French Kissing: Season One

by Harper Bliss

  “I know how important communication is at any stage of a relationship because, lately, I have witnessed first-hand how lack of it can destroy everything, even a ten-year partnership.” Juliette had been at the dinner with Claire, or at least a shadow of her. She’d sat there nodding and half-smiling at the jokes François, their dinner date and potentially very important client, had made.

  When Claire finally kissed Margot, it was more an absent-minded peck than the passionate lip-lock she’d been going for since walking through the door.

  “Let’s talk, then.” Margot smiled up at her, eyes brimming with understanding.

  “Juliette is so stubborn. She’d rather suffer through the worst heartbreak of her life than talk to Nadia right now.” Claire pushed herself off of Margot’s lap and sat down next to her. “I understand it hurts, at first, but Nadia’s made it quite clear that it was a mistake and that it hardly changes the real problems they’re having.” Claire sighed. “On top of that, it’s hurting Barbier & Cyr. She should have excused herself from dinner this evening, but obviously she grabs every opportunity for distraction. She’s my best friend, and I know that, now more than ever, I have to be there for her, but it’s not easy when, for the first time in our professional relationship, we’re having a serious disagreement.” Claire sighed. “It feels like I’m the only one thinking straight at the firm anymore.”

  “Come here.” Margot held out her arm, offering the crook of her well-shaped shoulder to cuddle up to. Claire eagerly accepted. “You’re strong. You can hold the fort for a while.” When Margot said it, in that even, self-assured voice, it sounded as if it couldn’t be anything but true. “And I’m here whenever you need me.”

  Claire trailed a finger over Margot’s taut stomach. “I know you are.” Claire stretched her lips into a wide smile against the fabric of Margot’s t-shirt. “How do I get abs like yours?”

  Margot’s belly shook with giggles. “I thought we were having a serious conversation?”

  “This is serious.” Claire slipped her fingers underneath the hem of Margot’s t-shirt and hoisted it up, exposing her flat stomach.

  “I’m Asian, it’s easier for me to have a six-pack.”

  “Really? How so?” Claire was intrigued, but already her mind was wandering off to the moment her lips would meet the skin stretching over their current topic of conversation.

  “Because we’re genetically more disciplined and we can’t drink as much.” Margot’s abs contracted as she laughed.

  “It’s not because you’re a doctor that I believe everything you say.” Claire circled her index finger around Margot’s belly button, awakening the pulse between her legs.

  “Now that we’re having a meaningful conversation, I wanted to ask you something serious.”

  “Can I stay down here while you ask me or do you have to look into my eyes while I give the answer?”

  Margot stroked Claire’s hair, her fingers travelling towards her neck. “Are we girlfriends yet?”

  The term ‘girlfriends’ sounded so silly in Claire’s ears—she was forty-four years old, for heaven’s sake—she couldn’t help but chuckle.

  “That funny, huh?” A hint of hurt had crept into Margot’s voice.

  Claire pushed herself up and found Margot’s dark eyes. “Yes, you’re my girlfriend and I’m your girlfriend.” She pulled her close. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  “Glad to know we’re going steady,” Margot whispered in her ear.

  Claire buried her nose in Margot’s long mane of hair. “Remember when you asked me not to break your heart?” She felt Margot’s head tilt in a nod against hers. “The same goes for you.”

  NADIA

  Nadia boarded the plane for Barcelona without Juliette by her side. She needed the break, needed to get away from everything—especially the big dinner her family always insisted she attend on the day of the French national holiday—but it was more than a bit painful that her holiday destination was Barcelona.

  She and Juliette had so many good memories there, which is why they’d picked it in the first place. Oh bloody irony.

  It was an early flight and, not used to travelling alone, Nadia hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before. She closed her eyes and tried to nap but, just like every night since what seemed like forever—unless she’d drunk at least three glasses of wine—images of leaving Marie Dievart’s hotel room, of arriving home to a sleeping Juliette, of facing her the next day at breakfast and, since recently, of the completely stunned look on Juliette’s face when it registered what Nadia had done, intertwined in her mind. Thank goodness she was flying business class and champagne would be offered soon enough.

