okay with you? I’d like to arrive in a week or so and stay for a month. I can wire you the money to confirm my reservation. Is €3200 sufficient, or are there additional charges?”

  He wrote back within minutes, at which point I noted that it was three in the morning for him. Odd. “That would be perfect. So, shall I expect you that Monday morning?”

  “I will look into flights,” I wrote. “And I will be in touch. Thank you for the photos.”

  “No, thank you!” he responded. “I look forward to meeting the great Cecilia Winter, cellist. Do bring your instrument!”

  “Indeed, I will. Goodnight Mr. Wilde.” I responded.

  Smiling, I crept into bed beside my sleeping husband, feeling a lightness I had not felt in several years. I had been sleeping with my warmest flannel nightie lately to combat the frigid air that crept through the house and seemed to find me at my most vulnerable—in the bathroom after a shower, getting dressed, or just when I forgot to put my slippers on.

  My fatigue at the frustration of Bill’s refusal to even consider the possibility that both of us could benefit from going to the south of France was exhausting me. And yet, something in the back my mind was light and happy. The pictures of the summer climes were a panacea to me; the light they exuded gave me the feeling of a vacation; it made me happy even though I had no particular object of joy. Or so I thought.

  As I slept, my nightie rode up and, in my confusion, I removed it, throwing it to the floor. I had a series of strange and slightly unsettling dreams. But just before I awoke, I had a vivid and incredibly beautiful one.

  Darius Wilde was standing in the doorway of an old cabin, his shirt tossed casually behind him on the divan that stood beside a massive stone fireplace. I was walking up the path with the intention of having a visit.

  I was intensely aware of the gentle breeze as it caressed my arms and legs. I was walking with purpose, but not quickly, and the look on his face belied his calm demeanor. He was clearly fascinated, and this fascination in his eyes gave me courage.

  I was still quite a ways away from him, admiring his physique, which was well-proportioned and sensual, when I became aware that the breeze was blowing gently on my whole body. Without looking to see, I became aware that I was, in fact, completely naked, and at the same time, my level of comfort with my nudity was astonishing. I was the kind of woman who rarely made love without some piece of clothing on, but at this moment, I was not only comfortable, but empowered by my sense of my own beauty.

  I got close to him and smiled coquettishly in a way that was both alien and comfortable to me. He responded by moving away from the door and toward me, meeting me in the middle of the path, and embracing me. It seemed to encompass my whole being: body and soul.

  A deep satisfaction overcame me, and I nestled happily into his strong arms. He put his arms behind my knees and over the top of my back, and then lifted me up as though I were a waif. His powerful arms barely registered any weight at all, and I was aloft, clinging to the back of his neck, and moving my body close to his.

  His skin was soft and somehow firm at the same time, I moved my right arm to touch his powerful chest. He turned and carried me into the house; seating me on the divan, he draped my legs over the bottom and placed me down seductively.

  I felt myself involuntarily parting my legs to allow him space on the divan. He joined me in a gentle and loving manner. His face moved, and his lips met mine in a way I had never experienced before. It was tender and powerful, insistent and loving.

  I returned his kiss with ardor and pulled myself to him, feeling our bodies joined as one. He began to unfasten his pants, exposing his member, tossing his clothing on the ground. My legs were parted, and I felt myself moisten in response to his caresses.

  He began to kiss me down my body, admiring my curves and lovingly tasting my salty skin, slightly moist from the emotional high that I was experiencing.

  I pulled my body down to join his, creating a unity that I had only ever imagined; his erect, girthy member gently teased my lips as he placed it in between my thighs. I felt the surging passion that seemed to be coursing through his body, and I thrust upward, forcing his cock inside me. The sensation was stunning: beautiful and fulfilling in a way I had never known before, and I knew I needed his ministrations to fulfill my animalistic desires.

  I kissed him forcefully as he thrust in and out, pleasuring me in a way that I had never experienced. A gasp escaped me as I could feel the sides of my pussy tingle with his gentle yet firm motions inside of me. His thumb was on my clitoris as if he knew by instinct that I needed this stimulation.

  It was ethereal, and somehow powerfully fulfilling. Then I heard soft and soothing music coming from somewhere in the room, and the open door admitted a cool and soothing breeze that empowered me to pull him closer. I felt the hood of my clitoris on his pelvic bone as he thrust deeply into me, sending electric energy through my passionate body.

  The energy coursing through me gave me a power I had never known I had, and I grasped him, flipping him onto his back as I rose over him, and his face broke into a remarkable seraphic smile.

  “Your eyes are the most beautiful lamps,” he said.

  “Eyes had she limpid as the drops of dew;

  And, when she fixed their tender gaze on you,

  Sorrow was not.

  Stars in a summer night are not more softly, innocently bright:

  And beauteous hair, all waves and rings of jet;

  And breasts, a double peach, scarce ripened yet.”

