Je T'aime

by Ursula Whistler

  “Yes. Travel.” He touched her shoulder and then his as he finished speaking in English. “You. Me. We.”

  “To Avignon? Like, Sur le pont d’Avignon l’on y danse, l’on y danse. Sur le pont d’Avignon l’on y danse tout en rond.” She danced a bit as she sang the song she’d learned in French class in high school.

  “Yes. I insist.” He wiggled his eyebrows before knitting them tightly together.

  “I knew you would say that.” When those words came out of his mouth, she smiled. She loved it when he insisted. It usually meant something good was about to happen.

  He frowned.

  She didn’t like the frown, so she squeezed his hands, lifted on her tiptoes, and kissed him on the cheek. In probably the worst grammar and pronunciation ever, she replied in what she hoped meant “I would love to go with you.”

  “Good.” He wrapped her in a hug, grabbed her shoulders, and kissed her, on her lips, with his lips so brief she nearly didn’t believe it happened.

  She touched her mouth, surprised at his action but craving more. If she only knew how to say, “Kiss me again.”

  Instead she said, “Practice, if you please.”

  His eyes crinkled at her attempt, but he obliged, leaning in, both hands touching her face. He pressed his lips against hers softly, barely enough for her to feel them. Zings of delight leaped down her spine to her belly.

  This was what she had wanted, this thrill of his soft lips connecting with hers, bringing desire with each subtle movement. She wrapped her hands around his neck, pulling him closer. Her lips parted as he deepened the kiss. Delicious heat spread across her skin as the velvet of his tongue sought hers. She pressed against his hard chest silently begging for more. His hands trailed along the side of her face and down her arms. A burst of desire came to life when his fingers spread across her back at her waist.

  His mouth sought her neck, and she dropped her hands from the back of his head to the sides of his torso. Muscles rippled beneath her fingers. Her breath caught as he nibbled at her ear lobe. She gripped his sides, and he winced, pulling his mouth away from the sensitive spot he’d found beneath her ear.

  “Sorry.”

  “C’est bon,” he answered as he moved her hand lower. He tilted her chin with a light touch and pulled her bottom lip between his.

  For a moment, her mind whirled away from reality as his lips brought her such pleasure. As her hand began to migrate from his hip along his side, his hand stopped her. Not there again, she chided herself.

  More of his velvet tongue tangling with hers and more of him making her want this always. Thrills from where his fingers played along her back made her sigh. Ah, to have this all the time. To meet him after work. What does he do for a living? Hell, what would she do for a living here? She was a costume shop girl with dreams of being a designer. She could sew, though. Maybe she could sew for a tailor as she figured out exactly how to make this living with Etienne thing work.

  When she realized she had stopped kissing Étienne to think of the future with him, her eyes widened. She backed away. In a few minutes her thoughts had gone from a dalliance to figuring out a life with him in it.

  “Um.” She put her hands on his lips and backed away, stunned by how swiftly her thoughts had flown. “That was…You are…My god…I…”

  She swallowed, trying to wet her mouth and get her thoughts in order. She couldn’t express herself properly. In complete frustration, she ran from him into her room. She turned out the light and sat in the darkness, unable to process the kiss and how she felt.

  ****

  Étienne knocked on Genevieve’s door the next morning, unsure whether she’d talk to him or even go on the trip he’d planned to Avignon. He had even found a place for them to stay with two rooms connected. It was a guesthouse run by a former colleague. She’d not been able to speak to him after the kiss, and he knew exactly why. He’d had the same reaction—shock at the fervor of his emotions.

  As he kissed her, part of his life flashed in front of his eyes—her moving in with him, her sketches of buildings and clothing on the wall beside their bed. Before he knew it, he’d stopped kissing her to wonder how he would get her a visa to stay in the country with him. Would he finally have the reason to get out of special forces? Yes, he decided. Genevieve was worth it.

