After what seemed a delightful eternity, he pulled away and said, “Would you like to see my place? Do you want me to take you back to your hotel?”
“Let’s go to my room. It’s very close,” Mary answered breathlessly.
Holding hands, they walked by the river toward her hotel.
❦
CHAPTER FIVE
Ariane
ARIANE HAD HOPED THAT Peter would leave with Mary. She would have quietly closed the place, maybe put some stuff away to make cleaning up easier for Inès, her cleaning lady. She would have climbed the stairs to her bedroom and gone to bed, her favorite place. Dreamland would have been perfect. Most probably a fantasized version of Peter would have found his way into her dreams and been warmly welcomed.
But that was not to happen. Peter had stayed. He stood in front of her, and he was so very real. She shuddered. He told her that he wanted to be alone with her, and he came closer. Her heartbeat accelerated when he touched her and drew her to him. She raised her eyes to him and tilted her face up as he bent his head to kiss her.
Her heart stopped, and her core contracted. Oh. My. God. I’ve died and gone to heaven, she thought. With both her hands on the back of his head, she clung to him as if her life depended on holding him. She was never letting him go. His mouth belonged on hers. The moment was so magical it should never end. His right hand belonged on her back, holding her so tightly she could feel his arousal. His other hand belonged on her head, fisted in her hair and deliciously possessive.
She whimpered when his lips pulled away to travel to her cheek, the lobe of her ear, her neck, and her shoulder while the hand nested in her hair found its way to the buttons on her shirt and then to the fastening of her bra. He half-freed her heavy breasts from their white-lace cage.
Peter buried his face between her breasts. One hand remained on her hip while the other found its way under her skirt. Ever so slowly, it went up her inner thigh. Her knees went weak. Blood drummed in her ears, throbbed between her legs.
Her heart had not stopped—yet—but she had to remember to breathe. Air in. Air out. Air in. Air out… She had to breathe before her brain was totally deprived of oxygen… Brain, think! This couldn’t be happening. This crazy passionate embrace wasn’t her. Mustering all her willpower, she pushed him back and said, “Please, Peter, stop.”
Springing back, he pulled away slightly and asked, “What’s wrong? Don’t you want me?”
“Oh yes, I do. Very much. So much it’s scary. But I don’t do one-night stands or three-night stands. This isn’t who I am.”
“Ariane, please. You have no idea. I want you for more than that.” He shrugged and, looking in her eyes, explained, “You’re a miracle. I never thought I would want someone ever again. Please trust me.”
“I would very much like to… Actually, I do trust you. I know you mean what you’re saying.”
“So why stop?”
“Because early next week, you’ll be flying back to your country, and I’ll be staying here. So I can’t let you get any closer.” Ariane shook her head. “If I make love with you, I’ll give a part of myself to you, and I’ll be broken when you move on.”
“How do you know I’ll move on? I’m not a hit-and-run type of man. You don’t know me.”
“You’re right. That’s precisely the problem. I want you, but I don’t know you.”
Taking one step back and slowly moving his hand from her hip, he asked, “Are you sure you want to stop?”
“It’s not what I want”—she looked at the floor and buttoned her shirt—“not what I want at all. It’s what I need to do to protect myself.”
She had to push him away, get him out of her sight, because if she didn’t, she would give in or combust. He had to get out. Now. She was already having second thoughts. After all, he was already under her skin. No matter what happened or didn’t happen, she would be devastated when he left. She would also be devastated if he didn’t show up tomorrow morning. Why not take advantage of the moment? Why not enjoy it while she could?
Because it was better to deal with regrets than live with remorse. She had only known the man for half a day. He had the hots for her and her for him, and it was lust or infatuation. It couldn’t possibly be anything more than that. She wasn’t one to believe in love at first sight. That was the stuff of fairy tales and romance novels.
In real life, Cinderella did sometimes get to marry Prince Charming… but that only happened after he’d knocked her up at the ball and was gentleman enough to do the right thing. Even then, how many couples lasted?
The odds of finding someone one was suited to live with for an extended period of time were slim enough when one took one’s time, so why rush?
He had to go right away and not remain in her kitchen, standing in front of her, arms along his body, hands fisted so tight his knuckles were white. She looked from his hands to his face and didn’t know what to read in his eyes. Sadness? Frustration? Anger? Whatever it was, it looked painful.
“Please. Go. Now,” she said softly. She walked to the door, opened it, and put on a brave smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow, bright and early, at nine thirty sharp.”
He walked out without answering. She closed the door, locked it, and went to the dining room. She couldn’t go upstairs right that minute. If she did, she would cry her heart out. She needed to do something. So she cleared the table, loaded the dishwasher, and mopped the floor. Inès would probably mop it again, but Ariane needed the distraction.
She kept repeating to herself that she had done the right thing. He was probably a lovely man, but he was just a ship passing in the night. She had made her home on her tiny island of loneliness. She had been so hurt when the last visitor left. The last thing she needed was to be romanced by Peter and get stranded, shipwrecked on another desert island. She’d be forced to start again from scratch.
