by Ana Vela
“Why did you agree to this, Adrien?” she whispered back, ignoring the voice inside that told her she shouldn’t ask.
“I saw your photo. Who wouldn’t?” He ran his hand over her hip, tracing how it curved from her waist.
She felt her body respond, and placed her hand over his as his fingers pressed into the fabric of her dress. “It’s not strange for you?”
He laughed. “No. It’s not.” He spun her round, so she stood facing him with the wine bottle in her hand. “We have two hours before we need to leave. Are you going to be busy until then?”
“Not for a while,” she replied, staring at his lips.
“Good.” He kissed her, taking the bottle from her hand and setting it on the counter. He unzipped the back of her dress, and she gasped in surprise. He stared at her. “Is there a problem, Annie?”
She shook her head, and he pulled the straps from her shoulders. His eyes seemed greener, deeper close up, and they focused on her under thick lashes. She loosened the first few buttons of his shirt as he tugged her dress to the floor. He took a step back to take her in, and she reddened from his stare. He smiled and stepped forward again, kissing her lips and neck.
He intertwined his fingers with hers and pushed her against the kitchen counter. As he pressed against her, she felt him hard against her pelvis. His hands slipped from her fingers to her back, and she felt her bra fall from her shoulders to the floor. His hands were warm on her breasts, kneading them as he kissed her and opened her lips with his tongue. He held her by her ass and pushed her upward, easing her onto the kitchen counter. She wrapped her legs around him, drawing him close, and finished unbuttoning his shirt.
“Do you want me to fuck you, Annie?”
She hesitated at how direct he’d been, then felt herself wet between her legs. Her body already wanted him. “Yes.”
His lack of ceremony and his haste to take what he wanted spurred her to push against him and enjoy his arousal. She freed his cock from his pants, liking how quickly he’d become hard. He slid his hand up her thigh and peeled her underwear from her hips. She was slippery under his fingers. After touching her for a moment, he took himself in his hand and widened the spread of her legs.
She stared down at his hardness between her legs, anticipating how he’d feel inside her. He held her thigh open with one hand and gripped her waist with the other. She enveloped him with her legs, clamping onto the counter with her hand to keep her balance. She sighed at a blend of relief and surprise as he entered her and pushed all the way inside her, holding her close to the edge of the counter. His movement was rapid then slow, teasing and then increasing speed. He kneaded her breast, then sucked her nipple as he pushed farther inside her. She clinged to him, knitting her brow at her need for more from him. He rubbed where she pulsed, exposed to him above his shaft, staring down at how he filled her.
The lack of intellectual intimacy made it easier for her to focus on nothing but his movement, she realized, tensing as his fingers rotated over her. It sent hot and cold shivers of pleasure through her, and she forgot everything but the attention he gave to building her climax. It swarmed and swelled as he circled her, and she succumbed to a tunnel of focus. He worked her rhythmically, quickly recognizing her response and adapting. She came with a cry as his thumb rubbed and flicked her above his hard cock that pushed into her relentlessly. He followed, with eyes shut tight as he released.
She leaned into his chest as she caught her breath and felt her heart rate settle. The wine still sat on the counter next to her. He stood up straight and ruffled his tousled hair, then pulled his pants over his legs but left them unzipped.
She looked at him and laughed, then slid off the counter. “You weren’t planning to just drive me home, were you?”
“No.” He laughed with her, slipping on his shirt and leaving it open.
“Drink?”
“Yes please.”
She threw on a long shirt from the bedroom and joined him where he’d settled into the sofa cushions. “So this is really happening tonight?” She stared at him with a blend of flirtatiousness and disbelief, unsure if she had fully absorbed the plan.
“I’m just a chess piece in the game, Annie. And so are you, it seems, by your own design.” His smile was suggestive but sincere.
“How do you know Kate?” Guilt smacked her like the back of a hand for breaking her own rules; for caving in to seeking the immediate gratification of discovering something about him.
“Aren’t we supposed to stay strangers?” He looked at her cautiously. “Don’t break the rules and spoil your own game.”
She focused on the skin of his chest peeking from his open shirt, and his hands around his wine glass. On his bare feet with toes slightly curved, flattening the fluff of the carpet. “You’re right, I guess. But for some reason, I feel like breaking my own rules.”
He leaned toward her and lowered his voice, as if another person were present and could hear them. “If you break the rules, you break the game. And then the fun stops, and it becomes enmeshed in reality. I don’t want complications. I want to have sex with you, and help you stick to your goals.” He stood up and buttoned his shirt.
She nodded and sighed, and stood up with him. “You’re leaving?”
“I’ll be back in an hour to take you to the party. Remember the cards.” He pulled on his shoes and kissed her on both cheeks. “See you soon.”
Annie couldn’t decide to feel happy or irritated as she watched him leave. The rules seemed to have become more difficult to follow, and she couldn’t understand why. She still had two more cities to visit, and two more encounters. She reminded herself to stick to the plan, and finished her wine.