  That’s when he freaked. He didn’t know her. Did she have family? What did she want to do? Did she want to live in France? Did she have a boyfriend? He did not even know the words to ask these things. He needed to write all of this down and use the Internet to translate everything for her to read. When she ran from him, he understood. The same panic he’d seen in those wide eyes resided inside him.

  He’d put those emotions to work and wrote down all of his thoughts on his tablet. He got it translated and saved it for her to read as they drove to Avignon. The nearly two-hour drive would give her time to answer his questions and to read his description of his life.

  First, she’d have to answer his knock. He called to her, “Genevieve, we travel today. You will like Avignon.” He rested his head against the door. He’d spoken in French, of which she could only understand a few words. He switched to some of the English she had taught him. “Open the door, please. I insist.” When she snatched it open, he nearly fell into her as his head still rested on the door. He righted himself and grinned at her.

  “You insist much.” Her face was stern, but beautiful as a smile tugged at her mouth. When she stopped resisting the smile, her eyes lit up as well.

  He touched the shiny, sleekness of her straight, black hair. “It is good.”

  “No kissing.” She puckered her lips and wagged a finger in front of them.

  “I understand.” He’d spent time listening to an English show with subtitles the night before to get better at understanding her quick speech.

  Pride swelled his chest that he’d understood her words, but quickly it fell as she started some sentence in which he understood only you, understand, and the grunt at the end. “Stop.”

  “Oh,” she put her hand on her mouth. “You aren’t that good.” Her face transformed from a twisted look of frustration to a self-satisfied smirk with a raised eyebrow.

  Something about her look made him want to kiss her again to show her just how good he could be and not just at picking up languages. Need for her growled in his belly despite the reservations about jumping into a relationship with her too soon. Ah, to throw away the plans of the day to simply get to know the curves of her body and what would make her cry out in orgasm. He lifted his hand a mere centimeter.

  Her head shook, and she stopped his hand with hers. “It is too much.” Her French was passable.

  He sighed, but he agreed. It was too much and too soon. Beautiful, creative, and willing to deny herself pleasure, Genevieve was turning out to be even more wonderful than he’d thought. At first, she was a pretty face living with him. Then, she became a challenge to befriend. Now, he realized how much he wanted to know her better. He had so many questions. “Here. Read, please. I drive.”

  “Yes.” She reached for a small bag, but he took it from her to carry it with his. When they got in the car, she bent her head to the tablet. “I read.”

  He told her how to say it in French, and she repeated it with a small smile.

  He took a deep breath and steered the car onto the road trying not to grip the wheel too tightly. Instead, his nerves caused his leg to shake. He hoped she wouldn’t run from his questions.

  Chapter Four

  Genevieve stared at the mini-biography written on the tablet in front of her. The grammar was weirdly formal, but she supposed that was due to the translation program he’d used. She’d tried her own essay about herself on her own laptop, but it never sounded right. She hadn’t any clue how to express her life in a few paragraphs. It all sounded so pathetic. His story, though? Amazing.

  First, he wasn’t a foreign aid worker at a non-governmental organization like his stepsister Brigitte had told her. His
job was much shadier and more interesting. She’d narrowed her eyes in disbelief at the sentence that said he could only tell her a little about what he did, but that he worked for the French military deeply embedded in whatever countries they sent him to. She assumed it meant he was a spy. His family didn’t know it. He’d decided to tell her, and he asked that she not tell Brigitte so he could share the news himself.

  She stole a glance at him, wanting to ask, “Can you still be a spy if you’re with me?” But he wasn’t with her. She’d only kissed him. And she set her schedule to his rhythm, stopping her day at the time he would shop, setting the table as he cooked dinner, and sharing language tips over a glass of wine on the couch.

  She supposed they were together in a way, but could it last? Did she want it to? Her mind supplied a quiet yes as a cacophony of reasons why they shouldn’t swirled around.

  His letter swore he didn’t have a girlfriend. His exact sentence was, “I am no good in relationships. I have none. I learned this in my youth.”

  She giggled about the phrase “in his youth.” Étienne was only thirty. What would he think about her being twenty-four? Was she too young for him? She had so many questions. There was so much he didn’t know about her.

