by Colet Abedi
We spend the next two hours having an amazing time. I linger in front of paintings that I become entranced with and surprisingly Clayton appreciates the work as much as I do. I’m shocked by how much knowledge he has and how familiar he is with all the artists. It makes him even more appealing.
We find ourselves near the museum coffee shop, and the smell of the baguettes is seriously making my mouth water.
“You must be famished,” Clayton says.
“I am pretty hungry, but I can wait until we get back home—” I say, then quickly add, “I mean, back to your chateau.”
Did you really just say that?
“I like that you called it home.” My heart slams inside my chest as I look up at him. “But we’re not going back. I’m taking you to lunch and to taste some wine,” he says. “If the plan had been for us just to come to the museum I would have driven myself.”
Wine tasting.
Just the two of us.
Alcohol and Clayton in close proximity. Bad idea, Sophie. You should go back to the chateau and be safe.
“Sounds great,” I say enthusiastically.
Believe it or not I have never been wine tasting before, even though I’ve lived in California all my life. I’ve definitely consumed plenty of wine, from French whites, to New Zealand, to a Bordeaux or an Italian Brunello… but I’ve never actually sat down and consecutively tried wine after wine after wine. And for the life of me I don’t know why I’ve robbed myself of such an incredibly awesome experience.
The cheese.
The bread.
The buzz.
The man…
Crap. I don’t get to taste or eat him but I can look. Oh, can I look.
We’re in a quaint restaurant in the small town of Avignon eating, drinking, and laughing and really enjoying each other’s company. There is no awkwardness, no references to the magazine article or to our relationship. We’re both carefully avoiding any topic that might ruin our moment.
“Merci,” Clayton tells the waiter as he sets another two glasses down.
“This is a Sancerre,” he tells me as he pushes another taster glass toward me. “Try it. I think you’ll really enjoy this—”
I gladly take it and have a sip. More than a sip, but who’s paying attention?
“This is delicious.”
He hands me a cracker with brie and a dollop of fig jam that is truly incredible. Honestly, I really think I’ve died and gone to cheese and wine heaven.
“This is decadent, Clayton,” I say, savoring every bite.
We’re side by side in a small booth in a secluded part of the restaurant. After the first glass of wine I began a pattern that has continued with every new glass: I scoot about half an inch closer to Clayton. At the rate I’m going I will be sitting on his lap in no time.
Of course he hasn’t moved at all. But that hasn’t stopped me. Something about alcohol and the false sense of confidence it gives has made me utterly bold. Our legs are now touching under the table, lightly grazing ever so often. It’s such a turn-on. It’s crazy that a single brush of a jean-clad leg can make me so hot. I feel like a teenager, not an experienced woman who’s had mad sex with the man who happens to be sitting next to me.
“It’s hard to believe that you’ve never done this before,” he says as he picks up his glass. “But I am glad that so many of your first times are with me.”
Talk about needing another glass of wine. Like pronto.
“So you and Abby must be close,” I change the subject. Clayton laughs devilishly. I know he’s enjoying my discomfort.
“She’s a lot closer to Michael,” he admits. “Michael is six years older than Abby and has always been very protective of her. She worshipped him her entire childhood, followed him around like his shadow. Actually, she’s more like our little sister.”
“Is she from your father’s side?” I ask curiously.
“Yes. She’s my uncle’s step-daughter.”
“So you’re not blood related?” I’m surprised.
“No. But that doesn’t change a thing,” Clayton says. “We would do anything for her. She had a very lonely childhood. My blood cousin, her older brother, Davis, is a lot to handle.”
I thought of the Davis I met early with Michael.
“Was he in the dining room this morning?” I ask.
Clayton gives me an inquisitive look. “Did you meet him?”
“Yes.” I try to sound cool. I definitely know why Abby had such a tough childhood. Who would want him as an older brother? He gave me the creeps.
“So do you like Dimitri?” I ask, diplomatically changing the subject. I didn’t get to meet him at the cocktail party last night, and only saw him from a distance, so I’m curious to know what Clayton thinks of him.
He shrugs. “Abby’s marrying him, not me.”
“Does that mean you don’t like him?”
“It means I’d rather not talk about him,” Clayton says seriously.
Definitely doesn’t like him. His more-than-generous gesture of offering his chateau and all the perks that I have no doubt he’s given to Abby seems even sweeter. He must really love her.
“Abby seems lovely,” I tell him.
“She is wonderful,” Clayton says. “That man is lucky to have her.”
I don’t miss the tone he takes when he refers to Dimitri as that man.
“So I take it your entire family is coming to this wedding?” I enquire, though I’m nauseous at the thought of being surrounded by the Sinclair clan.
“If my father can spare the time,” Clayton says indifferently. “And my mother wouldn’t miss the wedding for anything. She adores Abigail and she’ll also use this as an opportunity to pester me about getting married.”
Of course she will.
