I stop at my place to pick up a bottle of champagne. Excitement pumps through my veins as I skip the elevator and take the stairs to his floor instead. Once I’m standing in front of his door, I take a deep calming breath and ring the doorbell twice before I have a chance to change my mind. There’s a part of me that wants to flee, afraid that he’ll think I’m being too forward. But the other tells me to chill, that I’m not doing anything wrong.
He opens the door. I raise the bottle and smile invitingly. “About that drink I owe you …”
Sébastien grins crookedly, scratching the back of his neck as his gaze lands on the champagne. My God. It’s like he’s a gift sent from the underworld to show and taunt us with the kind of pleasures one would find if we gave into temptation and sinned. “What’s the special occasion?”
“We’re celebrating.”
“Oh yeah? What are we celebrating?
“Life.”
I SPEND MY MORNINGS helping Mr. Lemaire in the flower shop, and little by little the store comes back to life. The dust is replaced by various blooms, and more customers walk in. Even Mr. Lemaire laughs more; we both do. My French hasn’t really improved, but with the help of Sébastien, who stops once in a while to have lunch with us, we’re able to communicate better and smooth out the bumps created by the language barrier.
And it’s wonderful. To find a purpose. To be able to look at yourself in the mirror and be proud of the woman staring back at you.
Before I know it, I’ve been in Paris for a few months. William doesn’t call anymore, and I’ve stopped expecting him to. And each day that passes, Sébastien embeds himself deeper in the DNA of my life, of my soul. From the first moment I laid my eyes on him, he’s slowly filled my world with colors I’d forgotten existed. And now it’s bursting with them.
Walks along the river on starry nights with him by my side while I balance myself on the ledge, arms extended, heart glowing. Sharing anecdotes in hidden cafés as we get drunk on wine, on food, and I get drunk on him. Dancing into the wee hours of the morning while Sébastien teaches me how to tango along the banks of the Seine.
Laughing at everything and nothing at all.
Thoughts of him keep intruding my mind. They make me blush and awaken my body with a hunger deep in my core that I haven’t felt in a very long time. Sometimes late at night, I reach under the covers, spread my legs apart, and fuck myself with my fingers while wishing it was his hardness inside me. I lick my lips, and I wish it were his tongue. Rub my nipples and imagine it’s his mouth. I reach for a pillow, pretending it’s his body, and then I come, whispering his name into an empty room like a prayer or an invocation.
It’s as though God has said, “Here, child, I give you the food for your starving soul. The music to fill the silence. The sun to warm you. The moon, the stars to show you the way. But be careful. Don’t be greedy. Too much of one thing can never be good.”
But I am greedy.
I keep borrowing more and more time with him, knowing full well that the clock is ticking. The sand running out of the hourglass. So I continue to live in my little bubble, praying that the tomorrows keep coming as I fall and fall, and that’s all I can do.
RECLINING MY BACK on the leather chair, I stare at the ceiling while bouncing a baseball against it. In the dark, the thumping sounds are soothing. The place is empty except for the cleaning crew and me. The lines ringing nonstop outside my office have been replaced by Latin music booming from a portable player outside in the hall.
I should get out of here, but my pathetic grandmother has gotten to me, ruining what was shaping up to be a perfect day. The returns were looking good. It felt like we were finally getting a break after a string of bad investments and even worse returns. But then her visit came.
Loretta Fitzpatrick, the matriarch who holds the keys to all the money I desperately need, barged into my office without giving a damn that I was in the middle of a meeting. Larry and a few of the traders could go to hell for all she cared. Cane in hand, pearls worn like artillery, she came into the room ready for battle. Gone were the kind hellos and kisses on cheeks. Her grandson had disappointed her, and she was letting him know of her displeasure.
“William,” she said coldly as way of greeting, giving her head a slight nod and ignoring the rest of the men.
My secretary stood on the threshold of the door, guilt and fear implanted on her features. “Sir, she wouldn’t wait until the meeting was over.”