❦
CHAPTER SIX
George
GEORGE STOLE SIDEWAY GLANCES at Mary as they walked toward her hotel. He wondered where the strange bubble of joy in his chest was coming from. He didn’t usually have a hard time with women. Actually, it was quite the opposite. A lot of women liked the dark and somber type. They would go out of their way to get closer to him and try to cheer him up. Especially the ones in their early thirties, those who had yet to learn about the male species. Many of those thought he needed to be saved from whatever type of melancholia plagued him. For many years, he had taken advantage of their misconception to bed some of the candidate saviors. He still did once in a while, but not as often. Obviously, at forty-five, he still had urges, but lately, he had grown tired of the games he needed to play. So most of the time, he didn’t even bother making the minimal effort required to get laid.
With Mary, he had the feeling it could be different. Not only because the simple touch of her hand on his arm had made him rise to attention, but because she appeared okay with who he was. Maybe that had been what he was looking for—simple acceptance. She had not drowned him in mindless chatter. She had given useful information about what they were doing when she felt it was needed, but for the rest of time, she seemed comfortable with his silence. Curiously, the fact that she didn’t try to prompt him to talk made him open up. He had never realized that he was so contrary. The thought made him smile.
They reached Mary’s hotel, which was conveniently close to Ariane’s school. Her room was large for French hotel standards and boasted a pair of twin-size beds. One side of the room, next to the window, looked like a war zone. A grenade had been thrown in the suitcase on the floor, and the clothes had scattered. Men’s clothes. The other half of the room was immaculate, almost as if it was unoccupied. On a closer look, there were a book and a pair of reading glasses on the nightstand.
“Yes, baby brother is a mess, and we’ve only been here a few days.” She laughed. “You should have seen his room when he was a kid. But at least he has a sense of boundaries.”
She walked around the room, efficient
ly packing an overnight bag. Taking a sheet of the hotel stationary, she wrote, “Don’t wait up for me.” She placed the paper on her pillow and turned around to look at George. “All set. Now if your offer still stands, I would very much like to see your place.”
“My offer still stands. You bet. Let’s go.”
❦
During the short taxi ride to his place, George thought about how easy things were with her. No unnecessary explanations. At the hotel, she had packed with no useless small talk, and they were going to his home. No fuss, no playing coy, no eyelash batting. Just simply, “Let’s do what needs to be done.”
His home was in an ancient building with no elevator. They walked the two flights of stairs, and George opened the door to his large studio. It had been decorated by an Ikea minimalist fond of earthy shades. One wall was almost entirely one large window. Thick, brown velvet curtains were half drawn. The street lamp shed enough light to see the large screen laptop on the desk, a natural, wood chest of drawers, two mahogany-tone bookshelves, and taking up most of the room—a rarity in France—was a California king-size bed with brown sheets that matched the curtains. A closed door led to the bathroom and an ajar one to the miniature kitchen.
Mary took in the studio while George locked the door behind them. “I’m assuming it came furnished,” she said. “Nevertheless, I think it’s very you.”
Kicking off his shoes, he realized she was right. He hadn’t thought about it, but yes, he would likely have picked up those exact pieces of furniture if he had been in charge of decorating.
“Would you like something to drink?” he asked, stepping closer and wrapping his arms around her waist before kissing her neck.
“Nope, no drink. Just you.”
“That you have already,” he said as he pulled her shirt out of her jeans and over her head. She turned around to face him and did the same with his. They took turns removing each other’s clothing in a slow, methodical fashion until the last item fell on the floor.
George took one step back to get a better view. His throbbing manhood demonstrated how much he liked what he saw from her small torso with petite breasts to the curve of her waist that spread into wide hips. Mary did not act shy. She ate him up with her eyes. With a light touch, she traced his broad shoulders down to the ridges of his pecs, his abs, and then around his waist to his butt. He couldn’t let her go on like that or he would burst. She made a little noise of surprise when she watched him grow harder as she touched him. His manhood was like the rest of him—large and thick. She needed to be very ready to let him in.
He slipped a hand between her legs and let out with a rumble, “Amazonia.”
She shuddered and giggled at the same time. “Yes, a regular rainforest.”
George couldn’t wait another minute; he needed her. He took her hand and walked to the bed. Leaning over the nightstand, he searched the drawer for the box of condoms. He knew he had purchased some weeks ago but couldn’t remember how many he had left. He couldn’t see anything in the drawer. Swearing between clenched teeth, he pulled out the drawer and tossed the contents on the floor.
Mary sat on the bed wearing only a smile. Oh crap, being amusing is the opposite of sexy. He didn’t want to look amusing. He wanted to appear manly, in charge, in control.
He saw at least two condoms on the floor. Thank God! He tore the wrapping, and Mary pried the condom from his hands. She placed it on the tip of his penis, and looking up at him, she gently rolled it down his shaft.
Never had he thought that putting on a condom could be so erotic. A low growl of appreciation came from his chest and made her smile again. But it wasn’t an amused smile; it was a smile of pride. She seemed happy to be the object of his desire.
