by Alix Nichols
Afterward, we cuddle in the soft glow of the night-light.
“Turns out I’m roomier than I thought,” she says with that deliciously sly smile of hers.
“Told ya.”
“Was it good for you? If it was at least half as good as it was for me, I can die happy, and be really, really proud of myself.”
I frown in mock concern. “Please don’t die just yet. Now that I got a taste, I need more.”
She smiles, but gives no promises. Then she looks away.
Not good.
“Did you ever envision selling the farm and the land?” she asks, turning back to me.
“It isn’t mine to sell—well, half of it at least. It’s Ma’s.”
“Of course,” she says. “And, from what you told me, she’ll hold on to it until her last breath.”
I nod.
Something infinitely sad flashes in her eyes before she turns away again.
I bring her hand to my mouth and kiss the inside of her wrist. “Farming may not be the most profitable occupation these days, but the land here in Burgundy—and we own a good chunk of it—increases in value every year. That said, Ma’s attachment to this land and to this farm is purely sentimental. It was Pop’s whole life.”
“Is it your whole life, too?”
“Good question.” I scratch my head. “I don’t know any other life to compare it to.”
“So, you have no idea if you’d enjoy doing something else more than operating a dairy farm?”
“I don’t think I would.”
We lie in silence for a long moment. This conversation isn’t about farming, of course. It’s about us. It’s about the possibility of us being together.
“Do you think you could enjoy living on a farm?” I ask.
She laughs. “I’d be the most ridiculous farmer in the world!”
“I said live on a farm, not operate one.”
She shakes her head. “In fact, I’m going back to Paris in two weeks, to be part of an extensive research team in one of the capital’s best museums.”
“What?” I turn on my side and peer at her. “Why? You’ve only been here a few months!”
“Almost two years, actually,” she says. “You only discovered me a few months ago.”
What do I say to that? That I’d do anything to turn back the time and discover her earlier, much earlier? That I’d give a hand to have Anne-Chantal stop by and give me a ticket to a guided tour of the Grotto on Rissa’s very first day as its curator? It would be the truth. But there’s no point saying it now.
We hug each other.
As I drift away, my body light from the lovemaking and my heart filled to the brim, a heavy, dreamless slumber swallows me up.
Rissa wakes up at dawn and sneaks out while I pretend to be asleep.
The moment she’s out the door, I begin to ache for her.
I tell myself it’s just my body. My cock, my hands, every limb, and muscle on me.
But not my heart.
It can’t be my heart.
Because it takes more than two nights to fall in love.
I must’ve read that in one of Ma’s psychology magazines when I was bored and out of other reading material.
The irony of the situation is that I know Rissa wants me as much as I want her.
But Dr. Penelope Muller wants something else.
And, unfortunately for me, she wins.
9
Nathan
The traditional Farewell to Winter Ball is in full swing.
OK, the ball isn’t a real tradition because it hadn’t existed until twenty years ago. Then one year, Josephine, the wife of our eternally reelected mayor, introduced the extravaganza and got the d’Arcy family to sponsor it.
I guess that’s the reason Count Sebastian d’Arcy is always in attendance.
And the reason the good citizens of Verlezy and the neighboring villages gather in the town hall, suffer through a speech or two, and then eat, drink, and dance into the wee hours of the morning.
Celine and Ma always drag me to the ball.
They don’t do it for my sake, mind you. I’m just the inextricable owner of the two male arms they like to lean on when entering the town hall.
This year is no different.
No, it is different. While I’d normally look forward to chugging down some beers with my buds and maybe sneaking off with a local woman, tonight I’m not in the right mood for either.
I haven’t been in the right mood for twelve days now, ever since Rissa spent a night at my cottage and announced she was going back to Paris.
“Oh, come on!” Celine nudges me with her elbow. “Stop sulking.”
I force a smile.
“Do you notice something different about me?” she asks.
I study her face. “You’re wearing lipstick.”
“What else?”
“Um… mascara?”
“Yes!” She beams. “Anything else?”
“If this is a quiz, do I get a beer for three correct answers?”
She rolls her eyes and huffs.
“She’s wearing a skirt,” Ma says. “A skirt!”
I look down to verify that improbable claim. It’s safe to say I’ve seen Celine almost every single day of her life—she’s two years my junior—and never, not once, has she worn a skirt.
But today she is.
“It’s not too awful,” she says. “As long as I remember to keep my knees together when I sit. But the heels, they’re killing me.”
As if to confirm her statement, she trips and spills some of her beer on the floor.
Ma pats her cheek before pulling a small pack of tissues from her handbag, reminding me of Rissa.
I sigh. Everything reminds me of Rissa these days.
My friends Danny and Mo wave from the middle of the room and saunter over. As Celine and I chat with them, I can’t help wondering if Rissa will make an appearance alone or in the company of her colleagues.
I haven’t seen her in twelve days, ever since our night at the cottage.
“Hey, Nathan!” someone calls from the entrance.