She must just be dying for you to procreate. I can just imagine what his kids will look like. Little boys or girls with those blue eyes, those lips, and that perfect symmetry… Just stop, Sophie! Picturing his children, or maybe what my children with him would look like is probably the worst thing I can do. I stop myself from going down that dangerous path and throw out the obvious question, one I’m dying to know the answer to, and one that the wine has made me daring enough to ask.
“Well, do you want to?” I ask, boldly throwing caution to the wind.
“Do I want to what?” His gaze is hooded as he stares at me. I know he’s fully aware of what I’m asking and it irritates me no end that he won’t answer, but I arch a brow in challenge.
“Get married.”
“Are you asking me?” His voice is quite polite.
Oh. My. God.
My entire body turns red. From the tips of my toes to the top of my head. I just know. I sputter and try to come back with a suitable reply but the devil that is Clayton saves me.
“I’m only joking,” he says with a laugh. “You should see your face.”
“I wasn’t aware you had a sense of humor,” I tell him.
“Sometimes.” His gives me a sexy smile then, “I’ve never given marriage a thought.”
Meaning he’s never met anyone who’s made him give marriage a thought.
“And there’s the answer,” I say, hoping my voice doesn’t sound dejected.
His blue eyes burn into mine. The look is so intense, it causes my breath to hitch.
“I didn’t give a definitive reply.”
“You didn’t have to,” I tell him with a playful smile.
“I take offense,” Clayton says as he leans closer to me. “I could be the marrying kind.”
Only in my dreams.
“Please,” I try to laugh it off. “You’re a thirty-something-year-old bachelor.”
“You don’t remember how old I am?” he asks curiously.
“I forget,” I lie, shrugging my shoulders as if I have no idea what his date of birth and sign is.
Born in November. Scorpio. He’s thirty-four. If I knew his time o
f birth I could figure out his rising sign, too.
“Liar.”
The way he says it softens the sting.
I unconsciously lick my lips and watch with some satisfaction, okay, a lot of satisfaction, how his eyes flash with desire.
“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself,” he says as his eyes darken.
“Aren’t you?” I ask, suddenly uncertain because of the edge I heard in his voice.
His gaze slowly moves from my lips to my eyes and back up to my lips. I feel like I’ve been branded by fire. The look isn’t just about desire. It’s about ownership. Pure, male, Neanderthal-like ownership. And I realize I don’t mind one damn bit.
“There are other things I’d rather be doing,” he says softly. “But no one else I’d rather be with.”
As if on some magical cue Brian Ferry’s “Slave to Love” starts to play softly in the restaurant.
Holy cow.
Talk about the hottest song on the planet featured in one of the hottest movies ever made, 9½ Weeks. I realize that the film is strangely reminiscent of my nine and half days with Clayton in the Maldives. Interesting. I can’t wait to share that piece of information with Erik and Orie.
“What are you thinking about?” he asks.
Mickey Rourke and Kim Basinger having sex in front of the refrigerator and kind of wishing that we could have the same experience.
“Nothing.”
Coward.
To my surprise he reaches out and cups my jaw in his large hand. He pulls my face up to his and I think he’s going to kiss me. God, I want him to kiss me.
Instead he uses his other hand to bring a piece of chocolate to my lips. I open my mouth and he places the candy inside. I brush his finger with my tongue. His eyes light up.
“Do you like the way it tastes?”
The chocolate is fine. Whatever. His finger tastes so much better. I can’t even answer him and I know my eyes say it all. He gets up suddenly and takes my hand, pulling me after him to the back of the restaurant, where there’s a dark hall that leads to the bathrooms and a phone booth.
Before I know what’s happening he pulls me into the phone booth and shoves the curtain shut and engulfs me with the sheer size of him. He grabs my hair and tugs hard, tilting my head up before his mouth consumes mine. His other hand reaches out and lifts me up against his body and I gladly wrap my legs around his waist and pull him closer with all my strength. The kiss devours me. Consumes me. Owns me. His tongue moves into my mouth and I feel like I’ve died and gone to sweet, Clayton Sinclair heaven.
I can feel how hard he is for me. I die. Literally. Die. I want him so badly I hurt. He rubs up against me as he deepens the kiss, moving his hand to cup my ass and pull me even tighter to him, using the friction, the seductive movement, to drive me insane.
It’s madness.
But I realize it’s the kind I need. And want more than anything.
He pulls his lips away and moves to kiss my neck. “God, I missed you.”
“I missed you,” I admit.
He still holds me up but pulls back so he can look at me.
“Nothing happened with Amelia,” he says. “I will not say that again.”
I search his face for evidence that differs from what my heart knows and then I nod.
“Okay,” I say.
“Sophie, I don’t know where we’re going,” he goes on to say, his voice uncertain, lacking the usual authority I’m accustomed to hearing. “I don’t know why I can’t get you out of my mind. Why I feel like you’re in my blood. I didn’t sleep for weeks. I didn’t want to eat. To see anyone,” he says. “ I was so fucking furious with you, and with myself for even caring. But then you weren’t going away. You weren’t leaving my thoughts. And I had to have you back. No matter the consequence. I had to have you back.”
I can feel the moisture on my cheeks and I know tears are streaming down my face because I’m overcome by his words. He lets me down and uses his thumbs to wipe my tears away as he leans close to me.
