French Kissing- Season Four

by Harper Bliss

  “They should listen to your show. I’m serious, Aurore. The world would be a much better place if everyone listened to your show. A little sex positivity never killed anyone, after all.”

  “You do realise that the insecure douchebag giving you a hard time is probably not getting any affection whatsoever. Sexually fulfilled people don’t generally behave the way he does.”

  “Oh, please. Don’t put the image in my head of him doing anything remotely sexual.” Camille winced.

  “That’s the whole point, though. That image in your head is probably the extent of what he’s getting. Which is nothing.” Aurore giggled. “Oh, I have a call waiting. Could it be Mademoiselle Mathis?”

  “Take it. I have to go, anyway. And keep me posted.”

  “Will do.”

  Camille put her phone down and pondered what Aurore had just said. Then she put a halt to her thoughts because she’d given Duflot way too much of her mental energy already. But it did make her understand how Dominique must feel all the time. Constantly under attack from men who didn’t think she was up to the job, simply because she was a woman. Men who genuinely believed that a woman was incapable of being a good president. Men because of whom women like Dominique—and Camille in her own position—had to work twice as hard to prove that they could do it, on top of dealing with their sexist remarks and envy.

  In Dominique’s case, there were two other women after her job as well, which, truth be told, could be just as challenging, if not more so. But at least when women battled for the same spot they started from a more level playing field, and with the knowledge that even if things did get dirty, no party would be condescended to and considered the weaker sex. Camille liked Anne Rivière, but her allegiance would always lie with Dominique Laroche.

  She checked the time. Five more minutes until her meeting. Maybe she could sneak in a quick call to Zoya to get all of this off her mind and fill it with the most joyous, beautiful thing to have come into her life: her love for another woman.

  Zoya

  “Come here,” Zoya said as soon as Camille walked through the door. “I missed you.” They’d seen each other that morning and they’d spoken on the phone, yet Zoya meant it from the bottom of her heart. Perhaps because when they were still doing long-distance she missed Camille so much sometimes it cut off the air in her lungs. That memory didn’t serve as a way to put a day without Camille in perspective; instead it seemed to only increase Zoya’s desire to hold Camille near.

  “I must suffer from Post Long Distance Relationship Stress Syndrome,” she’d once said after just moving to Paris. She’d clung to Camille, not allowing her to leave their bed to go to work. “It’s a serious medical condition that you can’t just ignore.”

  This made her think of what Steph had said the other night, before Camille had arrived with Aurore, about seeing a counsellor. Right at that very moment, Zoya didn’t suffer from homesickness at all, but from the exact opposite—from the feeling that got her here in the first place. An overwhelming emotion that would have her denounce her home country for the rest of her life. That would have her deny her roots, her friends, her culture and abandon it all for a life next to this gorgeous woman, drinking the best French wines and eating the most buttery croissants. But it was the constant back and forth between those two states of mind that was beginning to do Zoya’s head in. And so she remembered those other words Steph had spoken: Camille will understand. Talk to her.

  But when Camille walked in the door all scrumptious-looking like that, her hair a little dishevelled and her clothes a bit wrinkled from a day’s work, her attitude relaxed, her eyes saying how happy she was to come home to a house with Zoya in it, Zoya couldn’t possibly start a talk like that. She needed to do something else instead. Like press her lips to the delicious slope of Camille’s breast and tear those crumpled clothes off her, and do what they hadn’t been able to do while they were ten thousand miles apart: luxuriate in the simple sensation of touching each other’s skin.

  “I missed you too, my love,” Camille said and gave Zoya a lopsided smile. One which said that, yes, she wanted Zoya in that moment too. Dinner could wait. Another hunger needed to be stilled first.

  Zoya pulled Camille close and kissed her on the lips. Oh those soft, warm lips. Zoya would do anything to feel those lips on hers every single day for the rest of her life. In fact, she had done everything. She’d given up her life in Sydney, including her highly regarded job as the host of The Zoya Das Show. She’d given it all up for love and when Camille’s lips touched hers like that, instantly opening and letting Zoya’s tongue in, she knew it had been worth it. Every last doubt was squashed. Paris was where she belonged.

