by Roxy Harte
“I saw the dew still clinging to the fruit and wanted you to see,” he tells me, not yet looking up at me. I bite my lip, wondering if all of my worries were well founded last night. I walk beside him, distressed he will send me away because he loves Pierre-Louis so dearly.
“I used to dream of being here, with you,” I say nervously, reaching out a finger to touch a cluster of small damp grapes. Water droplets drip off with the contact. “I made a dream journal and filled it with pictures of France and vineyards and you.”
“Oui, I know.”
“It is different than I thought it would be.”
“Because of Pierre-Louis?”
I shrug.
“You wish for me to send him away?”
“What?” I gasp, wondering if he would, if I asked. “No. I—” I stop, walking. “He loves you, you love him.”
He stops walking too and turns to face me, looking at me for the first time since I joined him. He looks like he hasn’t slept. I wonder if I look as bad. “Has Pierre-Louis asked you to get rid of me?”
He cocks his head sideways and takes a step forward. When he reaches to touch my shoulder, I feel his hand tremble. Oh. This is bad.
“Au contraire.”
Our gazes collide.
“He wants to spend time alone with you, giving the two of you time to get to know one another outside of the dynamic.”
“The dynamic?” I ask.
“Me,” he says, explaining. “He wants to see what will happen when you are both alone and not obeying my whims.”
I shiver, thinking no good will come of this. I laugh, “Of course you said no.”
He holds my chin so that I can’t pull away from his gaze when he asks, “Is that what you wish?”
I force myself to stay very still beneath his hand. I refuse to admit I’ve seen the way Pierre-Louis looks at me with desire. Or that I want to be the one to wipe the arrogant look off his mouth by topping him, by making him beg. There is no good answer to this question because to deny I want the same thing would only plant the seeds of relationship destruction. I am too curious about the man in Frankie’s bed. Too jealous. “I don’t know what to think.”
He takes my hands and leads me through the rows of healthy vines, their leaves green, their branches covered with clusters of still young grapes. “Don’t think, tell me what you want.”
“Are you asking if I want to fuck Pierre-Louis for the mere sake of fucking? The answer is no. In my mind Pierre-Louis is yours, just as I am yours.”
“You think he is beautiful to gaze upon.”
He says it as a statement, not a question; does that mean he’s noticed I like to look at the man? Hell, who wouldn’t? I squeeze his hand but have nothing to say.
“I risk losing the two of you to each other if I do nothing.”
“What?” I gasp. “That’s absurd!”
“Is it? When I see how the two of you look at each other? I wanted to share you—” He leans closer and I think he will kiss me, but he only arches his brow. “—I want the three of us to fit well together, but in order for that to work; the two of you must fit well together. Not so well you no longer have room for me though; so I think I need you and him to spend some time together.”
I back away, shaking my head. “I’ve only just returned to you. I want you—not him.”
“It is okay for you to want us both. You desire him.”
“No,” I deny, but it isn’t the truth and we both know that. “I’m curious about him only. I wonder what it is about him that you love him so.”
He pulls me close, wraps an arm around my waist and grips my hair in his other hand so that he can jerk my head back. He kisses me senseless. Damn. I feel like I passed a test. Was he insecure I would want Pierre-Louis instead of him? I wrap my arms around his waist, pulling him closer. His erection presses solidly into my thigh. When he releases me, he says, “After we tour the vines, I want you to shower and get dressed; Pierre-Louis is going to show you around the countryside the next few days.”
I gasp. “What?”
He tucks my hair behind my ear. “A small holiday for the two of you to get to know each other the way I know each of you.”
I try to pull away but he holds me tight around the waist. I argue, “This is insane. Absurd. I already told you—”
He silences me with two fingers pressed to my lips. “I will hear no more. You will go on a holiday with Pierre-Louis to get to know who he is. That is all.”
My eyes narrow. I’m not certain I understand. “Could you clarify what is expected?”
He shrugs. “I have no expectations. Pierre-Louis will have no expectations.”
“And if he tries to…” I look down at my wet toes, heart fluttering, mind galloping away on a wild stallion of lust, considering all of the possibilities “…seduce me?”