She was tempted sit back down and send a message to Kate asking what on earth she’d arranged, but thought better of it. Instead, she showered and changed into a strapless cream dress. She curled her hair with tongs, trying to understand the rapid-fire of French from the talk show on the radio. Frowning, she realized the evening would be excruciating if no one spoke English. She wondered if the other men would understand her, and how much English they spoke.
“Perhaps that’ll be a clue,” she muttered to herself with a comb between her teeth. Pedro and Adrien were both near fluent English speakers. She felt a mix of nerves, excitement and dread at the evening ahead and poured herself a drink from the liquor cabinet in the dining room. The ice cubes dropped and clunked into cognac, and she knocked it back faster than she’d planned. Adrien would arrive in ten minutes. She stared at the cards, reminding herself which card was associated with which man.
She jumped at the sound of the doorbell and grabbed her purse. Adrien was dressed immaculately again, this time in a lilac shirt and dark grey suit. He led her to his car, and she climbed into the passenger seat tingling with anticipation and anxiety.
“So where exactly is the house?” she asked, a little coy.
“It’s an apartment near the Bastille...close to le Port de Plaisance,” he explained, shifting gears and subtly eyeing the cleavage exposed from her dress. He drove through narrow streets and wide boulevards, all lined with trees and small crowds of people. As they neared the port, she saw boat masts and the flicker of sunset dance over dark water. Adrien parallel parked with more expertise than she would ever master, she guessed, and then he turned to face her.
“Are you ready?” he probed, staring at her in the dim light of dusk.
“Yes.” She opened the car door and stepped out, wobbling a little in her heels.
The apartment sat at the top floor of a large, angular and modern apartment block, overlooking a row of yachts anchored to posts along the river. As they exited the elevator and knocked on the door, she heard the laughter and loud chatter of guests inside: a combination of French and English. She exhaled in relief. A man in his forties opened the door, peering at them behind small tortoise shell glasses and then smiling broadly.
“Adrien...and...Annie, correct?” he asked in a thick accent, leadin
g them into the hallway. Annie nodded and smiled as he kissed her on both cheeks.
She held her breath at the opulence of the apartment. Thick, pale Persian carpets covered the wood floors, and gilded edging shone from cream sofas and armchairs. A heavy chandelier hung over a high ceiling supported by columns. Annie stepped into a large reception room, filled with a sampling of well-dressed and affluent Parisians. She thanked herself for choosing her most expensive heels, and felt only slightly under-dressed. A table sat in the hallway near the door. She remembered the cards in her purse and looked around, wondering where to start.
Adrien motioned her toward a group of people talking in a corner. “Come and meet some people.”
A tall man in a blue shirt nodded as they approached. Adrien introduced her in French and then switched to English. “Annie is a writer. She’s in Paris for a few days.”
“Nice to meet you Annie. My name is Antoine. This is my wife, Marcelle.” He looked at the woman next to him, who smiled and nodded.
Annie deflated. He wasn’t one of them. His wife stood next to him. Adrien wouldn’t make things so simple for her, she surmised. As the conversation unfolded, she tried to focus and appear attentive, but the object of tonight’s game held her in a grip. She needed to find the three men, and make her decision.
“Excuse me for a moment.” She extricated herself from the conversation and walked over to a long table lined with drinks. She suddenly felt alone and awkward, surrounded by strangers. She grabbed a tall glass of white wine and stood by the table, sipping and watching the crowd. She wondered if Kate had instructed the three men to ignore her or approach her.
As the thought stirred, a good-looking man with dark blonde hair and blue eyes approached her from the side, holding a glass as tall as hers. He uttered a string of French that was lost on her, and as she furrowed her brow trying to understand, he smiled.
“English?” His accent was a little thicker than Adrien’s.
“Yes, Sorry. I’m Annie.” She smiled awkwardly, unsure if she should shake his hand.
“My name is Serge. Are you visiting friends in Paris?” He stood close to her, and she swore he glanced more than once at her dress.
“Yes. I’m just here for a few days. You live in Paris?” She started to plan her path to discovering who he was, hoping he’d make it easy.
“No, I’m from Northern France. But I work for an architectural firm here.”
Bingo. He had to be the architect, she guessed, feeling relieved.
“This is my colleague, Victor.” He gestured toward a man with jet-black hair, several inches taller than him but just as good looking, who appeared from the right.
“Shit,” she whispered internally, wondering how many architects were in the room. “Hi Victor. You work with Serge?” She felt awkward again, as though she’d spoken as if she already knew the blond man to her side.
“Yes. And your name?”
He was the best looking of all, she decided, hoping he was the man who matched her card. She watched how his eyes glinted under his brows, and how his long fingers curled around his wine glass.
“I’m Annie. Nice to meet you.”
“Are you visiting friends, Annie?” Victor asked, edging a little closer to her. She sensed mild competition between him and Serge.
