Marked By Fire

by Meg Ripley

  I knock on her door anyway, looking around. Normally, I’d have to ring her bell at the ground floor, but one of the other building tenants had just gone in before me, leaving the door unlocked.

  “Coming!”

  I smile to myself, thinking that at least Nora’s home. There’s one issue resolved. I wait patiently and then I hear her approaching the door. I hear the locks turn over, and then, there she is, dressed in a cropped shirt that barely covers her bra, leaving her new tattoo open to the air. It’s just a bit shiny from the other salve I gave her for healing it.

  “I came by to check on your tattoo, but I thought I’d bring you a surprise, too,” I say, holding up the bag. “And here,” I add, showing her the lotion. “The salve is too heavy at this point in the healing process, so you should switch to this.”

  “Oh, thank you,” Nora says. “Please, come in.”

  After about a month in the city, surrounded by French speakers, she’s much less hesitant, and I’m happy to see it. She told me after the show that she’d had an idea: if she started reading books in French—and listening to the audio versions at the same time—she’d improve faster, and that seems to be the case.

  I take off my shoes at the door and hand her the bag; Nora peeks into it and smiles as soon as she realizes what’s inside.

  “Oh my God, cheese and sausage—I’m going to reek later, but I’m really happy right now,” she says, and I laugh. “I have some olives and a fresh baguette that would go really well with this,” she adds.

  “Perfect,” I say. “Any wine?”

  Nora looks at me with one eyebrow raised, as if asking who I think she is. “Of course, there’s wine,” she says.

  Between the two of us, we put together a kind of picnic lunch and I follow Nora into the living room. She’s carrying a big tray with the cheeses, meats, bread and a bowl of olives on it, while I carry a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon and a couple of glasses, along with a bottle opener. I think that if it weren’t for the need to check on her tattoo, Julienne would almost tell me that I was having an actual date with the girl; but it’s strictly business, as far as I’m concerned, even if it’s particularly pleasant business.

  She turns on some music and I start to describe the cheeses and the sausages to her, while pouring the wine. “This one is a specialty of this area, and you can get it at the market any day of the week,” I say, pointing to the Neufchâtel. “This, Mimolette, is one of my favorites—especially the aged. Époisses is also really good. I got the hazelnut dried sausage and the dried mushroom sausage, along with the plain, so you can compare.”

  Nora starts sampling the cheeses on thick slices of baguette, and I help myself to a few pieces of sausage and a sip of wine before I examine her tattoo. It’s healing nicely, and I tell her she’s doing an awesome job of keeping it moist the way it should be.

  “I’ve noticed that there’s nothing that will make me want to take a long bath like being told I can’t,” Nora says, grinning wryly.

  I laugh and convince her to try a bit of the cured sausage with hazelnuts.

  “In about another week, it should be okay,” I tell her. “Maybe you could come over my place and we can take a bath together.”

  Nora blushes slightly at that, but I can see the interest in her eyes. She definitely likes the idea.

  “Maybe,” she says coyly. “I meant to ask you something. Who was that girl at the show the other night?”

  I want to groan, but I know better.

  The concert went off almost completely without a hitch. Nora bought our latest album on vinyl to take home, along with a tee shirt, but Hélène had been there, and even though she’d been focused on Pascal at the beginning of the evening, she’d noticed that I was paying attention to Nora, and started a bit of an argument over it.

  “She’s just a fan,” I say. “She’s a little…” I twirl my finger in circles next to my head, wrinkling my nose.

  “That’s not very nice to say about someone,” Nora says, giving him a playful slap on his arm. I offer her a chunk of the dried sausage with mushrooms, and she chews it meditatively.

  “I hate to say it, but in her case, it’s true,” I say firmly. “She’s not a bad person, I think, but she’s obsessed with the band, and sometimes gets a little out of control.”

  “I see,” Nora says, looking doubtful.

  “Why do you ask?”