  I could feel the last vestige of reserve drain from me; I knew that he was quoting a poem, but I didn’t know what it was. What I knew was that it spoke to me with such clarity that I felt my orgasm. I rammed my hips into his and noted the passion that suddenly filled him, too, emptying into me with a gasp of satisfaction.

  He lay breathless on the divan with his arms over his head, and I gazed onto him adoringly. His perfect male body was draped there like a Rodin sculpture, godlike in its strength and simplicity. His cock had returned to its normal size and was glistening with my juice. It lay there like a basking animal, clearly happy and satisfied. His lips were moving, but I was unable to hear what he was saying.

  “Darius, my love, what are you saying?” I asked tenderly, gazing upon his perfection.

  With effort, he looked up at me and began to recite:

  “Shy, yet a joyous sprite she was;

  And, finding all her sweetness in a glass.

  You would have drained it at a single breath.

  But to our tale, which somewhat lingereth.

  When every man his day’s toil had rehearsed.”

  I smiled, realizing that this was a part of the poem I had read called “Mireille” by Frederic Mistral. Darius was a poet, I gleaned; he could bring those beautiful verses to his lips to serve and seduce me.

  I smiled with my eyes, making him gasp, and the power I held over him was infectious. “I wish I could play for you right now,” I said, rising. I turned to where my cello just materialized. As I walked toward it, I felt myself dwindling and shrinking, and then, just as suddenly as I had appeared, I awoke in my martial bed, wet with passion, and naked. My husband’s arm was lying across my chest as I lay on my back, feeling trapped.

  “Dammit, Bill!” I said under my coarse voice, pushing him off me. “I
swear you want to kill me!” Bill awoke with a start.

  “Sorry, Cecilia, I didn’t mean to.” He shrunk over to his side of the bed and turned his back to me. I took advantage of this moment to remember my dream. This idea that dreams fade when you awake produced a moment of desperation. Something about this dream was more vivid than reality.

  I rose quickly and grabbed my laptop. I searched quickly for an airline, made a reservation from Minneapolis to Chicago (O’ Hare) and then to Marseille (and not Avignon as I had expected). I was finished in a matter of minutes and relaxed. I wrote a quick email to Darius, telling him of my arrival, and went back to sleep.

  Chapter 9

  (Cecilia)

  I had a slightly bumpy ride to the bastide. My flight from Minneapolis to Chicago went off without a hitch, but I missed my connecting flight due to the vicissitudes of the workers at O’Hare Airport.

  The fact was, I got lost, never having traveled in an airplane before. So when I landed at one of the largest airports in the world, I was overwhelmed. I lost my way many more times and kept having to ask directions from innumerable unhelpful people.

  When I finally found myself on the next direct flight to Avignon, I was upgraded to first-class and got to enjoy the free champagne and a midnight meal. I was delicious, to my surprise—after all, I reminded myself, it was Air France—and I enjoyed a delightful coquilles Saint-Jacques followed by a very flavorful coq au vin.

  The extras offered by Air France were a comfortable pillow, reclining seats, and a warm blanket that took the chill off my bones that were frozen through on the short trip from the airport to the plane. I slept much of the way after two glasses of complimentary Cotes du Rhone, and awoke feeling surprisingly refreshed.

  Aéroport Marseille-Provence was a beautiful modern glass building. I easily found my baggage, and I even went through customs without much difficulty. Several people spoke what passed for English to me, but for the most part, I took advantage of the crash course in French I had taken thanks to Rosetta Stone. To my surprise, it allowed me to communicate quite effectively with the officials.

  “Pardonnez-moi, monsieur, mais où sont les taxis?”1

  “Ah, madame, vous parlez très bien le français. C’est formidable pour un Américain. Suivez-moi, madame!”2

  I briefly began to regret this trip, looking out the window at the depressing town. However, once we were out of the city, the county was stunning, and the landscape began to resemble my mood. The anticipation was a new freedom, an infinite world of possibilities, and a beauty like I’d never seen before.

  There were vineyards that made that wonderful Côtes du Rhône wine that I always had trouble getting, even in the South Lyndale liquor store (the “best” liquor store in Minneapolis). Here, I had a feeling that that wine would be flowing from all sides.

  Although I had never been much of a drinker, I always enjoyed wine, particularly, French wine.

  From the other window, I saw a field of beautiful, almost luminescent pale purple bushes; I suspected that it was lavender. The smell that wafted into the car confirmed my suspicion and sent me into Dreamland. Other fields had mustard, brilliantly yellow; none of them had gangly stalks of corn, and none had amber waves of grain.

  This struck me as entirely impractical. There were perfumeries all over the place, wineries, and small cottage industries of moutardes and other lovely products. I suspected that there would be wonderful olive trees everywhere too, but I had no idea how to identify them.

  The driver, although he had some facility with English, spoke with me in rapid-fire French and I could barely recognize it as the language from the Rosetta Stone course. I had memorized the expression “Je ne comprends pas,” 3 which meant that I did not understand the language. I used it a lot. Still, he was undeterred and kept pointing out things to my left and right.