A moment later, Thomas, my second cousin on Pop’s side, joins our group. “Good evening, Brigitte.”
“Haven’t seen you in… forever.” Ma gives him a hug. “What are you doing here?”
“Just passing,” he says noncommittally.
Thomas studied advanced mathematics but instead of applying for academic jobs when he graduated, he chose to use his math skills in banking. Turned out to be a great move. For the last six or seven years, he’s been working for an investment bank in Dijon, developing financial models, and amassing millions.
“So, what do you do for a living?” Danny asks Thomas.
He pushes his eyeglasses up the bridge of his nose. “I’m a mathematician.”
“Hot nerd alert,” Celine whispers to me.
I take another look at Thomas, and it hits me how much he fits her type.
She should totally go for it.
But the poor thing is too awestruck to utter a word. She downs her second glass and mumbles, “Need another one.”
Poor Celine.
Ma and I exchange a look as Celine scurries away.
When Danny and Mo move on, Ma arches an eyebrow at Thomas. “So, what did you say you were doing here?”
“I’m looking for a house to buy.”
“Moving to the country?” Ma asks.
He smiles. “No, just as a getaway. And a quiet retreat for when I want to do some hardcore math.”
Celine slips and falls in the center of the room, causing a commotion. She’s prone on the floor, her face next to her spilled champagne.
Thomas and I rush to her and help her to her feet.
Her cheeks are crimson. “This is the first and last time I wear heels!”
She takes a step and halts, cringing.
Thomas squats next to her. “Which foot?”
She points at her left leg.
He remo
ves her shoe, takes her foot in his hands and begins to press various parts of it. “Does it hurt here? And here? What about here?”
She shakes her head to each of his questions, gazing at him as if he was an apparition. Next, he palms her ankle and asks her to take another step.
“Sprained but not broken,” he declares, standing up.
While he helps her limp toward the nearest chair, I go to the drink table to get her a new glass. When I return with it, Celine and Thomas are sitting next to each other, chatting. Her foot is on his lap.
“It’s best to keep it elevated until she gets home and applies ice,” he explains.
Celine’s expression is dreamy, like she can’t believe this is happening to her.
“Do you go to the library often?” she asks him.
He shakes his head.
I bug my eyes at him from behind Celine’s back.
“But I love reading,” Thomas adds quickly. “I have a big library at home.”
I was over at his place in Dijon a few weeks ago. There was no library there, big or small.
You’re digging your own grave, man.
“In my Paris apartment,” Thomas says.
Oh, I see what he’s doing. He’s hoping to seduce Celine locally and confine their fling to Burgundy. That way, she’ll never see his Paris apartment and have a chance to call him out.
“Would you like to see it?” he asks her.
Celine tilts her head. “Your library?”
“Yes.” He stares into her eyes. “I’ll be working from Paris next month, and if you can take a weekend off and visit me, you can borrow as many books as you want.”
“Thank you,” she says. “I will.”
I leave them to their own devices, hoping that Thomas won’t wait too long before telling Celine he doesn’t read outside of math and finance, and that he’s a banker. Scanning the room, I spot Ma who’s found Anne-Chantal and a few other cronies. Good. Anne-Chantal will give her a lift, which means I can go home.
The door opens, and before I’ve even turned to see who it is, I know it’s Rissa.
As soon as she spots me, she makes a beeline in my direction. “I was hoping to find you here.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be packing?” I say. “That is, if you’re still leaving the day after tomorrow.”
She smiles. “Most of my stuff is already in Paris, and I’ll come and get the rest next weekend.”
I say nothing. There’s nothing to say.
She moves closer. “I’ve been… thinking about you.”
“Of course,” I say, expelling a bitter snort. “That’s why you called and texted all the time.”
“Neither did you.”
“You’re the one who sneaked out in the morning.” I give her a hard stare, even as my hands burn to touch her, to press her to my chest. “You’re the one who’s leaving.”
She nods and looks down at her feet. “I wanted to ask a favor.”
“Ask.”
She probably wants me to keep her boxes until next weekend, seeing as there’s plenty of room on the farm.
Her eyes are still downcast as she says, “Will you make love to me tonight, one last time?”
10
Clarissa
He takes a few endless moments to consider my unorthodox request, and eventually he says yes.
We drive to my spartan apartment in silence.
I hope he’d back me to the wall and kiss me as soon as we get in like when we went to his cottage. Except he doesn’t. We stand in my entryway, avoiding each other’s eyes.
Nathan presses his mouth into a hard line.
My heart clenches in my chest.
I’ve grown familiar with this feeling ever since Nathan and I spent that night in the Grotto two weeks ago. Still, it leaves me perplexed. How can a man I barely know suddenly matter so much? Why do I feel so sad leaving him behind? Why do I hunger for him as if he were the only one for me? As if I were in love.
It’s perfectly absurd!
Worse, it’s ridiculous, shallow, and downright moronic.
Oh, I have tried telling myself it’s not him, it’s his size.
