Only You

by Carmen, Roya

  “You look as pretty as the first time I saw you,” he tells me.

  I smile, thinking back to that day. He was so beautiful that night—the brooding, sexy stranger in the dark corner. “What did you think when you first saw me?”

  He smiles. “I thought you were adorable in your pink dress and boots. I also thought you looked so sad. I wanted to know why you were so upset.”

  I was. I was thinking about Matthew and Melanie.

  A wicked smile stretches across his face as he mumbles something in French.

  I raise a brow. “I’m sorry…?”

  “I also thought you were a real pétard. How do you say in English…” He pauses for a second, deep in thought. “A firecracker.”

  I laugh. “Firecracker?”

  He grins. “Firecracker is what we call a woman who is super sexy.”

  Firecracker. I like it. I like it a lot.

  He inches slowly toward me. Pinning me with his stare, he puts a hand softly on my hip. He swivels me around gently to face the mirror and presses his long, lean body against my back. He rests his chin against my shoulder and circles his arms around my waist, wrapping me up in his heat. “You look so beautiful. I wish I could make love to you again.”

  The gesture is so intimate, even more than the sex we just had. I’ve only known him three days, and I’m already falling for this man. I really wish I could be like other women. I wish I could do this casual sex thing, but I really suck at it. I’m almost as bad at it as I am at art. Truly useless.

  I look up at the clock with a frown. “Class is back in session in a few minutes.”

  He lets out a long sigh laced with a growl, his breath hot against my shoulder.

  Damn, I really hate that stupid clock.

  10

  The rest of the afternoon moves too fast.

  The smell of ink permeates the air, bringing me back to my childhood then taking me back to just an hour ago. I remember my mouth pressed against his chest, my nose inhaling his delicious scent.

  We finish the lesson with a focus on applying ink to our watercolor masterpieces. This can be done either before the watercolor is applied or after. Alex tells us that most artists like to ink before applying the paint, but he prefers to do it the other way around. We work with traditional ink nibs, the same kind my mother used back in the day. Now she works with modern Micron pens and adds color digitally.

  I’m having so much fun that I make a mental note to purchase a nib pen and ink when I get back home and doodle a bit. I may not have any talent sketching nudes or painting architecture, but I can still doodle.

  I try not to think about the fact that this is it. Trish and I are leaving tomorrow morning. One more night. I have just one more night with him. Or maybe this is it. He might have other plans tonight. I can’t bear the thought.

  My mother told me once about a summer romance she had when she was sixteen, her first love. She had stayed at her grandparents’ cottage for the summer, and when September whipped around, she was heartbroken. But she’s held those beautiful memories in her heart ever since.

  Maybe that’s what this weekend can be for me. Beautiful memories. I have the sketches he did of me, my paintings, and my beautiful dress. My heart sinks at the thought that I don’t even have a picture of him and me together. I remind myself to snap a quick photo on my phone before Trish and I leave.

  I watch him kiss his students good-bye. He seems a bit familiar to me, but he’s known many of these women for years. Trish was right—the retreat was filled with regulars. Apparently Marie and her friends have attended this retreat every year for the past three years.

  When everyone has left, Trish packs up the rest of her supplies and offers Alex a friendly smile. “Thank you. It was great.”

  He beams. “Thank you for coming. Your work is amazing. Maybe next year, we’ll see you again.”

  She shoots me a wink. “Maybe,” she replies as she heads for the door. “I’ll wait for you outside, Sammy.”

  She’s giving me time with him. Time to say good-bye. My chest aches. This is so damn sad.

  I pull out my phone, feeling awkward. “I was… I was wondering if we could take a selfie together.”

  He smiles. “Of course.”

  He pulls me into him, and I stretch out my arm as far as it will go and snap a photo. I check it instantly—it needs to be perfect. And it is.

  I turn to him. “Thank you.”

  His gaze lingers on mine. “Thank you.”

  “I had fun.”

