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“Retaliation is a primitive, self-defeating notion. I won’t do or not do things based on what Grace would have thought about them.”
Darn him and logic. I can tell he’s made up his mind. He pulls away.
I collect the shreds of my pride and take a step back. No need to beg.
“Well, then.” I straighten my spine. “I won’t keep you any longer. I hope you have a good life, Arsène.”
“Chances aren’t looking good, but thank you. Same goes to you.”
He turns around, opens the door, steps away, and shuts it softly.
I stare at the door for a few moments. Then I sink to my knees and let out a self-pitying whimper. I wish I could cry about it, but, as usual, the tears don’t come. The heartbreak, however, is real, and I don’t know why. If it’s because of the rejection, the disappointment, or the idea that another chapter regarding Paul is over in my book.
It takes me a few minutes to collect myself. When I finally do, I stand up and turn toward Paul’s office. Intuition tells me I’m missing something. The doorbell chimes. I freeze. I’m not in the mood for company. I take another step toward Paul’s room.
“Open up, Bumpkin.”
After approaching the front door, I plaster my forehead against it, closing my eyes. “Why?” I sigh. “Give me one good reason.”
“One?” His voice is so close I know he is leaning against the door too. “Because we fucking deserve this.”
I swing the door open, and he is standing there, panting, like he ran up the flights of stairs. His hair is a mess. His cheeks are flushed. He looks alive. I don’t remember the last time this man looked like more than a perfectly handsome preserved corpse.
“Let me make one thing clear.” He raises a finger. “After tonight, we’re not going to see each other again. You were born for greater things than being the arm candy to another man who could never love you.”
“Yes,” I answer, just as breathless. The only thing that stands between us is the narrow space of the threshold.
“After this, there will be no more dinners, no more movies, no more cuddles.”
“No more schemes, no more information to share,” I add, nodding.
“This.” He points between us. “Is consensual, correct?”
“Yes.” I angle my chin down, watching him. “I want to have sex with you.”
“I want to have sex with you too,” he admits on a choke, tipping his head back, closing his eyes. “Fuck, I’m hard pressed to think of anything I’ve ever wanted more.”
Anything? Even Grace?
We collide and explode into one unit, his hands in my hair, my lips fused to his. He is stumbling into my apartment, one hand tight around my waist, kissing me frantically, desperately, while he struggles to peel my dress off. My arms snake around his shoulders. My back hits the wall, but his hand cups my head, protecting me.
“Where’s the goddamn zipper?” He groans into our kiss, his tongue swirling around mine, dipping down to my neck.
“The side of my dress. But be careful, the zipper—”
Before I can complete the sentence, the zipper rolls down, catching the skin around my ribs. I let out a hiss. Arsène rears his head back, sobering up.
“Sorry. Fuck. Slower.” He rubs his thumb over the flesh where my skin is reddening. “You good?”
I nod, unbuckling him while my dress drops to the floor. I kick it off. He unclasps my bra, his tongue and mouth already where I want them to be. His shirt is off. His pants too. In less than a minute, we are completely naked in front of each other. He rips himself away from me suddenly, taking a step back.
“Wait.” He is heaving. “Let me look. I wanna have my fill. I’ve been fantasizing about this moment for far too long to devour you quickly.” He shakes his head, laughing at himself a little.
I stand with my arms at my sides, my chin up, like the Venus de Milo sculpture, proud and tall and unbothered. I examine myself through his eyes. My modest height, my too-small breasts, my wobbly knees. My un-Grace-ness. But no matter how self-conscious I am, satisfaction is written plainly over his face. He is enjoying every inch of me.
“You know.” He circles me lazily, completely naked, a predator on the prowl. “When I saw you in Italy, I had the acute sense that Paul chose you because he saw you as an investment. A piece of art bound to increase in value over the years. Something different, precious, one of a kind; he was right. You are not like the rest, Winnifred.” He stops behind me. He buries his face in my shoulder, his hot lips skimming over my skin. He is bracketing me from behind, his entire body flush against mine. “You are nothing like other women. Nothing like other people. But, like all pieces of art, you are bound to break.”