  He tapped on the tablet as he drove. Whatever he said in French ended in please, so she assumed he wanted her to keep reading.

  “I am. I am.” With a sign of frustration over the language barrier, she went back to reading about him. He’d gone to university, specializing in languages. He’d never considered learning English, because the military needed speakers of Arabic languages and Pashtun. Since he had friends who spoke those languages, he focused his studies there.

  “Aw,” she exclaimed at his next sentence. “You wish you knew English now. That’s so sweet.”

  He told her that he didn’t understand what she said. His mouth turned downward.

  “I know you don’t understand.” She liked his smile so much that she wanted to stroke his cheek to relax it out of the frown. Trying her best, she uttered a phrase that she was pretty sure meant he was sweet like candy, which wasn’t exactly what she intended to say. He’d tried to teach her the grammar, but she knew she’d messed up somehow.

  His smile returned, lighting up his eyes as they crinkled at the edges. He was a man who laughed a lot, or maybe he’d squinted more. His duffel bag left a fine, nearly sandy dust by the washing machine in the house. Maybe he’d been in Iraq or Syria, perhaps Egypt. Would he tell her if she asked? Was he allowed to tell her? So many questions needed to be answered. Or, did they?

  At the bottom of his mini-biography, he added that his father married Brigitte’s mother ten years ago, when she was ten and he was twenty. Two years ago, she had moved in with him after a disagreement about attending university. Nothing has been resolved, but his father and stepmother only spoke to him.

  She slid her finger across the screen to the next page. On it were questions with blanks for her to answer. With no hesitation, she typed in the answers to the first few.

  How old are you? Twenty-four.

  Do you have brothers or sisters? No.

  Are your parents still married? Yes.

  Do you have a boyfriend? No.

  She looked at the “no” she’d typed and contemplated giving it a more complete answer like he’d shared. Except she wasn’t sure it mattered. She’d dated. She’d had sex, but maybe not as much as Étienne had had based on his wilder days statement.

  Her goals needed to come first. For so long, she’d put her desire to design clothes second to everything else, college, relationships, and a good paying job. This trip to France was her first step in reaching her goal to become a fashion designer, and she’d never been more productive.

  Why did you travel to La Seyne sur Mer? To get in touch with my creative side. I want to design clothes. It is why I sketch and search the markets for fabrics and look at buildings for inspiration.

  How long are you here? A month. I’m scheduled to leave on February sixteenth.

  Ten more days, and she would be stepping on a plane to leave this new life. So much seemed wrong about that. Her heart grew heavy. She lived in a fantastic city. New Orleans had such history and culture, but the place had grown stale to her. The gritty neighborhoods were becoming sleeker. The politics were just as shady. The prices were getting higher. Either New Orleans was growing away from her, or she’d been growing away from it. No matter the reason, something needed to change.

  “No sadness. We travel.” Étienne touched her chin. “Smile.”

  “I will.” She could smile while she was with him. There were three other questions, but she didn’t want to think about them now. She set the tablet aside and stared out the window at the passing scenery. The rows of olive trees and rolling hills as well as the gorgeous man sitting next to her needed attention.

  “Avignon?” She wanted to say how far, but she didn’t know how.

  “Ten kilometers.”

  In no time at all, they drove those ten kilometers and found parking in the city known for being the home of the popes during a schism of the Catholic Church. She’d done a bit of reading on it when she couldn’t sleep the night before. The biggest draw was Le Palais du Papes, or the palace of the popes. She already knew about the bridge and the song. She hoped he would take her to see it first.

  As soon as she stepped out of the car, she didn’t care where he took her first. The towers flanking the old part of the city towered over the car park. The gray stone wall with its crenellations called to her, and her fingers itched to sketch. Étienne motioned to a bench as his hand made imaginary drawing motions in the air.

  “Oui.” She let him lead her to a place to sit as she pulled out her sketchbook.