  * * *

  The hotel Juliette had booked was every bit as marvellous as Nadia had expected it to be. The room looked out over the Mediterranean, the space in front of the window lined with pillows on which she could sit and gaze out over the horizon.

  It was gorgeous and Nadia hadn’t felt this lonely in a long time. After years of sharing everything, being there on her own crushed her much more than she could have imagined.

  Afraid she’d burst out into tears when asking for a glass of cava or a plate of patatas bravas, a tapas dish Juliette loved so much, she ordered room service and hid inside, trying to tear her mind away from the significant memories she and Juliette had made in this city.

  Outside, the sun was already setting, bathing the ocean in orange and yellow tints, and Nadia knew, with a certainty bordering on manic stubbornness, that she would fight. She wasn’t sure how yet, but was fairly certain it would require a good amount of patience and sitting through a slew of unavoidable, blame-shifting arguments. In the end it wouldn’t matter. She’d get Juliette back.

  Over the course of the last year, she had doubted the viability of their relationship, and had indulged in brief moments of imagining a life without Juliette, or, to be more exact, a life without the selfish, entitled person Juliette had turned into. And then Juliette would smile, or offer Nadia a glass of wine with a particularly tender gesture of her hand and that look in her eyes, and Nadia would melt because she’d see the woman she’d first met again, the one who’d swept her off her feet ten years earlier.

  The story went that Claire and Juliette had entered a dare to create a profile for each other on a lesbian dating website. Nadia had been taking management classes after her shifts because she was in the running to become nursing supervisor at the hospital. Too busy to go out and play the waiting game in a bar, she’d turned to the internet and stumbled across Juliette’s ad.

  They’d met for the first time at a café in the Rue Montorgueil, under a heater on the terrace, at first watching the endless parade of people walk past, but soon engrossed in anecdotes about their childhoods and teenage years, and Nadia couldn’t believe her luck. If she’d known women like Juliette presented themselves on the internet, she would have turned to it much sooner.

  She could see the ambition burn in Juliette’s eyes when she talked about her business, and it was exactly that fire that spoke to Nadia. Juliette displayed the gentle arrogance of people who were used to getting their way, and Nadia couldn’t wait, given the chance, to take her down a notch—to have her beg for mercy when she slipped her fingers in.

  She suspected this unmet need was why Juliette was single, because she had everything else going for her. She wasn’t just beautiful and successful, but also eloquent and bursting with confidence. Maybe she came across a bit too intimidating for most women, but not for Nadia.

  Perhaps what they saw in each other on that first date, that first inkling of recognition, that first sliver of hope at something more, was just a flimsy thread binding them together, ready to snap at any time too much pressure was applied, but they had thrived.

  They’d slept together that first night, in Juliette’s tiny studio near Invalides, because Nadia couldn’t wait to test if her suspicions were true, if this tall, lanky woman who spoke with a quiet voice while everything else about her
was so loud and brazen, would surrender to her in the bedroom. And she had, almost exactly in the way—and as easily—Nadia had predicted she would.

  Now, from her window on the twelfth floor, Nadia sat overlooking the beach promenade where they might have walked together, reminiscing joyfully about their time together, in Barcelona and Paris and all the other places they had visited. Nadia realised it had been a mistake to come alone. She should have used her time off more usefully, for getting her partner back, for instance.

  STEPH

  No matter how cruel it sounded, Steph could get used to Dominique’s children being away, because she knew full well that a Friday night like this, huddled cosily in Dominique’s sofa watching the news while eating spaghetti bolognese prepared by the députée herself, wouldn’t come along again any time soon.

  A fuzzy warmth rose in Steph at the sight of the tomato sauce stuck to the corner of Dominique’s mouth.