Before she could say no, Adrien waved at her from across the room.
“Ah, you’re with Adrien?” Both men smiled, and she blushed, worried they knew everything.
She nodded. “So you’re both architects?”
“Yes,” Serge replied, a little decidedly. “And you?”
“I’m a writer.” She changed direction before they could continue with their questioning. “This is a beautiful apartment.”
“Thank you.” Another man, nearly as tall as Victor and with hair almost as dark, overheard their conversation as he passed. He moved in and kissed Annie on both cheeks. “Gustav. Pleased to meet you.”
“Gustav’s law firm works with the architectural firm a lot,” interrupted Victor. “Many of the people here tonight are from the firm.”
The lack of answers dizzied her. An apartment full of lawyers, and she had no idea which one Kate had selected.
Gustav introduced her to what felt like an endless stream of guests, whose names she forget as soon as she heard them. Men in their twenties, thirties, forties and fifties. Some attractive and charming; some she wanted nothing to do with. She felt hope slip from her, and refilled her glass. The room had become stuffy, and she wandered into the library adjacent, looking for air. Large French doors opened to an expansive balcony. She walked over the thick carpet and stood outside by the railing, watching as yachts bobbed on the black river. The moon was visible in the sky, between a few clouds. She had a sudden urge to smoke, after years of quitting.
As she turned her head to look inside she saw a man walk past the open doors, stopping to glance at her. He reminded her of Pedro: black hair and stubble lining his jaw. Tan skin under a dark shirt and slacks. He smiled at her and disappeared. She felt the urge to follow him and find an excuse to talk to him. Pedro had become a type, she realized, and she imagined herself forever chasing men who looked like him. “Stay on track,” she reminded herself, gulping the last of her wine and leaving the balcony. She didn’t have much time left, and there were still countless men she hadn’t met. She returned to the table lined with drinks, and caught another glimpse of him. He was gorgeous, and all the more tempting because he was out of bounds for her.
“Annie...how are you doing?” Adrien’s voice made her jump. He stood beside her, smiling at her surprise.
“I’m fine thanks. It’s a beautiful place, this.” She sounded distracted and knew it.
He sensed her focus and leaned in close. “Time’s nearly up. Make your decision soon.” He disappeared as quickly as he came, back into the circles of friends and colleagues, all a little drunk. She looked to her left and flinched at the surprise of seeing the man she liked standing next to her. He smiled slowly and lingered a moment, taking his time selecting his drink, and then wandered off.
It was too late. She had to make up her mind. The architect. That was her best choice. There was a chance he was either Serge or Victor, and both were attractive. She thought of herself in bed with both of them and felt a twinge of lust flutter between her legs. As she leaned her purse on the table, ready to rummage for the cards, she noticed a business card left beside her.
Below a bank’s logo, the words Louis Dubois, Strategic Investments jumped at her, printed in black ink on thick cream cardboard.
It was him. It had to be, she promised herself. He’d been the only man to stand that close to her by the table. She glanced around the room another time, and then picked the ace from the cards. She wondered if leaving his card had been a form of cheating, and dropped it into her purse. Casually, she walked over to the table by the door and pretended to look at the artwork on the wall above the table. When she guessed no one was looking, she left the ace of spades face up by a bowl of ceramic eggs and moved away.
She searched for Adrien, unsure of her next move. He tapped her on the shoulder, and she spun around.
“Go upstairs and walk to the end of the hallway,” he whispered, and then left her standing alone. She walked to the wide staircase opposite the front door and climbed the carpeted steps, looking over her shoulder. No one was behind her. The upstairs corridor was lined with oil canvases framed in heavy gold leaf, with small spotlights mounted above them. She inhaled the scent of furniture polish and rose perfume and tread over the thick red Persian runner. At the end of the hallway stood heavy double doors, panelled in wood with brass door handles.
She opened the door to find the man she’d seen from the balcony standing on the rug, waiting for her.
“Louis?” She hoped she’d guessed correctly, and felt her heart rate elevate.
He walked toward her and kissed her on each cheek. “Yes. Hi Annie.” He took her hand, and nerves tickled her. He walked w
ith her across the room, to another door. A hidden staircase curved steeply down to the first floor. She followed him, holding tight to the iron railing and trying to figure out where he was taking her. The door at the foot of the steps led outside, and the night air was cool after the heat of the packed apartment.
“I have a boat, Annie. Let’s go.”
She stopped, confused.
He saw the flicker in her eyes as she tried to understand, and he smiled. “There was only ever one man, Annie. It was always going to be me.”
She rolled her eyes and shook her head, laughing. This time she really would kill Kate.
A small white yacht floated near the edge of the embankment by the river. She followed Louis out onto a narrow wood jetty, and a man in a white sweatshirt and khaki pants appeared from below deck. The two men exchanged a few words in French that Annie failed to catch, and then they guided her on deck. She felt the rock and sway of the boat under feet and steadied herself.