He pulled her up from the bed, placed her arms around his neck, and impaled her by bringing her thighs around his hips. She stopped breathing for an instant, and then she exhaled slowly. Her face was buried in his neck, and he heard her very soft purr, like a kitten. He remained immobile for an instant while she stretched, accommodating his size. Not moving took all his will power, but she was so tight, he was afraid to hurt her. So he waited.
Her weight was no issue, spread out between his hands on her butt, her legs around his hips, and her arms on his shoulders. After what seemed an eternity, she shifted her hips. Her movement was a slow and gentle pull from his hips, only to plunge back with all the strength she could muster and remain immobile again. She did it a second time.
He growled, “If you do that again, I will lose control.”
“Good. Show me. I want to make you lose control,” she whispered. “Just take me with you. I’m almost there already.”
He needed no more encouragement to let go. His fingers dug on her hips as he rocked her back and forth, abandoning all pretense of control. Each thrust made her moan louder, and when he felt her clench around him, he let go, roaring his pleasure in her ears. He, who had never uttered more than a gasp during intercourse, actually roared.
Still holding her, he sat on the bed and laid down on his back, keeping her above him until she pushed up and rolled onto her side next to him. She was smiling. A new smile. A smile of contentment. So far, that was his favorite smile. He would do his best to see it again. Soon.
❦
CHAPTER SEVEN
Peter
INSTEAD OF COOLING HIM OFF, the walk back to the hotel stirred up a storm in the pool of anger and resentment Peter was trying to hide.
His sister kept telling him to let go of it, but he didn’t know how. He knew she was right, but he couldn’t help it. He was always angry. He was angry at the entire world. How could so many people be happy when he was so miserable? Hell, he was even angry at Kristina, his dead wife.
He was angry she had been unable to stop smoking before the doctors found spots on her lung.
He was angry that when she did stop, it had been too late.
He was angry that she had fought so hard for nothing.
Kristina had gone through all possible treatments. She had survived surgery. She had gone through countless rounds of radiation therapy, marveling at the end that she didn’t glow in the night. She held on as long as she could with the chemotherapy. Then one day, she had had enough and begged him to let her go.
That very same day, a shot of morphine had ended her suffering and left him an empty shell.
Ever since, he went through the motions of life. He was “doing time,” just like a prisoner serving a life sentence. He counted the days, and then the weeks, and then the months. They added up to form a year, and then it started all over again. He knew he was being absurd. He should be able to continue his life and enjoy it. After all, he was in his prime. Thirty-five was young actually. He had a good income. He loved teaching; that was the only fun left in his life. Physically, he was absolutely perfect. He had replaced sex with sports. All the energy he used to invest in his sexual activities was spent in long and strenuous runs.
Good body, good mind, good income… On paper, his life was picture perfect. He soon came to realize he was a great catch. All his friends, after the customary six-month mourning period, tried to set him up with “this great woman that would be so perfect for you. You’re gonna love her!”
Who had come up with the notion that six months was an appropriate mourning period? Someone who hadn’t lost their soul mate. The girl next door who was his first best friend. The best friend who, over a summer, morphed into a chesty teenager and became his first crush. The best friend who then turned into a fabulous woman who was the love of his life. How could six months be enough time to heal from such a loss? How could a year be enough? They said that time healed all wounds. Well, not his.
Only Mary seemed to understand him. She hadn’t bugged him or tried to cheer him up. For a time, she had shared his grief. After all, Mary had lost a friend too. She would come over to his place, feed him, and reminisce with him. She didn’t try to hurry him. Mary’s most amazing gift was her patience. She accepted that som
e things could not be changed nor rushed. Maybe that was what made her a great midwife. In any case, it made her a great sister.
Then a few months ago, she had asked him if he remembered Summertime, the movie in which Katharine Hepburn plays an American who travels to Venice by herself for the holidays and gets her heart crushed by a lovely Italian man. Of course he remembered. It had been one of Kristina’s favorite movies. She and Mary had watched it countless times.
Mary had explained that she wanted to celebrate her 40th birthday in Paris, but she didn’t want to go alone. The only person in her life was him. So would he please, please, please, pretty please come along? She had been so supportive that he didn’t have the heart to refuse. He had said yes and forgotten about it.
Clever Mary only reminded him about his promise a week before departure. By then, she had purchased non-refundable tickets, booked the hotel, and signed them up for a cooking seminar. She had also talked to Nancy, his assistant. Nancy had obtained a green light from the dean of the School of Mathematics. Going away for ten days and missing a full week of school between spring recess and finals was highly irregular, but the dean had said yes. Peter was surprised; he didn’t think the dean was so fond of him. Nancy must have been very convincing to talk her into giving him the pass.
Unable to use work as an excuse, Peter, who was not one to renege on a promise, had come along without dragging his feet. For a few hours in Ariane’s company, he thought he had been rewarded. He had made a fabulous discovery: he wasn’t all dead.
But Ariane had not understood what a miracle she was for him, and she had pushed him away. So after being angry at being numb and dead, Peter was angry at being alive again. Being alive meant having feelings, and feelings could be hurt.
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