  “Quel connard,” she shouted at the TV and shook her head. President Goffin was saying something about jobs and the retirement age. “I’m not saying politics is all about charisma, but look at him. Three chins? As if two isn’t enough.”

  Steph, who’d never really taken an interest in politics, snickered. This was the sort of political commentary she could get into. Then her mind flashed back to the conversation they’d had earlier that week about Dominique’s political future and, eyeing Goffin’s tired face on TV, Steph had no doubt the MRL and, particularly, Dominique would win big next year. A sense of urgency took hold of her, as if they were running out of time.

  She set her plate to the side and turned to face Dominique in the sofa. “How did you manage to climb the party ranks so quickly while being such a messy eater?”

  Dominique looked at her, grinning. “Messy, huh?” She deposited her plate on the coffee table as well and stared into Steph’s eyes for a split second before coming for her. “I’ll show you messy.” She rubbed her mouth against Steph’s cheek. “Now who’s messy?” Steph felt Dominique’s lips stretch against her chin.

  “Politicians are so dirty,” Steph said, while allowing Dominique to push her down in the sofa.

  “Now you’re just asking for it.” Dominique looked down at her and Steph saw much more than mischief and desire glint in her eyes. Dominique reached for the remote on the table and switched off the TV, after which she started unbuttoning her blouse.

  Lust bubbled in Steph’s veins and if all of this was foolish—and she knew it was—it didn’t matter anymore because it all fell away as Dominique exposed her chest, slowly lowering the cups of her bra. A deep throb of lust made its way to Steph’s clit and she wanted to say the words, no matter how foolish.

  “Je t’aime,” she whispered, but Dominique didn’t hear because she was tossing her bra onto the carpet.

  When Dominique draped her naked torso on top of Steph, she knew it was more than lust crawling up her spine, it was more than an unwise longing for what she couldn’t have, even though Dominique’s lips were already kissing their way up from her neck—and Steph was about to get exactly what she wanted again, at least for the next hour or so.

  Dominique’s lips landed on hers, gentler than ever before. “It’s crazy how much I want you,” she said in between breaths. “I swear to god you’ll be the end of me.” It was the most romantic thing anyone had ever said to Steph.

  She wrapped her arms around Dominique’s neck and pulled her closer. Their lips met again and Steph could clearly tell the difference with the first time they’d kissed in her studio. Back then, it was just reckless abandon, almost like stealing something, while now, when Dominique’s teeth sank softly into her bottom lip, she might as well be etching their marks into her heart.

  Their lip-lock intensified, just as the pulse between Steph’s legs. When Dominique came up for air, she pinned her gaze on Steph while her hand travelled down and unbuttoned Steph’s jeans. Steph helped and jerked the garment off her as best she could.

  She couldn’t remember it ever being like this. Not a surprise for someone who visited Le Noir and preferred a one-night-stand over a second date and, perhaps, this intimate intensity was what she’d been afraid of all along because how could she come back from it? How could she ever recover?

  She had no more time to ponder questions like that—questions that had haunted her her entire adult life—because Dominique’s finger was already skating along the panel of her panties, making its way beneath it.

  Steph cupped Dominique’s chin in her palm and, while slipping a finger inside, Dominique canted her head to kiss the side of Steph’s hand, electrifying the entire expanse of Steph’s skin.

  Dominique kept her head tilted, touching her cheek to Steph’s hand, while thrusting slowly and with control—such a simple gesture, with such profound consequences.

  Steph didn’t crave anyone else’s fingers inside of her anymore. Feeling Dominique, pushing herself up to meet her thrusting motions, was more than enough to make her dream about foreign notions such as exclusivity and monogamy. Deep down, Steph had always known it could be like this, but the willingness in her soul had always been lacking.

  “Aah,” she moaned when Dominique’s fingers hit a spot that had gone extremely sensitive. “Aaargh.” And then hit it again.

  Dominique’s face was serious, not a hint of a triumphant smile on it, because, it looked like, in the throes of a passion like this, there was no room for any other sentiments than this love they now shared. Steph knew it could only feel this good because it was so serious. It stumped her all the same.