He chuckles, lifting my chin. “Give yourself permission to enjoy his seduction. He is very good at giving pleasure. He is very romantic, a lover of life. I will not command you to have sex with him, nor will I forbid it. I only assume the natural course of events.”
He kisses me before taking my hand to complete our tour of the vines
* * * *
Standing, waiting in the driveway of the Chateaux, I cannot believe I am going on a holiday with Frankie’s lover. The men are both inside. I have been packed and ready to go for twenty minutes. For one complaining so much, I seem too anxious. I wish it was because I believe the earlier we get started the sooner the task will be completed, as if it was some horrible chore, but the truth is my heart has been skipping around my heart with giddy abandon, which is absurd. I love Frankie. I don’t need a second lover. But God, he’s glorious to look upon. I’ve never been so affected by lust.
I’m an intelligent woman. I can see there are clearly two paths. Utopia, where the three of us learn to live and love each other completely. Ruination, where one or all of us are destroyed by each other’s jealousy.
How did my life take such a strange turn?
I could have said no to all of it, beginning the night I received the bustier, but the honest truth is I feel so alive when I am with Frankie, before my children, and now since the reunion. All between seems like a cushioned dream with little vibrancy or vitality.
I let out a deep sigh when the chauffer drives the car up to the doors. This is really happening.
Behind me, I hear both men step onto the stoop to join me in the bright sunshine of mid-day. Only one joins me in the backseat of the car. I turn to look at Pierre-Louis, ready to tell him how uncertain I am about the trip, but when I catch his gaze he smiles softly. “I am glad you agreed to this holiday.”
The car drives away from the chateaux and I realize I didn’t wave at Frankie. I turn and wave through the rear window. He returns the gesture, but I still feel like an idiot. What am I thinking, going away without Frankie? I turn back around and face front, not looking at Pierre-Louis. He reaches over and takes my hand. I don’t pull away from his touch, but I can’t meet his gaze. I look at the leather seat in front of me, not even paying attention to the changing view until I lose track of time and am surprised when the vehicle comes to a stop. The view from my window isn’t reassuring, rows and rows of bicycles and pedestrians milling around wearing the same bright yellow shirts. Pierre-Louis squeezes the hand I’d forgotten he was holding. “I hope you can ride.”
“You’re serious?”
His answer is a beaming smile as our chauffer opens my door and steps to the side so I might exit. “I’m not sure about this,” I say, mostly to no one in particular. Pierre-Louis readily assures me with a soft whisper close to my ear. “Trust us.”
Us? Did he mean trust me? Or did he actually mean us? And by us did he mean Frankie? Of course, who else would he mean? But why a bike tour?
Thirty minutes later I am matched with a bicycle, wearing a bright yellow tour company logo imprinted shirt and an equally ugly helmet. I am geared up with bicycle gear I never knew existed, including
special shoes anatomically curved for more efficient pedaling. Pierre-Louis dons a pair of sporty sunglasses that mold around his eyes and I am about to comment that he looks as if he’s done this before, thinking he looks incredibly hot, when he hands me a pair of similar shades.
Accepting them, I thank him and ask, “Do I look as dorky as I feel?”
He winks. “You are a goddess.”
I snort and mount the bicycle, glad I’ve managed to stay in somewhat athletic condition by keeping up with my daughters. I hope it is enough as we take off in a pack. There are twenty-two of us as we pedal down the drive headed to god knows where, but the sun is shining and I feel strangely good. I feel like I should be feeling irritation or out of my element or horribly manipulated, but I don’t. This is a sudden, unexpected turn of events. Much better than riding side by side, tense and uneasy about what is going to happen next.
Our tour guide explains as we ride. The Boudreaux bike trip begins in a region called Entre Deux Mers. “This is the Bordeaux’s least heralded regions, but I believe, as I feel you will soon agree, its most beautiful area. As we spread out, feel free to stop and take photographs at your leisure. Do not worry if the group gets ahead of you because we will all end at the Chateau de Sade. If you look to your left, we are passing now a Kiwi grove.”