  Before they even reached the bedroom, climbing the stairs half-clinging to each other, they’d started getting each others’ clothes off. The hunger was too big. The fire of love burned too brightly in their bellies. Zoya needed Camille to yield at her fingers, to give herself up to her touch, as soon as possible.

  They fell onto the bed and took a moment to breathe. To face each other and look each other in the eye. Camille brought a hand to Zoya’s cheek and caressed it gently.

  “Tu es si belle,” she said, and Zoya’s French might not have improved much yet, but she understood. And she knew that, to Camille, she was the most beautiful woman in the world.

  Zoya kissed Camille again and again, their tongues meeting in that delicate dance. Camille pushed Zoya onto her back and manoeuvred herself on top. She liked to do that, Zoya had learned since she moved to France. It had become more pronounced as her stay here had lengthened. Camille claiming dominance. Camille giving her shoulder a gentle push the way she was doing now. Most of the time, Zoya let her. As long as, once in a while, she could surprise Camille and pin her arms to the mattress. As long as she got her turn.

  Zoya’s jeans were already open and all Camille had to do was tug them down, get them off her legs and fling them somewhere into the half-light of the room. After she had done so, she climbed back and gazed down at Zoya with her sparkly green eyes.

  Zoya’s lips loosened into a smile. She could never help it when Camille looked at her like that, so full of love and passion—and intent.

  Camille dragged a finger over Zoya’s panties while watching her face. She let her finger skate up and down over the flimsy fabric and Zoya felt Camille’s touch there shudder all the way into her bones. That was how much Camille was part of her now—how much their love had left its mark on her body, her synapses, her soul.

  “Please.” Zoya knew very well how much Camille enjoyed this bit. Zoya hankering for more of her, losing her patience, and pushing down her own panties.

  Zoya squirmed out of her underwear and spread her legs wide. Her blouse lay splayed open to the sides. Her nipples strained against her bra.

  Thankfully, Camille brought her finger back to where it was before, and this time there was no fabric in the way, and the sensation of its skating motion against Zoya’s pussy lips was amplified a thousand-fold. Camille circled her finger around Zoya’s clit and it felt good but it was also too slow, too taunting.

  Zoya would be damned if she begged Camille again. This was the kind of patience she could exercise, because it was brief and delicious. Camille kept her gaze on Zoya’s. Her eyes narrowed as she let her finger slide down, as it halted at the entrance of Zoya’s pussy. Then, it slipped in, and Zoya felt like she had been admitted to the gates of heaven.

  Her body reacted to the insertion of Camille’s finger with hospitality and ever-increasing desire. Zoya would often study Camille’s slender, strong fingers. She would take them in her hands, the paleness of them contrasting with the golden colour of hers, and relish that she could touch these instruments of pleasure, those digits that gave her so much joy behind closed doors, whenever they were together. Seeing them always gave her a secret moment of delight.

  Now those fingers were working their magic on her, operating in tandem with Camille’s glance on her, with the love that s
hone from it.

  Five months of living together had already been long enough to establish a pattern for quickies like this. For times when Camille’s nearness made her cheeks flush with instant lust that had to be quenched. Because why wouldn’t they? They were here together. It had been the very point of it all.

  Zoya knew that soon, Camille would avert her eyes, but only because her gaze was traveling elsewhere. She knew it as she knew the rhythm of Camille’s fingers as they moved inside of her. Still only one now, but soon, as her head ducked down, she would add another.

  To find such familiarity in something as exciting as sex was a great relief to Zoya. It made her feel more at home. It made living in Paris all about the woman and not about the place.

  Camille kissed her cheek as she thrust upwards, then retreated, and added another finger. Camille’s gaze remained on Zoya’s as she fucked her more insistently. She was going off plan. Maybe she needed to see Zoya’s face. Zoya sure was happy to see hers, in between closing her eyes for a second every time a shudder of pleasure seized her. And this too, was comforting, to see Camille’s face there every time she opened her eyes. To know she would always be there.