  A playful smile traces his lips. “Me too.”

  “I don’t want to go.”

  His face falls. “I don’t want you to go either.”

  We stare at each other for the longest time.

  A flicker of mischief crosses his gaze, and a soft smile curves his lips. “Stay.”

  My breath hitches. I want to stay. I have four more days before I must head into work again. I could stay. “My friend is leaving tomorrow morning. She needs to get back to work. I have nowhere to stay and no way to get home.”

  “Stay with me. I’ll drive you home,” he says. “You said it was only four hours away. I don’t mind.”

  “Do you have a passport?”

  He smiles and nods.

  My heart fills with joy. Being with him isn’t even about sex or physical attraction anymore. It’s about spending more time with him, about having fun with a new friend. “This is crazy.”

  “But crazy is good, no?”

  * * *

  I spend my last night in Old Québec City with Trish. We club hop, eat Nutella-covered crêpes at midnight, and play a stupid game where we count how many man buns we see. I lose count somewhere after twenty-six. It’s about two in the morning when we both crash onto our bed, exhausted.

  “I’m happy for you,” she says. “He seems like a nice guy. You needed this.”

  “Thank you for bringing me here. I’m so glad I came.”

  “You be good,” she reminds me. “I know you. Don’t fall in love with the guy. He’s just for fun, remember?”

  I roll my eyes, annoyed because I know she’s on to something there. Don’t fall in love.

  “And don’t get pregnant,” she adds, her words slurred—we’ve both had a little too much to drink. “The last thing you need is to get knocked up by a foreign guy.”

  “We’ve been very careful,” I reassure her. “We’re not stupid.”

  “I’m… so… jealous…” she says as she drifts off.

  Not long after, I sink into sleep too, dreaming about Alex’s beautiful smile.

  * * *

  I hug Trish good-bye and wish her a nice ride home. I feel a little guilty—I know she’ll be lonely for the next four hours.

  She smiles playfully just before she turns back to her car. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

  I wave good-bye as she hops into her car. Alex is standing next to me, a hand pressed on the handle of my large orange polka-dot wheeled luggage. I wave again as her car drives off, and as soon as it’s out of sight, I turn to Alex. He pulls me to him and kisses me wildly. He tastes of cinnamon and smells of soap and orange juice. He tears himself from me, and all I want to do is grab him again.

  “I need you in my bed… now,” he says, his voice hoarse.

  I like the sound of that.

  A large oversized bag on my shoulder, I follow him eagerly into his building, a cool three-story historical loft building. We zoom past all the doors and hop in an old-style elevator. He presses me against the elevator wall and steals another kiss as we travel up. I claw at him, but then the elevator dings. We practically sprint to his place. The door is unlocked, and he swings it open.

  I barely take in the artsy loft, too consumed by the man. In the fraction of a second my gaze darts around, I see brick walls covered with large, colorful canvases. I don’t take the time to make out the pictures—I’ll look at them later.

  He pushes me toward the kitchen counter, grips my ass, and hoists m
e up. He’s aggressive and wild, so different from the way he was the last time we were together, on the Victorian loveseat.

  I’m not complaining. I love feeling desired like this. I was with Matthew for two years, and he never made me feel this wanted. He never craved me this much. My mouth is hungry for Alex’s. My hands are busy undoing his shirt buttons. My pussy is antsy, aching to be touched.

  “On your bed,” I breathe. “I want to fuck on your bed.”

  His wide grin presses against my mouth as he slides me off the counter in one swift move. I wrap my legs tightly around him as he carries me to his bed. It’s covered in crisp white linens, unmade and wild, almost as if it has been waiting for us, eager to welcome us and be a witness to our naughty shenanigans.

  When Alex drops me on his bed, I practically bounce off. A wicked smile stretches his face, his dimple fully present. He hovers over me as he pulls my cotton bohemian top up and draws his hot mouth to my torso. I close my eyes, savoring the feel of his mouth, the scent of his bed—it smells like him. He pulls at my jean shorts impatiently. He nips at the skin over my hip bones, his teeth digging in lightly. I slither down, wanting to kiss him too. I scramble to get his shirt off and struggle with his linen pants—I want him completely naked for me.