The name of the chateau is probably a gimmick, I decide, looking over the other guests. Though they are in reasonably good shape, mostly men, I just don’t get a high-kink-vibe. An hour into this adventure I think I am probably in over my head as the rolling hills feel like mountains to my calves and thighs. Only a true masochist could enjoy this torture. I look at Pierre-Louis; he isn’t struggling. Did I expect him to be? He is twenty-eight and obviously in very fit condition.
I am ready to call it quits as we head into our second hour, but the roads evens out and I find we are winding through a dense, ancient forest. It is peaceful and perfect and appears to be ripped from the pages of a fairytale, as the pointed tower of a castle appears from nowhere. We don’t stop as a dozen others do to take photos. Pierre-Louis takes the lead as I trail behind, and I begin to worry I am holding him back.
The forest breaks into an open field. Yellow flowers on either side of the road mock the bright shirts on our backs. I see Pierre-Louis has pulled off to the side of the road, waiting for my slow ass to catch up, no doubt. He dismounts and puts down his kickstand. We’re stopping? I could jump for joy as I pull up beside him and dismount as well. Too tired for jumping, my legs tremble, and I am embarrassed I am so out of shape. If he notices, he doesn’t mention it. I watch him throw back his head to guzzle water from his sports bottle and decide to do the same. I am swallowing when he says, “I would love to lie you down in that field of mustard and make love to you.”
I choke and sputter on the water; he thumps my back, apologizing and laughing.
“You took me by surprise.”
He looks at me and I realize how serious he is. My mouth opens and shuts but no words come out. I focus on the brilliant cheery yellow flowers, not committing to a negative or positive response. He takes my hand and kisses my knuckles, promising, “Soon.”
I meet his gaze, wondering if the lust in my eyes matches the intensity in his.
Chapter Twelve
Sighting the château, I could weep, knowing a hot bath and gourmet meal await me. I wonder if they would deliver the meal to me in my bath…
Seeing Pierre-Louis decked out in silk shirt, tie and suit coat, any thought of bowing out of going to dinner with him leaves my head. I am wrapped in a towel; hair dried and styled, make-up on, but still not dressed. He whistles softly. “If you are this enchanting in a towel, I am truly in trouble once you put on the dress François sent over for tonight.”
Frankie sent a dress? I shiver, letting my eyes follow Pierre-Louis’s glance to the bed. Oh God. He really sent over a dress and he obviously meant for me to look and feel sexy. I walk over to inspect it, picking it up by its hanger, holding it at arm’s reach as if it is the snake from the garden of Eden. It is an above the knee length, strapless, chiffon dress in the softest shade of crème, beaded over the top. It is sinfully luxurious. “Doesn’t this make you feel odd? As though he is here with us … but he isn’t. It makes me feel…” I don’t even know what word to use though so many come to mind: spied upon, manipulated. I settle on saying, “…strange.”
Pierre-Louis comes up behind me and presses a kiss to my shoulder. “It should make you feel loved, cherished. He cares enough about you that he wants you to feel special tonight. He gives you permission to let nature take its course tonight, to bring the three of us closer together.”
I duck away from his touch. “I don’t like it. I don’t like the way I am feeling right now.”
He frowns at me. “How do you feel?”
I shrug, not sure, only knowing I don’t like it. Maybe I am too tired and too sore from straddling the torturously narrow bicycle seat all morning. Maybe I am grumpy because both men assume nature taking its course means I will be naked in Pierre-Louis’s arms before midnight. I sigh, knowing it is both. I am exhausted and I don’t like being taken for granted.
“Put on the dress, Belle.”
I shake my head. “I don’t think I want to. I’m too tired for dinner anyway.”
He approaches me slowly, with a sinfully seductive swagger, or maybe the swagger is just in my mind. Sinful and seductive is just the way he is, twenty-four-seven three-sixty-five. He puts his hands on either shoulder and gazes deep into my eyes. “I’m starving, it’s been a long, hard day and my ass hurts, and it’s been a long time since I’ve put in that many hours on a bike, but I think dinner will make me feel better, more human, and I’m asking you to join me for a meal, not because François expects me to fall on you like an animal when I see how enticing the dress makes you, but because I would like companionship at my table. If you insist on wearing the towel instead of the dress, so be it.”