  Nora shrugs and helps herself to a piece of baguette with a thick layer of Neufchâtel spread on it.

  “I saw her at the Monoprix the other day,” Nora says. “She asked how well I know you.”

  “The fact that you can speak to strangers comfortably is a good thing, at least,” I point out.

  Nora bobs her head from side to side, pressing her lips together as she considers that aspect.

  “She doesn’t like me,” she says after a moment.

  “You didn’t think that all Rouen people would like you, did you?”

  Nora shakes her head, “No, of course not. You can’t please everyone. But it’s weird; it seems like she has some specific reason to not like me, and I don’t know what it is.”

  “She’s a little crazy,” I remind Nora. “She could have decided that you’re a threat to her or something. I’d just avoid her, if I were you. She’s a drama magnet.”

  “It may be a good idea,” Nora says, taking a spoonful of the Époisses and smearing it across another slice of baguette. She chews it slowly, savoring it before mentioning how it would pair well with a glass of Sauternes. She holds the bread to my mouth so I can have a taste, but instead, I take it from her hand and place it on the tray, grasping both of her hands to pull her in close.

  “You know what else is a good idea?” I ask, coaxing the hem of Nora’s shirt up, carefully avoiding the still-sensitive and healing skin along her ribs as I start to strip off her clothes. I cup her tits in my hands—I can’t get enough of them—and tease her nipples into firm little nubs, rolling and twisting them between my fingers.

  I’m already hard by the time Nora reaches down and starts to rub me through my pants, her hands eager against my crotch. She opens my fly and reaches in, and as soon as her hand wraps around my erection, I’m moaning against her lips, reaching up between her legs to return the favor. I stroke and rub her carefully, finding her clit with my fingertips and swirling them over the little bead of nerves. Nora moans, gripping me tighter as we touch each other at the same time.

  I kiss her lips, her throat, down to her breasts, and murmur in her ear how much I want her, how hot and wet she feels, as she gets more and more turned on. I bring my mouth down to her tits and find her nipple with my lips, sucking and licking it enough to make her writhe on top of me, her hand moving on my dick a little faster. We keep going at it for what feels like an hour, teasing each other. I get Nora right up to the edge of climax again and again until she’s panting and gasping, almost ready to beg me to finish her off.

  When I can’t take it anymore, I wriggle out of my jeans and settle her on top of me. We were both taking a risk when we first had sex—we probably should have used a condom—but since then, I’ve found out that Nora’s on birth control and clean, and my test results all came back negative as well.

  She sinks onto me slowly and it’s almost more than I can stand, feeling her tight, wet heat wrapped around my cock. I let her take me at her own pace, turning my attention onto her full, heavy tits, sucking and licking as much of them as I can take into my mouth, carefully tugging at the nipples until she gasps and shudders.

  Finally, when she’s fully settled on top of me, we start moving together, slowly at first. I thrust up into her as Nora pushes herself down onto me, and I’m pressing deeper and deeper inside of her, touching her everywhere, only barely remembering to avoid her new tattoo.

  I grab her hips and start moving faster inside of her, rocking my hips up into hers. Nora kisses and nibbles and licks my throat, my shoulders, then down to my chest.

  Being with her is not like any oth
er experience I’ve ever had with a French girl. I can sort of see what Christophe meant about American girls, if the rest of them are anything like Nora. She’s so hot, so passionate, that I can barely keep my hands off her every time we’re alone together.

  We hit a steady rhythm and I start moving faster, while Nora matches my pace, rising and falling on me, taking me deeper and deeper. I reach up between our bodies and find her clit with my fingertips again, right above where I have her speared, and begin rubbing and stroking her in time to my thrusts, making her cry out in pleasure. I hold back for as long as I can, slowing down just enough to avoid my peak while I feel the tension mounting in Nora’s body. I can feel her muscles tightening around me in little spasms more and more often as she gets closer to orgasm.

