Page 117 of Pierced

Myrtle. Hers is the one that’s the loudest. And it’s the only one that matters.

“Seriously, Pierce. What are you doing?” Her voice is a little more urgent. But that’s only because my shoes are off now, and I’m unbuckling my trousers.

“Oh, my God,” she says. “You’re not—?”

I am.

My pants come down and the cold winter air hits my legs like an icy scythe. What I wouldn’t give for some hot candle wax right now.

“Pierce…” Her voice goes up at the end of my name.

Off comes the sweater and the shirt underneath.

And now I’m standing in the middle of the Tuileries Gardens Christmas Market clad only in a pair of black boxer briefs. Oh, my nipples are hating me right now. But it also feels kinda good. Pleasure and pain. Kissing cousins.

People have noticed. This being Paris, no one seems all that shocked. For the most part they just kind of glance over and move on. A couple of kids do gawk.

Well, kids, it’s about to get a whole lot more gawk-worthy in about five seconds.

I put my hands on the waistband of my underwear and go to tug when Myrtle’s hands land on mine.

“No! Don’t. This is insane.”

“I know.”

“This is not going to help anything.”

“Maybe not. But lying down naked in front of you in the middle of a French park in winter sure would put you above me. Literally. And metaphorically. It would show submission, I’m trying to say. I mean, I think it would.”

“Jesus. You’re all about the grand gesture, aren’t you?”

“Is there any other kind?”

“All the toos. Every last one.”

“Yeah. I know. Look, if this isn’t what you want, I won’t do it. If it is, I will. I’ll do whatever. I can learn. I swear I can. Because I love you. I love you, Myrtle Astrid Rothschild, lion-taming librarian. I love you and everything that you are. And I don’t need you to be anything for me. You’re everything I could want. And I just want the chance to be that for you. To be what you need. To be what you want. And to think about what that is and serve that before I serve myself. I swear. Please, just give me the chance to start over.”

“Monsieur! Monsieur!”

Two gendarmes are making their way toward me.

“Please, Myrtle. Just give me a chance. Because the cops are coming over here and before I get hauled off to jail, I’d just like to know if I should plan on it being the last cage anyone ever throws me in again. Because I’d really like that to not be the case.”

And then… a Christmas miracle happens.

She bows her head, covers her face with her hands, and I hear her say, “I love you.”

“Monsieur!”

“What did you say?” I ask

“What?” she says.

“Monsieur!” They’re about five meters away now.

“Did you just say you love me?”

“Love you? No. I said, ‘I can’t believe you.’”