  Finally, the both of us are as naked as the day we were born. As he reaches for a condom in his bedside table, I trail my fingers along my sex, feeling how wet I am for him and anticipating his touch. When he reaches for me, I swivel my body over his, straddling him. I want to look at him. I want to take in every detail.

  My gaze is glued to his as I sink onto him. He fills me deep, hitting my spot and sending shivers up along my spine.

  “You look beautiful,” he says softly. “I could look at you all day.”

  I could look at him all day too.

  I move slowly, sliding my hips forward and up slowly, my movements rhythmic. When I arch my back, his cock presses even deeper into me, bringing us closer to heaven. When we finally get there, our moans merge and blend, a sensual song. I close my eyes as the sensations overtake me, filling me with bliss.

  My head is pressed against his chest as he trails circles along my shoulder. “You certainly are a little firecracker,” he says.

  I laugh. “Say it again… call me firecracker again.”

  “Firecracker.”

  I love the way he says it with his sexy French accent. I trail my finger around his belly button and stroke the soft dark hair under his navel. I study his loft. His mother’s painting is smack in the center of the far wall—the same image tattooed on his left arm. The painting ties the whole space together. She smirks coyly as she looks down on us. I see Alex in her—I see the resemblance. I’m saddened by the fact that I’ll never get to meet her. I’m also saddened by the fact that I’ll probably never get to meet the rest of his family.

  I shake my head, hoping to clear my thoughts. Don’t fall in love.

  11

  I have three more days with him. Three glorious days.

  The first day, we don’t even leave his loft. We form our own little world, cocooned in the sheets of his bed. We make love four times. We eat grapes and crackers and paté. We watch an old eighties movie and have leftover spaghetti for dinner. He tells me the story behind every single one of his paintings, then I tell him all about my favorite books and my boring job. It’s the most marvelous day of my life.

  The second day, we venture outside. We walk around his neighborhood. Saint-Roch sits right next to Old Québec and is vibrant and full of young people. He tells me it was full of textile companies a long time ago. Now it’s full of art schools, tech companies, and interesting buildings. I love the energy of the location as he brings me to all his favorite spots. At the Gabrielle-Roy Library, we seek out French language copies of my favorite books so he can read them in his mother tongue. We hop over to a small brewery restaurant where they serve hundreds of varieties of beers and cider, sausage and cheeses, for lunch.

  Saint-Roch is full of hipsters and more man buns. I’m still counting them in my head—I can’t help myself. We have a tasty gluten-free key lime pie made from avocado at one of his favorite spots, where another one of his cousins works. Alex seems to know everyone, and he beams when he introduces me. I wish I could speak French and converse with these people in their native tongue, but still, they’re as friendly as can be. He says he wishes I could stay longer and attend his father’s sixtieth birthday and meet all of his crazy cousins. But unfortunately, I do have a job. Harsh reality awaits.

  We have sex morning, afternoon, and night. Sometimes we make love; other times we fuck. We try a little butt play, a little bondage, and a whole lot of laughing. He says he would teach me everything he knows if only he had the time.

  On our final day together, Alex tells me he wants to take me to Old Québec City again. He kisses my shoulder softly, his naked body wrapped around mine. “You cannot live on apples, granola bars, and cheese and crackers. I want to take you out for a nice dinner.”

  It sounds really nice, but all I want to do is lie in bed with him forever. But I know spending our last night together where it all began would do us good. “I’d like that.”

  The restaurant he takes me to is called Panache, and the name certainly suits it; it’s full of flair and style. I’ve never seen anything like it—I’m breathless as I take in the décor. The restaurant is made of old grey stone walls. Dark wooden beams line the ceiling and meet at all angles. White-linen-covered tables are flanked by modern upholstered chairs. Dashes of red abound in the cushions, vases, and curtains. Low light and sparky chandeliers lend a romantic touch.