  All at once, Nora cries out and her body flexes around me as if it can’t stand for me to leave it. I drive into her hard and fast, thrusting deep inside her body as she screams my name and starts to come for me. I hold onto her hips, kissing her hungrily, and hit my peak right along with her. We both keep moving together until we can’t anymore, and then I carefully wrap my arms around her and hold her body pressed against mine.

  She lets out a small laugh, smiling as she wipes the beads of sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. “You’re not this intimate with other women you give tattoos to, are you?”

  I laugh at Nora’s question. “No, definitely not.”

  I kiss her lazily and hold her for a little while longer. I know I should leave soon to make it in time for practice, but the more time we spend like this together, the harder it’s getting to leave her side.

  Chapter TWELVE

  Nora

  “I can’t believe I’ve been in Rouen for two months already,” I say, shaking my head as it dawns on me.

  Jess, one of my expat friends, laughs. “Have you reached the point yet where you’re not sure if you’re speaking French or English?”

  I nod in response to her question; it’s actually more involved than that. When I’m talking to someone, even one of my English-speaking friends in Rouen, the English and French words jumble up in my head. Sometimes, in the middle of an English sentence, the next word I think of is in French; I’ll even catch myself slipping English into my French sentences, too.

  “Yeah, definitely. I’m also noticing that my vocabulary’s getting better as time goes on,” I say, feeling my cheeks heat up with a blush. A lot of my vocabulary comes from regular meetings with Jacques, who’s taught me a slew of words related to sex, in particular.

  “Vocabulary is good,” Jess says with a little grin. “Is that hot tattoo artist helping you learn?”

  Jess has met Jacques a few times, when she’s come to get me to go out for drinks or coffee, or when we’ve run into her while having dinner out. She’s always been of the opinion that Jacques will convince me to stay longer than the one year I’ve settled on.

  “He’s very helpful,” I say, smiling coyly.

  “Oh, the men of Rouen are very, very helpful when you ask them for things the right way,” Jess agrees. “What’s the situation between the two of you?”

  “We’ve been hanging out a lot,” I say. “We have sex a few times a week, sometimes we’ll go grab a coffee or a beer or a glass of wine. Every so often, he’ll go with me to get groceries.”

  “So, he’s your boyfriend,” Jess says.

  I grimace.

  “We haven’t really nailed down any kind of label like that,” I admit. “I mean, we don’t actually talk about it.”

  “After what, two months? Don’t you think you should?”

  I look down into my still half-full coffee and press my lips together. I haven’t told Jess about what drove me to France: finding out that my boyfriend of years had been cheating on me for most of the time we’d been together. I knew the quickest way for me to get over the past would be for me to not rehash the whole ordeal. The less I mentioned Ethan’s name or dwelled on the fucked-up things he did to me, the better. I’d told her about the pact I’d made with myself, but not the reason for it.

  And as for Jacques, it doesn’t seem like he’s in any real hurry to define what’s going on between us, anyway.

  “I mean, if we’re both happy with it, why ruin a good thing?” I sip my coffee and try to act as relaxed and nonchalant as possible.

  “Are you actually happy with the way things are, though?”

  “Yeah, I am,” I say. “I get sex, someone to hang out with when I’m bored and none of the commitment bullshit.” I set my coffee cup down. “If I want to hook up with someone else, I can.”

  “Yeah, but do you?” Jess raises an eyebrow. “I mean, if you’re interested in hooking up with as many guys as you can, that’s one thing, but I haven’t heard you mentioning other guys you’re bringing home or going out with.”

  “Jacques fulfills my needs for the time being,” I say. “Besides, who needs a label?”

  “That annoying guy at the bar who always hits on you would probably leave you alone if you told him you have a boyfriend,” Jess points out.

  “I could just say that, anyway,” I counter.

  “Yeah, but it would come across a lot more powerfully if big, tough Jacques was standing there next to you,” Jess insists.