  She kept her eyes on Dominique’s as she came on her fingertips, giving herself up completely, a deep tremor reaching her heart straight from her clit.

  “Oh fuck,” she sighed when her muscles relaxed and she fell deep into the soft pillows of the sofa. “You’ll be the end of me, too.”

  JULIETTE

  Nadia was in Barcelona, Claire was holed up with Margot and Steph wasn’t replying to her texts, so Juliette, always thrown by public holidays, gave in to Sybille’s fifth message inviting her for a drink.

  They met at an Irish pub just down the road from Juliette’s flat. The défilé in honour of France’s national holiday was being broadcast on two flat screen TVs hanging above the bar. While Sybille, always playing the assistant even outside of the office, fetched them a bottle of wine, Juliette focused her attention on one of the screens, looking out for Dominique Laroche who should be in the stands at the arrival, flanked by her conservative party mates.

  Were they friends now? She watched Sybille saunter back. She was dressed casually in a pair of too short khaki shorts and a tank top so white Juliette had to blink when she looked straight at it.

  As she sat down, Juliette handed her a twenty euro note, not wanting Sybille to pay for the wine.

  Sybille waved it away. “Thanks for meeting me.” She poured Juliette a generous serving. “I’m glad we can talk outside of the office and without the chance of being interrupted.”

  Was she really that bold? Juliette just nodded.

  “This is not easy for me to say, Juliette.” Sybille squirmed in her seat and Juliette braced herself for having to reject, frankly, very direct advances. “I know you and Steph are friends first, but I really feel as if she’s gunning for me.”

  Juliette hid her surprise—or was it disappointment?—by sipping from her wine. “You’re worried about Steph?”

  Sybille nodded. “Of course I am.” She looked at her hands, twirling the stem of her wine glass between her fingers. “Ever since I found out about her and Dominique Laroche, she’s been very unkind to me, which I understand, of course, because it landed her in an awkward position, but what choice did I have but to tell you?” When she glanced up, her eyes were big, her lips drawn into a sad scowl.

  “I’ve talked to Steph in no uncertain terms. I’ve told her to leave you alone.” Juliette had to suppress the urge to inch her hand forward and wrap it around Sybille’s—in a purely comforting way, of cour
se.

  “I really appreciate that, I just—” Sybille cleared her throat. “I wouldn’t want any of this to jeopardise my job because, um, I really enjoy working for you.”

  “Don’t worry about Steph.” Juliette gave in to her urge, possibly only to feel another human being’s skin against hers. “And this is a public holiday. Let’s not discuss work matters.” Exactly the sort of thing Nadia would say.

  Sybille gave her best impression of smiling shyly—she wasn’t the sort of person to paint a demure grin on her face, Juliette knew that much.

  Juliette topped up their glasses just as a gang of loud middle-aged men walked in. She rolled her eyes at Sybille while retracting her hand. “Let’s drink up and get out of here. I have a bottle of divine Pinot Noir at home, if you’re interested?”

  Sybille nodded eagerly, almost choking as she chucked back her wine.

  * * *

  “I figured you’d be spending the holiday with your partner,” Juliette said as she uncorked the bottle to let it breathe a bit.

  “She’s still away.” Sybille looked around the flat. “Life’s easy when you don’t have to work.”

  Juliette failed to understand this concept completely. “But doesn’t she want to work? Do something useful with her time?”

  Sybille just shrugged, killing off that topic of conversation when asking, “Do you want to watch the parade on TV?”

  “Not particularly.” Juliette eyed the bottle of wine eagerly and pondered all the times she’d scolded Nadia for drinking too much. Perhaps she’d been the cause of that too. “Oh what the hell, I’m sure it will taste fine like this.” She poured liquid into two glasses and passed one to Sybille, their fingers brushing together for a fraction of a second.

  “Delicious,” Sybille said after having taken a sip. “Nice place, as well.”