  Zoya wanted more and she bucked up her hips, hoping Camille would catch her drift. She knew she would. That was the one advantage of starting a new relationship while miles apart—having to spell out things more so their meaning could be understood across the distance.

  Camille added another finger and Zoya gazed at her strong arm. Her muscles flexed, a sight that never failed to arouse Zoya. The subtle strength of a woman. It was all on display in what Camille was doing to her.

  Then, at last, Camille did avert her gaze. Her face was no longer there when Zoya next opened her eyes. Zoya felt Camille’s tongue against her clit. The gentle flick of it stood in stark contrast to the power with which her fingers were claiming Zoya, demanding pleasure. Zoya’s muscles turned to molten wax. The fire in her belly burst open and spread all the way to her fingertips. A soft lick of Camille’s tongue was all it took to catapult her into the next dimension. Onto that cloud of climax where all thought disappeared and gave way to ecstasy.

  By the time Zoya had descended from her imaginary cloud, a hint of a tear breaking in the corner of her eye, Camille had draped half her body over hers and softly pecked her on the cheek.

  She curved an arm underneath Camille’s neck and drew her close, inhaling the scent of her hair, kissing her wherever she could.

  This would do to squash her homesickness for a good long while.

  Aurore

  For me, this is not about politics. Aurore repeated the words in her head, like a mantra, as she entered the grand gates of the Elysée. Of course being invited to the Elysée made it all about politics. It was Stéphanie Mathis’s way of intimidating her. When Aurore had taken the call from Steph, she had not expected an invitation—more of a scolding. But here she strode, up the marble staircase, trying to not let the lustre of the place impress her too much. Because she had an agenda to defend. Nothing was more important than the bill passing, even though her being here was the first step of being used as the political pawn she didn’t want to be. But what should she have done? Declined Steph’s invitation?

  Anne Rivière had been sceptical when Aurore had told her about it—especially because the same invitation had not been extended to the Députée. Only to her advisor. But it was just a meeting. It was better to keep Rivière out of it at this stage, because, unlike Aurore, she did have political skin in the game.

  Aurore was asked to take a seat just outside of, she guessed, President Laroche’s secretary’s office. The woman looked as though she could have availed of France’s early retirement scheme quite a few years ago, with her grey hair pinned meticulously to the top of her head. She peered over her glasses at Aurore every few minutes, as though making sure she wasn’t up to any mischief.

  Aurore heard a quick tap-tap of footfalls approach. She straightened her posture. Two women walked in her direction. She recognised Steph. The other one looked vaguely familiar.

  “Aurore, so good of you to come.” Steph greeted her as though she were an old friend. “This is Solange Garceau, Chief of Staff to the president.”

  Ah yes, of course. The tight set of the mouth. The meticulously styled-back blonde hair. Aurore had seen her on television a few times during the presidential campaign, but Solange had disappeared behind the curtains of power swiftly once Laroche had been elected.

  Aurore knew her by reputation, however. She looked forward to measuring what she had heard about Solange against reality. She held out her hand and Solange clasped it in a firm but damp grip. Aurore shot her the widest smile she had. Oh, this was going to be fun. The sheer level of uptightness of this woman tickled her mischievous streak.

  No matter the difference between their political stance, Aurore wanted for Solange to smile at least once during their meeting. One smile. It would take some warming up, she could already see that. But Aurore liked a challenge—sometimes a little too much.

  “Let’s go in there.” Steph pointed at a door.

  Aurore followed them, taking in the size of Solange’s heels. Christ almighty. She looked like the type who never took them off, even at home in the evening—who might even take pleasure in torturing her feet all day long.

  “Coffee? Tea?” Steph offered, showing herself a much more welcoming host than Aurore had expected. Solange remained silent and just sat down.

