She laughs at that. Then makes her way across the patio and kisses me squarely on the mouth. Once. Twice. A third time. And then, “Don’t overthink it… Jamaican.” She smiles then and heads back inside, leaving me speechless by the firepit.
Dinner at the French Laundry is ridiculously indulgent. The chef’s nine-course tasting menu, champagne cocktails, countless glasses of wine. We’d dressed for the evening in head-to-toe black: she, in a vintage Alaïa silk sleeveless mid-length dress; and I in Jason Wu tuxedo pants and a diaphanous Saint Laurent blouse. The latter, by Hedi Slimane, was far more rock ’n’ roll than my typical apparel, but surely the occasion warranted some rebellion.
In the Uber back from Yountville, she sits beside me, the front of her dress all shadowy lined, her thigh pressed against mine, her hands clasped in her lap. It feels like a tease: her touching me, but not. And for all the alcohol that I’d hoped would dull my senses, I am hyperaware. Of everything. The smell of the driver’s aftershave, the cool of the leather seat beneath me, Anouk’s breathing, and my heart—pounding, racing—threatening to escape my skin. My pulse thumping in my temples. Loud. I am trying to convince myself that she cannot hear it, when she turns to me, her head reclining, her lids at half-mast. “Cecilia,” she says soft, low. “What happens in Morocco…”
It takes me a second and then I smile. “What happens in Morocco…”
The first time I had sex with Lorry Kenter felt an awful lot like kismet. He was attentive and kind and gentle, and even though the size of him made our initial attempt astonishingly painful, I knew he was the person I’d been waiting for. That I’d found home. And in the aftermath of my problematic musician, and the ensuing self-torture, I felt an unexpected, beautiful peace.
With Anouk, it is the same. An unforeseen warmth, a sincerity that I do not anticipate. And maybe it is just my response to being adored. It had been so long. But everything about it, everything abouther, feels honest and true.
We are still in the living room of our suite when she edges me up against the concrete cladding of the modern fireplace, pinning my hands with hers. Her movements deft, fluid.
“Oh.”
“Oh.”
“This is happening now,” I hear myself say. It’s more a realization than a question.
“You’re nervous?”
I nod.
“Why? What is it about me that makes you nervous?”
“Everything.”
She laughs. Deep, throaty. “Close your eyes, Cecilia.”
I do as she says. I can feel her, inhaling me. Her breath at the side of my face. Her hands suddenly at the nape of my neck. Cool, smooth, unfamiliar. Releasing my hair. Fanning it over my shoulders. Her fingers at the hollow of my throat. Unbuttoning the top of my sheer blouse. Skin moving over my clavicle, my shoulder. Her breath on my neck. Sweet.
This close, her perfume is beguiling, almost sinister. Some potent elixir that has rendered me senseless. Dumb. The id of a fifteen-year-old boy.
Her hands return to the opening of my top again. I can feel her palm moving over my sternum. She unfastens another button, and then another. Her fingers stealing inside my blouse, trailing over the lace of my bra. Kiki de Montparnasse. Obscenely expensive. This time, I’m prepared.
“C’est sublime,” she says, low. It strikes me then that I cannot recall a man ever commenting on the extravagance of my underwear, as opposed to what lay beyond it.
“Merci.” It is barely a whisper. Her fingertip is tracing circles around my nipple with an effect I find utterly maddening.
Eyes still shut, I reach out and grab for her waist, pulling her into me. I want to feel her against me. Her warmth, her weight, her need.
For a moment we remain there, still, breathing each other in. Her hip bones align just above mine. Her stomach smooth, hard against my ribs. Silk against silk. My hands move up over her sides. She is so slender, firm—I want to tell her that she feels like a college boy. In the best way possible. But I know that it will likely land wrong.
“Still nervous?” she asks, her lips at my ear. She has no idea what that does to me.
“Less so.”
“Good.”
My hands move around to her ass then, and I am amazed by how it is at once firm, full, lush. The opposite of masculine. This is why they love us, isn’t it?
Yes. This is why they love us.
Eventually, we progress to the bedroom. She leads me by the hand. Fingers entwined with mine—lithe, delicate—not at all like Fran’s. For a second, I picture him at home. In our media room, watching dailies from earlier in the week. Scenes they’d shot out in the desert. Parched land substituting for an alien planet. Different angles, myriad takes. Over and over and over again. The monotony of filmmaking. If only he knew… The kids were probably in their bedrooms. Julien covertly playing Minecraft in the dark, Lucie fast asleep, visions of sugarplums.
“Ça va?” Anouk asks. She is freeing the hem of my blouse. Theroom is dim, moody, the only illumination stemming from one of the bedside reading lamps. Wind bristles outside in the trees. Time seems to speed up and slow down simultaneously. The unfastening of pants, the kicking off of shoes, her black dress on the bench, my breath audible.
She unclasps my bra. Then hers. We move to the bed.