  I’m told it’s rather quiet tonight as we’re directed to a table tucked in at the back, cozy and secluded. I have the impression that Alex knows the staff here—again, he seems to know everyone. He smiles at me as we both take a seat. Dressed in a crisp blue buttoned shirt, hair combed back, he’s a different man tonight—not the disheveled artist I’m used to seeing. The server, a young blonde, seems charmed by him as she asks what we would like to drink. He orders two glasses of red wine, and we start on a ten-course dinner.

  Alex smiles at me every time a new course is presented. Everything is tiny and pretty, a work of art—very French. I get so excited every time.

  “You are adorable,” he says with a laugh.

  “This is just so great,” I tell him. “Thank you. I feel like I’m in Paris again. Trish and I went last year… I loved it.”

  For the next few hours, we chat about our childhoods, our work, and life. It’s hard to believe how well we fit together given how different we are.

  Our dinner finishes off with a delicious pastry dessert.

  “Wow, this is just as beautiful as your art,” I tell him as I stare at the swirls of jam-and-creamed topped pastry.

  “I love this place. I’m glad you enjoy it as much as I do.”

  As we head out, he says he has another surprise for me.

  “Tell me,” I beg as I take his hand. I’m wobbly in my peep-toe stylish heels. They’re the only fancy shoes I brought, and when I heard we were heading to a posh restaurant, I fished them out of my luggage. I considered wearing my new dress but it’s more of a ball gown—a bit too extravagant for dinner at a restaurant. Instead, I opted for my favorite little black dress. Alex whistled as soon as he saw me emerge from the washroom.

  He laughs. “You will see.”

  We hop on the funicular, and again I behave like an absolute child. In awe as we move up slowly, I look through the windows at the city and the river below us, full of twinkling lights. I feel high. I wonder if this is what being on drugs feels like.

  When we reach the Château Frontenac, he leads me to a lone horse-drawn carriage. The old silver Clydesdale is getting brushed by his ponytailed owner, and they both seem quite happy. When he sees us approaching them, the young man smiles widely.

  Alex says something in French. The man laughs and replies. After a little back and forth, Alex smiles at me,
takes my hand, and we hop on the velvety carriage seat. I love it. This is the most romantic gesture anyone’s ever done for me. Just when I think this week can’t get any better, Alex tops himself.

  As we travel through the old city, I try to absorb it all: the beautiful historical buildings, the lights, the lively nightlife, and even the stars and the moon. We chat a bit, and Alex laughs at me when I try to pronounce his full name the French way. I tell him I’m going to stick with Alex.

  My hand is in his when he turns to me. “I am so glad we met, Samantha. You mean very much to me.”

  My heart warms at his words, my eyes brimming. “Me too. You mean so much. I know this is just regular stuff for you, but for me… this has been the most amazing week of my life.”

  His eyes darken. “For me too. This is not regular stuff for me. This week was the most… the greatest week for me.”

  I press my hand against the rough stubble of his cheek and draw him to me. This kiss is like nothing I’ve ever felt. Is it possible to love someone after only a single week? As my tongue dances with his, I’m full of a sensation deeper than lust, stronger than excitement. Something I’ve never experienced—real love.

  We make love one last time. It’s not fast and wild. It’s slow and beautiful. My skin clings to his. Our mouths stick together, not wanting to let go. Every single touch, every precious moment, is locked away in my memory. I know I’ll think about these moments for the rest of my life. He’ll never leave me, even if I never see him again. I’ll always remember the flicker of his honey eyes, his wide infectious smile, his messy hair, his strong lean hands, the weight of him, and his scent.

  I’ll always remember him.

  As he presses slowly into me, a shiver travels along the length of my core, and I feel myself nearing my climax. He presses his mouth against my ear. “I-I think I love you, Samantha.”