  “I’m fine, thanks.” Was this meeting formal or informal? Steph’s presence hinted at the latter, Solange’s at a very strict formality. Or were they trying to mess with her head? Aurore shook the thought off her. She had come here to listen. And to make sure that, one way or another, the bill passed.

  Once they were all seated, Steph said, “I listened to a few back episodes of your radio show. I’m a fan.”

  “Thank you.” Aurore glanced from Steph to Solange, whose face remained expressionless.

  “You’re probably wondering why I asked you here.” She nodded her head at Solange. “And why Dominique’s chief of staff is here.”

  “I am.” Aurore tried to relax her muscles.

  “Solange is basically my nanny in this meeting. She’s here to make sure I don’t speak out of turn.”

  Still nothing from Solange. Aurore wondered about her relationship with Steph. She made a mental note to google Solange Garceau later. She could only guess she made up for with intelligence what she lacked in social graces—how else could she hold such a high function?

  Steph shot Solange a grin. “Of course, Solange also knows things I don’t know. I wouldn’t want to sell her short.”

  “Of course.” Aurore smiled then let her gaze linger on Solange. She did look rather nanny-like the way she sat there. One leg arranged stiffly over the other, her notepad clasped to her chest behind folded arms. The body language of Solange Garceau. Aurore would love to dedicate a segment of her radio show to that. When does it crack? Does it ever? She would have to make that show solely for herself, of course. Solange was piquing her interest in the most peculiar way. “Does Solange speak or…” Aurore couldn’t help herself.

  “I’m not here to speak. I’m here to observe.” Solange had a surprisingly pleasant voice. Low and crisp, like a news anchor’s.

  “Got it.” Aurore could easily imagine the fireworks between this stern woman and Steph’s much more relaxed inclinations. Solange must have nearly had a heart attack when news broke about her candidate and Steph. She looked as though she was still recovering.

  “So,” Steph began, “I would like to begin by stating, for the record, that you and I are not so different, Aurore. We want the same things. We’re simply in different camps.”

  “I would like to state that, for me, this is not political. I mean, I’m a socialist. Make no mistake about that. But for me it’s all about the bill. About equality, no matter a person’s sexual orientation.”

  “The Elysée agrees with you on that,” Step
h said.

  Solange cleared her throat.

  “Well, Dominique and I agree with you on that. We want this bill to pass.”

  “But with as little political damage to the president as possible,” Solange added.

  “I understand.”

  “I understand you can’t tell us more about Anne Rivière’s plans, but we would very much like this to be clean. No colluding between party factions. No secret cross-party scheming to make Dominique look weak.”

  “I’m not a political advisor. I counsel Anne on ethical and societal issues. If you’re looking for political guarantees, you’ve come to the wrong person.”

  “As soon as you advise a politician,” Solange said, “you are a political advisor. It really can’t be more simple than that.”

  Aurore pinned her gaze on Solange. So that was what she was here for. To try and destabilise her. She didn’t know Aurore very well, then. Although she had probably done her homework on Aurore, some character traits couldn’t possibly be gleaned from a Wikipedia page or a Marie-Claire interview.

  “What is it that you really want from me, Steph?” Aurore asked.

  Steph stroked her chin, then spoke. “Is there any way we can work together on this without having to fight it out through snappy sound bites on television? Without making this into a battle that will make the media salivate?”

  “You tell me. You’re the one saying the president wants this bill to pass. Rivière introduced it. All the president has to do is instruct the MLR députés to vote for it. Now that is as simple as it can get.” She eyed Solange, who didn’t move a muscle.

  “Come on, Aurore. You know it’s the opposite of simple for Dominique. Despite being president, she’s still a divisive figure in the party—”

  Another bout of throat-clearing from Solange.

  “Oh please, Solange.” Steph turned to her. “Aurore and I are acquaintances. I can say things like that to her in private. I wasn’t speaking on behalf of the Elysée this time.”

  “I’m only doing this to protect you, Stéphanie. Trust me on this. I always have Dominique’s and your best interests at heart.”