I look away, embarrassed, and hold my hand out for the hanger. He hands me the dress and I go back into the bathroom to get dressed for diner.
* * * *
I start my meal with pan-fried scallops and dried citrus fruits served with a fresh herb salad and a red pepper gaspachio topped with Bavarian garlic cream, he has an Aumônière of smoked duck breast encasing eggs scrambled with chanterelle mushrooms served with a caviar of stewed tomatoes and lamb’s lettuce drizzled with walnut oil. We both have red wine, a Petit Montibeau. Can I really stay irritated … marvelous food … award-winning wine … sitting in the enclosed terrace, listening to soft music, overlooking rolling hills as the sun sets on the horizon?
“You have two daughters?”
I look at him and realize I know nothing about him, and he knows only what Frankie has shared with him about me. “Yes, Ellie and Bree.” I tilt my head, amending, “Elizabeth and Brianna. They are twins, identical in every way; but sometimes when I look at them I see more of myself in Ellie and more of John in Bree.”
He smiles and nods. “I suppose it would be normal for them to each pick up different traits.”
Our main course arrives and we stop talking, that the waiter may set the plates in front of us. I am served the Shellfish ravioli with a leek fondue and a ginger cream, and he the roasted quail, drizzled with Cognac and grape gravy served with pear compote lightly spiced with fresh ground nutmeg.
“Magnifique,” he pronounces as he tastes the compote. “I must learn this.”
I taste the spoonful he offers and roll my eyes. “Food should not be this good.”
Conversation ceases while we eat and when we finish, there is an awkward silence. I fill it in with, “That was amazing.”
“I hope you have room for something sweet.”
“Dessert?” I ask, saying, “No. I couldn’t,” but then the waiter arrives bearing a tray laden with supreme decadence and choosing becomes difficult. No common cheesecake here. No, it is iced chestnut parfait served with vanilla cream with a hint of rum and a haze
lnut dacquoise, or mango shortbread, served with a pineapple and fresh mint salsa and a passion fruit sorbet topped with a red fruit espuma, or a chocolate torte served with a warm, rich fudge sauce and a white chocolate ganache. I finally choose the shortbread; he picks the parfait. We taste each other’s, agreeing when we finish the last bite we must take an evening walk to relieve the gluttonous bloat.
“Oh God!” I say, stepping out of the restaurant. “I could spend the entire holiday here … just eating.”
He laughs. “I think it is a good thing we ride tomorrow.”
My backside argues to the contrary.
He takes my hand and leads me down a dark walking path to the grounds massive medieval gardens. Crickets lend music to the warm night. My heart starts pounding with their rhythm. I had been able to put the night and all that comes with darkness out of my mind for most of the day. I know Frankie said intimacy … sex … wasn’t a requirement; but damn, to deny I want to experience what this twenty-eight year old can do in the bedroom would be a bold-faced lie. In the darkness, I bite my lip, letting him pull me through a low-growing bayberry maze. In the shadowy darkness of a corner, he comes to a stop and pulls me against him. He lowers his head to kiss me, I tilt my face up with no doubt we will kiss, no doubt what the kisses will lead to, and strangely I’m okay with the thought and equally strangely I don’t feel manipulated by Frankie.
His lips are warm and knowledgeable, his kisses drawing moans from my throat.
I try to be quiet but need bursts through me. I want him, desperately. I have wanted him since the first time I laid eyes on him. I push my hands under his jacket, wanting to get closer to his skin. He stills my wrists, stopping me.
“I want to touch you.”
“Sh-h, lets go to the room.”
“Says the brave guy who wanted to lay me down in a field of mustard today.”
He leans very close to my face and whispers, “We didn’t have an audience then.”
I still, forcing myself to not jerk my head around looking. If he thinks someone is watching, I believe him. I let him pull me through the maze, catching hushed whispers and giggles of others hidden among the hedges. “I didn’t even hear them,” I admit.