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I don't know what to say, so I simply follow her. She gathers her skirt around her knees as she stomps up the narrow stairway way to a second floor flat and flings open the door. I follow her tentatively.
As soon as I clear the doorway, she flings herself at me. Her hands push up into my hair, dragging me on top of her, pulling me down onto the bare wooden floor. Her leg wraps around me, as hungry as her mouth.
Instinct takes over and I snap open my trousers, freeing my ready, throbbing cock just as she slides black lace panties over her ankles and flings them to the side. Her knees spread open in a silent invitation. I roll on top of her, mounting her with my hand under the small of her back to lift her hips.
She arches back, exposing her throat to me and I dive for it, burying my nose against her and inhaling deeply as I plunge into her warm sheath. Her ankles lock behind my hips, dragging me deeper inside her.
Like a thousand times before, we are locked together, grinding, thrusting, finding each other in the dark space between our souls. I know exactly what she needs from me and I give it to her, all of it. I lunge into her, impaling her until our bodies explode simultaneously.
We are both covered with sweat as I finally fall, withdrawing breathlessly and trying to pull her into my arms.
“Oh, Jordan, I missed you so much. That was—”
“That was sex, R,” she says simply. She sits up, smoothing her skirt back over her knees and letting her eyes wander over me dispassionately. “Good sex, I'll be the first to admit,” she continues coldly. “But just sex.”
“I think you know it's more than just sex,” I retort.
She shrugs one shoulder, looking away.
“I suppose you did that on purpose? Bumped into me on purpose? That was some kind of plan?”
I don't even want to lie it to her anymore, so I just tell the truth. “Yes. I had to see you.”
She takes a deep breath and lets it out over a long, long time.
I look around the room, trying to get my bearings. I don't recognize anything here, in fact, I'm kind of surprised these are the furnishings she chose. It's completely different than the pieces in our flat. More modern, more austere, with natural fibers and a more pragmatic aesthetic that I would've ascribed to her.
“Jordan, you must know I have feelings for you.”
Her head bobs up and down a few times. “I think that my feelings for you are purely physical, R,” she sighs. “If that's all right with you, I mean. Otherwise, we probably shouldn't see each other again.”
“You are giving me a choice?”
Her lips purse, and I can see how she's different. Not as soft. Not as eager. Not as innocent.
“Well,” she says finally, her tone full of impatience. She's dismissing me. She expects me to leave now. “I suppose you can let me know.”
I want to come up with some kind snappy retort, but everything in my repertoire sounds thin and insincere. Instead I just stand, redress myself and head for the door. I hear it close behind me and feel like I've lost. For the first time in my life, I feel like I have lost everything.
Chapter 19
Jordan
One of the really nice things about my neighborhood is that there is a small school, an École, they call it, just around the corner. They do the usual adult education classes like English and French for foreigners. I'd like to learn French but every time I try I get this sneering attitude and I've decided it's just better to go ahead and be an American, speaking English. At least that way they'll be snotty to me in French and I won't necessarily even understand what they're saying.
The school also has classes about other things, and after a little while I decided it would be worth looking into. Maybe something would spark my interest, give me some idea of the direction for my life. While living in France was expensive, I did have quite a lot of money left. I knew it wouldn't last forever, but I wasn't feeling any great urgency to start working at the local Burger King or anything.
Art appreciation classes have been going really well. The instructor shows us slides, talking in this bored, above-it-all sort of voice as she describes each painting in her impenetrable accent. According to her, French painting is the best. Apparently those Italians and Dutch are a bunch of has-beens who shall not be named.
After class, Daniel finally gets up the courage to talk to me as we’re leaving. He's tall and good-looking, with a youthful shock of hair that just covers his coffee-brown eyes. I’ve seen him glancing at me out of the corner of my eye, but he al
ways dashes off without saying anything at all.
He happens to be in the doorway at the same time that I'm attempting to leave, slinging my satchel strap over my shoulder. His eyes meet mine shyly from under that hair and he purses his lips slightly. I find that expression particularly charming, as though he is just lightly kissing the air.
He speaks to me in a sexy, boyish accent. “You speak French?”
“Not a bit,” I tell him proudly.