“Play this out with me,” he continues. “Let’s see where the ride takes us.”
He kisses me on my forehead and I have to close my eyes. All the feelings I have are consuming me. The love I have is flooding my heart and practically choking me. I knew this in the Maldives and I know it here. This is a man who can ruin me for life. Eleven days with him already proved that. He is a huge risk.
I’ve never enjoyed gambling.
But with him I want to roll the dice.
He kisses my eyes, my cheeks, my nose, my jawline. He protects me with his body, embraces me and pulls me into the warmth that he exudes and I let him.
“I’m not a patient man,” Clayton says. “I’ve told you this before. I’ll tell you again. I will have you.”
I take a brief moment before I respond.
You’ve always had me. From the moment you set eyes on me. You can have me for as long as you want because no matter how hard I try to be strong there’s something about you that makes me want to say yes.
That’s what I want to say.
“Let’s see how this time together goes,” I answer instead.
“Fair enough,” he says. That’s not the best answer. Not exactly the declaration that I was hoping for but it’s something.
“No more tears?” Clayton says gently.
“Don’t make me cry and you won’t see them,” I say with a smile, praying to the gods above that I won’t shed another tear over him again.
Somehow I know that is as likely as me voluntarily getting in a great white shark cage for fun.
6
“He’s like a Mr. Darcy who walks, talks, and fucks like a porn star,” Erik says.
He’s in my room and we’re lying on the bed facing each other. When Clayton and I got back to the chateau he told me he had work to do and would come find me after he was done. He also invited me to be his date tonight at a dinner that some count is throwing in honor of Abby and Dimitri’s wedding. I was thrilled he asked and honestly, I can’t wait to spend more time with him.
“Where do you come up with this shit?” I ask with a giggle.
Erik shrugs.
“How did Einstein come up with e equals m c squared? He just did,” he says. “It’s like me. I just do.”
I can’t help it. I burst out laughing. Erik sees the humor in it and joins in. His eyes obviously catch site of something on my teeth because he reaches out to brush it away, and says, “Are you saving this piece of food for a snack later?”
I laugh and shake my head.
“Did you get it?” I ask.
“Hard not to,” he tells me. “So you’re happy we stayed?”
“I am, but I’m still scared,” I admit.
“So the whole Amelia magazine story is behind us?”
I nod.
“Dr. Goldstein will be thrilled,” Erik mutters. “You should e-mail him.”
“No doubt.”
I smile then study my friend’s face. “How are you?”
“Shit hot.”
“I’m serious, Erik.”
“I am, too,” he tells me.
“Erik—” he knows I don’t believe him. I know every single one of his moods. And I know when something isn’t right.
“Alright,” he begins slowly. “I’m not going to lie. I’m a little jet lagged and Orie and I have been bickering, which is unlike us, as you know. But I think we’re both just cranky and tired.”
“Are you sure that’s it?” I ask, concerned, as I try to figure out if he is lying to me.
“I promise, Sophie. Jesus. This is what a real relationship is. You don’t always get along,” Erik tells me as if he’s explaining it to a child. “But you love and fucking desire each other. And you know that even if you get into a fight you’ve got great make-up sex to look forward to.”
Now that I know firsthand. But still—
Erik studies my face. “You’re sta
ring at me with crazy eyes.”
“I am?”
“Full on cray town,” Erik says.
God, he knows he me so well. Even when my mind is wandering and I’m going to kookoo land he can tell.
“What makes men stray?” I blurt out.
Where did that come from? Umm—insecure city?
“Why? I thought we were past the point of thinking he cheated with Amelia.”
“I’m just asking,” I say. “You were a player before Orie…”
“You cheat when it’s not right. You get a wandering eye when the person you’re with doesn’t excite you mentally, physically, and emotionally. That’s when you start to look for something that will make you feel alive again. But when you find the one, then you’re good. No more searching. Because the thought of losing the one you’re with makes you want to die.”
The one. The infamous fabled partner who is supposed to be your other half. A mate your soul recognizes the moment you gaze into each other’s eyes.
Dare I believe Clayton is my one?
“The odds of finding the one are not great,” I tell him. “Do you know how lucky you are?”
“I do. Most people are in fucked relationships just going through the motions,” Erik says. “But that’s not going to be the case with you either.”
“How do you know?” I ask softly.
“Because look at the first real sexual relationship you’ve attracted into your life. The man is crazy for you.”
I can’t stop my grin.
“He has to be, right?”
“Obviously,” Erik tells me as he gets up to lean on his elbow. “By the way, I have a new favorite word. And it’s French.”
“I’m sitting on pins and needles.”
“Trés.”
“Trés?” I ask confused. “As in very?”
“Yes, but in French it sounds so much cooler, trés chic, trés gorg, trés pissterical.”
We both bust out laughing.
“Try it,” he urges.
“Trés stupide?”
“I’m telling you,” Erik says with excitement, “I’m kind of obsessed.”
There’s a knock at the door before I can try out another trés phrase.