  It was only after an hour, when we were nearing the bastide, that I realized that he was actually speaking English. But it had been with such a pronounced accent that I had no idea what he meant. I smiled at my naivete and at the ridiculousness of the situation. But as the Mercedes headed up a gently sloping hill surrounded by beautiful and well-tended forest, I had a sense that I was near the destination.

  I peered out the window at a long stone wall—the common denominator in all French homes was the high and daunting stone walls that surrounded most of them. None of the ostentatious welcome that Americans homes offered.

  As the car went through the automatic wrought-iron gates, I was met with a surprising and beautiful scene: a glittering swimming pool in a pale blue, kidney-shaped and pristine, surrounded by decorative terracotta tiles. It was nestled in a grotto that protected it from direct sun on half of it and was directly in the sun on the other half.

  A tall and broad-shoulder man was standing with his back to us, observing the pool. His auburn hair fell attractively over his bare shoulders, reminding me of the amber fields of home. Something about this man in a foreign country gave me great comfort, even before I saw him turn and smile that broad, straight-toothed smile that gave away his American heritage.

  Chapter 10

  (Cecilia)

  There was so much to admire about this bastide that I hardly knew where to begin. Sitting in my room after the interaction with this stunning man, I wanted to tell Bill everything. As a rule, that was one of the things we tended to do with each other: share our experiences, if not our actual feelings.

  Inside, the floors were made of a kind of wood that I had never even known existed. There were interlocking pieces of floorboard, the seams invisible to the casual observer, shining to a high gloss. I had been introduced to the lovely Charlotte and tried out my French with this young lady. She was slim, blonde, and French. She majored in jornalism at the University of Avignon and was in charge of the day to day cleaning and procuring (whatever that was) of the place, to ensure that it was maintained, that it kept its historical flavor. This was her explanation to me, in her passable and charming English.

  Guillaumette, on the other hand, was the cook. She was much older and more of what the French would call a “peasant.” Squat and pug-nosed, with small pale blue eyes and frizzy graying hair escaping from a handkerchief, dressed in a strangely archaic outfit, including wooden shoes painted a dull red color.

  She radiated a kind of warmth that was both attractive and made one avoid getting too close. She spoke not a word of English, and even her French was difficult to decipher. She seemed to understand both pidgin French and real English though, and Charlotte made it clear that whatever I wanted to eat or drink would and could be provided instantly.

  Despite the beauty of the surrounding area and the frankly shockingly handsome host, I felt exhilarated by how stunning my new home turned out to be. This was what took me by surprise, and what I most wanted to share with Bill. I entered the Wi-Fi for the bastide in my phone and wrote a text message to Bill:

  “Oh, Bill, you cannot imagine how beautiful this place is. It is more lovely than I could have imagined. I wish so much you could join me here. Think about it…?”

  Minutes later, I received a response.

  “HI, Cess, glad to hear it. By the way, do you remember where that steak is that I got from the store a few days ago? It seems to have gone missing. Have a great time. Talk soon.”

  I read the message and was struck with a sudden annoyance. Who cared where the steak was? I wanted him to think about joining me here, and the search for the last steak being at the top of his mind was an annoyance to me that I could not shake. Bewildered and irritated, I threw off my traveling clothes and went into the bathroom, which was as big as my bedroom in Minneapolis, and the deep bathtub was filled with warm water. I emptied a small bottle of lavender-scented bath soap into the tub and lowered my tired body into it.

  A profound feeling of joy filled me, and I wondered where it came from. I was equally surprised to find to find a full glass of red wine beside me. Lifting it, I drank deeply, watching the errant dips dissolv
e into the water.

  The ruby-red droplets dissipated, and so did the wine as it went down my throat. It was a wine fresher tasting and more delicious than I had ever experience before, and a warm joy filled my body as I drank.

  In a matter of minutes, I efficiently rose from the waves I had created and draped myself in an incredibly soft, snowy-white towel that laid beside me. I moved to the dressing room and put on my sexiest nightgown. I did this not because I expected any company, but because it would have been impolite to wear anything less fancy in this regal room.

  I laid on the large, fantastically comfortable bed covered with a beautiful white counterpane that was, it seemed, filled with down. I let myself sink into this luxuriousness and fell into a dream-like state very quickly.

  Dreams come to those whose lives have become full of events that they cannot comprehend. They say that dreams are one’s way of trying to make sense of the many incomprehensible events and experiences that one has during waking hours.

  I had had more than my fair share of amazing and incomprehensible experiences that Monday and sleeping only distilled the most valuable into little pearls of passionate understanding. Not that anything was clarified in my head, but things were put into certain categories that my orderly mind knew how to file.

  In fact, my sleeping and dreaming work was finished before dawn, and I awoke in this palatial room, filled with early spring sunlight, and looked at my phone lying pointlessly beside me. I picked it up in the vain hope that my husband might’ve had a change of heart about coming.

  No messages.

  “I miss you…” I wrote to him. Then, I stared at the screen for a few minutes, hoping to coax a scintilla of care from my distant soulmate. But there was nothing.