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“Fuck, Isabel, I’m going to cum,” Jacques said, his voice tight. He picked up speed, pounding my body mercilessly. The feeling of being caught, helpless, while I was fucked was intoxicating, and I came again, arching my back away from the wall as my legs tightened around his waist, pulling him deeper inside me. Jacques roared and came inside me with a shudder.
For a long moment, we stayed like that, sweating and trembling in each others’ arms, Jacques’ forehead pressed against mine. Then, slowly, he withdrew from me, sending a delicious shiver up my spine. “You should take that bath now,” he said, and I laughed.
“There’s more than enough room for both of us,” I said, and was rewarded with a small smile.
The bath I had drawn was quite cold, so I busied myself preparing a new one while Jacques watched silently.
“I think it’s ready,” I said. “You should get in first.”
Jacques hissed as he stepped into the water. “Are you trying to boil me alive, woman?” he asked.
“Don’t be such a baby,” I teased. He settled himself in the tub, and I followed, nestling in between his legs with my back against his firm chest. His fingers traced gentle patterns up my arms and I shivered despite the steam that rose from the bathwater.
After some time, Jacques spoke. “I want to be open with you,” he said. “Honest. I want that, but I’m not sure I’m ready...for it to be published.”
“That’s all right,” I said, my heart beating wildly in my chest. “Anything you don’t want me to write about, just tell me, and I promise I won’t. You can read the article before I even send it to my editor.”
Jacques squeezed my hand in silent thanks. For a while, the only sound was of the gentle lapping of water against our skin as we sat in comfortable silence.
“Jacques?” I said finally. “Thank you for trusting me. It means a lot.”
Jacques cleared his throat in answer. “Are you ready to get out?” he asked. “I think the water has cooled to slightly less than boiling.”
I slapped playfully at his arm. “You go,” I said. “I still have to wash my hair.”
Jacques hesitated. “You sure?”
“Mmhm.” Water sloshed gently over the side of the tub as Jacques stepped out. I watched lazily as he wrapped a towel around his body, water running in rivulets down his chest.
“I’ll leave you to your bath,” he said, then was gone.
19
Isabel
The days passed, and I fell into a comfortable routine. In the mornings, Jacques and I would breakfast together in companionable silence. I learned quickly that he was not a morning person by any stretch of the imagination, and any attempt to draw him into conversation before he was sufficiently caffeinated would be met by noncommittal grunts.
After breakfast, we would retire to the patio, if it was nice, or the drawing room, if it was cold or rainy, and continue our interview. Jacques was reticent, at first, but as the days went on, he opened up more and more.
“I’d like to hear about the first time you found wrestling,” I said one morning.
Jacques hesitated, and I waited in silence. I’d learned that he didn’t like to be prompted, and if I waited long enough, I usually got an answer in the end.
“I’ve already told you that I was 15 when I began,” he said eventually. “One afternoon after school, I was on my own. Bernard had had to stay after, for whatever reason. I didn’t want to go home just yet. My aunt had been drinking quite a bit in those days, and I knew better than to get in her way. I figured I would lay low for a few hours and head home in the evening and hope that she had already passed out.”
I nodded, saying nothing. My heart ached for the scared, lonely boy Jacques had once been, but I knew he didn’t want my sympathy. It would only make him uncomfortable.
“I had learned over the years where I was likely to be left alone. I skulked through alleys and behind shops. If the shopkeepers noticed me, they never kicked me out. Perhaps they realized I needed a place to be alone. At the time, I just thought I was exceptionally stealthy.” At this, a rare smile broke through, but was gone in an instant.
“This one afternoon, though, they found me. Some of the older boys. They surrounded me, taunting me about my old clothes, my dirty hair, the fact that I didn’t have a mother.” Jacques’ hands clenched in his lap. I had given him a stress ball to keep his hands busy during our conversations, and he clutched it so tightly his knuckles turned white. “I took a swing at one of them, I couldn’t help it. I missed, of course. I was just a scrawny thing back then. But the other boys took it as an invitation, and they fell on me. Before I knew it, I was on the ground, and they were kicking me. They might have killed me, if they were given the chance. They were in a frenzy. I curled up on myself, bleeding and crying.”