  Over and over, he seemed to know what she wanted during this trip, whether it was to sketch or to drop into a store to browse or to saunter slowly through the massive dining room of the palace as they listened to the oral history through headphones.

  It was as if he could read her mind. They spoke very little. Most of their communication consisted of a touch, gentle, yet thrilling. His hand brushing her elbow would have her heart thumping a bit faster, or her hand reaching for him to follow her down this twist of an alleyway would bring her warmth down to her belly.

  When she pulled him down to sit beside her as she sketched the arches in the ceiling of the once opulent chapel in the palace, his leg brushed against hers, bringing an instant need surging inside her. The desire stopped her hand mid-sketch.

  Instead of staring at the architecture and colors, her gaze found him. His tan had faded a bit since she first met him, but some of the golden glow remained. His eyes were more amber than brown, and when he smiled at her, they twinkled. That astounded her. Without thinking, she touched his face, smooth from stubble. So much of this day had been about her, and she wanted some of it to be about him.

  As a group of uniformed schoolgirls passed them by, she tried to say what she was thinking in halting French. “I want to do what you want to do.”

  He shook his head.

  Not knowing if he meant “no” or that he couldn’t understand, she tried again with something simple. “Let’s go to the bridge.”

  He popped to a stand and offered her his hand, which she took. This made the schoolgirls giggle. He grinned at her and winked at the girls, sending them into a bigger fit of giggles.

  Thrilled to be with the object of schoolgirls’ desires, she entwined her fingers in his. It felt natural and alluring all together. When he raised her hand to his lips, her heart fluttered.

  By the time they found their way out of the massive stone edifices that comprised the Palais du Papes, the sun hung low in the sky, bringing a pink and orange glow to the gray stone of the buildings. They wound their way down stairs and around tight corners of the wall surrounding the old town to walk along the bridge that jutted halfway into the Rhône River. He took her hand in his again as they strolled to the end of the bridge.

  “
Merci,” she uttered, wanting to say so much more. Instead, she squeezed his hand while they watched the sun sink lower on the horizon.

  “You are welcome. Ah, a photo?”

  “You are so good at English.” It was half lament and half compliment. “Yes, a photo.” She pulled her phone from her purse.

  He held it aloft as they pressed together. “Say cheese.” He chuckled as he snapped the photo.

  “One more,” she suggested.

  Etienne was happy to take another photo with Genevieve. He wanted to remember the day for a long time. They had understood each other without language. Small looks and touches were all they needed. Such a day should be captured in a picture.

  This time, as he began to take the photo, he took her chin in his other hand and pulled her face to his. Without giving her time to say anything, he kissed her. He’d only meant for it to be a chaste peck, a quick bise to show her he was more than a friend.

  There was no way to stop once he’d begun, particularly after she returned the kiss, pressing into him. Her arm wrapped tighter around him, and her other hand pressed his head closer to hers. As her tongue explored his mouth, need exploded inside of him. His belly tightened as he struggled to control his desire. Her hands slipped beneath his coat. When her fingers curled into the top of his waistband, a surge of need filled his cock. Her hips rocked against his, and he knew she wanted what he did.

  He lifted his head from hers. “Genevieve, not here.” His lust befuddled his brain, but he found the right words. “Room.”

  “Too far.” Her hand splayed across his chest. Even through the layers of his coat and sweater, the heat of her hand warmed him.

  “Not La Seyne sur Mer. Here in Avignon.”

  She pushed away from him, and he grabbed for her, not wanting her to walk from him. Had he been too presumptuous? He’d gotten two rooms, not one, but he couldn’t get the words out fast enough.

  Her eyes narrowed. “Here? Avignon.”

  “Yes.”

  For once, he couldn’t read her. Today had been amazing in how she expressed her wishes with her shoulders or the way her head tilted. He didn’t need language to know what she wanted. Now, though, he couldn’t figure out what she might do or say. The distance from him suggested she was insulted that he’d gotten a room, yet the tilt of her head and the way she bit her lip meant she was seriously considering his offer.