More exactly, the incredible sensation of being stretched and filled so completely. I’ve never experienced it before, and I’m unlikely to experience it again.
Perhaps not even tonight, if the way things are going is any indication.
But, deep in my soul, I know it’s not just his cock or his lovemaking. It’s also the way we connect, the way he makes it easy for me to be candid, to be myself, the way he moves, the way he looks at me. The way everything about him feels right.
Suddenly, a truth I’ve been choking for days breaks its invisible chains and barrels out. “You’re by far the best thing that happened to me since I came to Burgundy.”
He says nothing.
“Come away with me,” I beg.
“There’s nothing for me in Paris.”
“Not true! I know a lot of people there, I’ll help you find a job, and then—”
He shakes his head.
Oh, Nathan.
I take a step toward him. “Then tonight is all we have.”
His gaze sears me.
“Here I am,” he says. “Mad at you for leaving, and at the same time, craving you, dying to bury myself in you.”
God help me, I’m dying to let you.
“I ache, Nathan. I feel empty inside.” My voice is hoarse with lust. “Please.”
His chest rises and falls and his eyes grow darker.
I take another step and slip a hand under the hem of his sweater, flattening it against his hard stomach.
Suddenly, his hands are everywhere on my body, my face, in my hair. Shirts are unbuttoned, sweaters pulled over heads, and belts hit the carpet with thumps.
I lead him to the bedroom where I remove his underwear. He bares my breasts, sweeping his tongue over my stiff nipples. As he alternates between them, his hand slips inside my panties and I moan at his touch.
Reaching down, I touch him, too.
Ooh, that sweet thickness! It belongs inside me.
“Tell me what you crave,” he murmurs. “I want to hear it.”
“Your hot skin against mine. You on top of me, around me, in me.”
He groans. “Rissa.”
I gaze at his massive shaft. Then I kneel and lick the underside, every vein on it, the tapered head and the small slit.
My center throbs, heavy, needy.
Nathan pulls me up. “I want to come when I’m inside you.”
“Here, I bought the biggest condoms I could find.” I hand him the pack.
He glances at it. “They’ll do.”
Climbing on the bed, he stretches himself on his back. “Will you try to take me in as deep as you can?”
I nod, removing my panties.
He places his hands on my hips as I settle on his broad tip and begin to lower myself slowly, his expanse stretching me, filling me. With every breath, I impale myself a little more, take a little more of him, almost weeping with the joy of it.
When he’s as deep as last time, I pause.
“It’s OK, baby, no need to push more.” He frowns in concern. “I wouldn’t want to hurt you.”
“You’re not hurting me.”
The crease between his brows remains.
“I stopped to feel your shape inside me,” I say, rocking my hips, my voice coarse with lust and emotion. “I can take more.”
“Rissa—”
“I want to take more.”
As I push myself a little more down his throbbing shaft, he cups my mound and begins to stroke. His gaze is a silent plea. Wetness gushes in me, and I open a little wider still, slide down more, caressing him with my inner muscles, until his tip hits my womb. I draw in a breath and bear down a little more, making that contact tighter. There’s no more room inside me for him to invade.
“Oh, Rissa,” he rasps. “Sweetheart, I’m in to the hilt. So deep.”
Lifting his
head, Nathan stares at where we’re joined. I stare, too, lightheaded, sweat running down my forehead. I wipe it from my left temple.
He reaches up and wipes my forehead and right temple with his big hand. “I’ve never been so deep in a woman, didn’t think it was possible.”
His shaft twitches inside me, making my eyes roll in my head.
Through the haze, I hear him say, “Thank you for this gift.”
And I fall apart, my legs shaking uncontrollably.
He waits until I’ve ridden my first orgasm, then lifts me up and lays me on my back. “Want more?”
“Yes.”
“Hard?”
“Yes.”
Nathan slams into me, making me yelp and cling to him, digging my fingers into his back. He pumps deep and fast, no longer anxious he might hurt me, no longer trying to control himself. I should be wary, but instead I spur him with my heels, urging him to penetrate me deeper, take everything, breach my womb if he must.
My second orgasm is the most powerful I’ve ever had. He thrusts relentlessly, and I come and come, crying out his name. His face contorts as he comes, too, his pleasure consuming him.
When he collapses on top of me, I breathe him in, kissing his face and squeezing his tight butt.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you really liked me,” he mutters, pushing my damp hair from my forehead.
“I do.”
He pulls back a little and stares into my eyes. “Stay in Burgundy, with me.”
“I can’t.” I hold his gaze. “Come with me to Paris.”
He shakes his head.
I almost beg him to at least come visit me occasionally, before I stop myself.
There’s too much intensity, too much passion between us. I don’t want compromises. If we aren’t going to be together fully—body, heart, and soul—then it’s best we make a clean cut now and never see each other again.
11
Clarissa
Yes, I know I said a clean cut.
But that was before I spent a month in Paris—in my favorite season of the year, among new colleagues who turned out to be much kinder than I’d feared—feeling so lonely I cried myself to sleep every night.