  “Whatever. The conversation will happen when it’s the right time,” I say. “Besides, I don’t hear you telling me that you and Charles have made it official.”

  “That’s because Charles and I are both still screwing around with other people,” Jess says.

  “Well, I think things are fine between me and Jacques,” I say firmly. “Oh, my friend Claire is going to be visiting me when she gets a break between semesters; did I tell you that?”

  I’m more than happy to change the subject, since I don’t want to think too much about the situation between me and Jacques and whether or not it’s serious. It’s not that easy, of course; even though Jess and I talk about people coming to visit us for another thirty minutes, my mind is full of the issue of whether Jacques and I are indeed a couple or not.

  By the time Jess and I say our goodbyes and I start walking back in the direction of my apartment, I can’t stand it anymore; I need to talk to Jacques, which is why I find myself stepping around the corner instead of going straight, cutting through the alley to go to his place. I tell myself that he’s probably either working or rehearsing for the band’s next show in a few days, that he won’t be home, but my heart is beating a thousand times a minute by the time I press the button to ring his buzzer upstairs.

  If he’s not home, then just...go get groceries or something, and wait for him to be available, I tell myself. But a second later, Jacques’ voice comes over the intercom.

  “Oui?”

  “C’est moi,” I say it’s me, and my heart pounds even harder in my chest.

  Jacques buzzes me in and I open the door to his building. I find myself questioning whether or not this is a good idea, all the while having no clue exactly how I’m going to broach the subject. But if I run away now, I’m just going to spend the rest of the day torturing myself with the questions on my mind, and on top of that, Jacques would know that I ran away and want to know what the hell was going on. I might as well get it over with.

  I ride the elevator up to Jacques’ floor and take deep breaths, trying to calm myself. Worst case scenario, if he’s not interested in being your boyfriend, you haven’t invested much in this, I think as the elevator stops and unlocks to let me out. It’s one of the really old ones, with two doors, small enough that Jacques and I can barely both fit in it at the same time. I step out of the elevator and start down the hall towards Jacques’ door, and I once again consider the possibility of just running away. But doing that won’t solve any of my problems.

  I take a deep breath and exhale sharply, and then knock on Jacques’ door. Almost as soon as the door is open, Jacques has me wrapped in his giant, firm arms, and for a few moments, I forget all about why I came here in the first place. I feel his h
ands slip under my blouse, moving to cup my breasts and I force myself to pull back before he can seduce me into forgetting everything but what pleasure he can give me.

  “Nous devons nous parler,” I say quickly. We need to talk. Jacques looks at me in startled confusion, blinking. I’m not sure if it implies the same thing in French as it does in English, but it’s interrupted the flood of heat flowing between us.

  “You need to speak about something?” After two months in Rouen, my mind has started translating on its own now—so automatically, that I don’t even think about it most of the time, unless I run into a word I don’t already know.

  “Yes,” I reply. I take a quick, deep breath, and it occurs to me that I don’t really know how to have this conversation in French—at least, not the way I would have it in English.

  “What are we?”

  Jacques’ look of confusion deepens.

  “What are we?”

  He shakes his head, underscoring his confusion.

  “What I’m trying to ask is are we still just friends with benefits, or is there more to this?”

  I swallow against the tight feeling in my throat. Why should I feel so nervous? If Jacques doesn’t want more, then I’m still doing fine, aren’t I? I wasn’t even supposed to be thinking about getting into an actual relationship for months.

  “Oh!” Jacques’ eyes widen first in understanding, and then, in surprise. “Are you asking if I want to take things to the next level?”

  I was hoping he would at least give me a straight answer, and after the situation with Ethan, I can’t help but suspect that a question like this means that Jacques doesn’t want anything more; he’s just avoiding saying it outright.

  “I don’t know,” I say, putting the ball back in his metaphorical court. “I just was thinking…we’ve been having sex so much and seeing each other most days of the week...do you think that there is more here?”