My grandmother didn’t dignify her with an answer. Instead, she focused all of her attention on me. “Please, dismiss your meeting. I’d like to have a word with you in private,” she paused, her shrewd blue eyes burning holes in me, “unless, of course, you are far too busy for me.”
Sarcasm dripped from her words because she knew that no one, not even me, would dare to deny her anything. Least of all, when she had come all the way from Greenwich for this meeting. Loretta Fitzpatrick was used to ruling an empire with an iron fist, and she led her private life in the same manner. Nothing but perfection would do. My poor grandfather had no choice but to sit back and watch her do his job for him. Consequently, he drank and whored until his death, not that I blamed him one bit.
It could also be said that she expected the same perfection in her children and grandchildren. My adoptive father, an only child from an unhappy marriage, killed himself and his lover in a boating accident. Loretta blamed my adoptive mother for his death, saying that it was her detachment and coldness that had driven him into the arms of another woman. Of course, she didn’t know that her precious son enjoyed hitting his wife and children after polishing off a particularly remarkable bottle of scotch or when in one of his darker moods. The sick motherfucker got a kick out of hearing us cry or seeing technicolor bruises on our skin. And after he’d left Gwyneth and I black and blue, he would grab my mother by the hair, dragging her to their room and finishing her on the bed. The more she resisted, the more he enjoyed it. Sometimes he even made us watch, taking a sick pleasure in our disgust and fear. The one time I tried to fight him, he broke my mother’s wrist. An eye for an eye, he had said. I hated him. The day he died was the happiest day of my life.
I never forgave my grandmother for choosing to be blind when all the signs were there, and for making our mother feel more unworthy than she already did. Soon after, she passed away of cancer. And as I stood over the hole in the ground, her casket being lowered to the ground along with the remnants of my soul, I made a vow to myself. I would never allow myself to feel. Amongst flower arrangements and a sea of people dressed in black, I raised a hand to my chest right where my heart should’ve been and felt nothing.
Then my eyes had landed on my grandmother who remained untouched, aloof, and hatred filled me once again. All I wanted was for her to die and leave me the hell alone along with the fortune that was rightfully mine.
“Please excuse us,” I said, dismissing the meeting.
As the men shuffled out of my office, my gaze found my grandmother’s and the old hate came back, ramming its horns deep in my chest. When the last person stepped out and closed the door behind him, we stood facing each other surrounded by silence.
“To what do I owe this pleasure?” I asked charmingly.
Loretta closed the space between us and sat down on the chair directly facing my desk. She was pushing ninety, but you would never know it by the way she held herself. Ramrod straight like the cane in her hands. Regal like a queen. “You know exactly why I am here. Mrs. Croft told me about your failed trip. Why is Valentina still in Paris?”
I shrugged carelessly, not surprised that the housekeeper would keep her informed about the state of my marriage. Keeping tabs on us was her sole purpose in the house when she wasn’t pretending to work. And I couldn’t fire her without pissing grandmother off.
“I guess she felt like sightseeing.”
“What do you take me for? Your lovesick wife? You’ve disappointed her again, haven’t you?”
I remained silent wh
ile waiting for her to continue punishing me with her words, not that they could cause me any harm. She couldn’t touch me. No one could.
“I was sure you were different from all the men in the family, but it seems I was mistaken. Is there someone else again?”
I shook my head, loosening my tie. “No one. I promised you I was done with all of that after the first time.”
She eyed me up and down, suspicion marking her every move. Maybe she knew I was full of shit after all. “Good. I meant what I said the last time it happened. Both your grandfather and father disappointed me. And if you do too, if that girl files for divorce, I will disinherit you. It’s simple. I’m tired of our last name being associated with that kind of vulgarity.”
My grandmother, it seemed, wanted to make a point. And when she did, she did not give a damn about the consequences. And there was no fucking way in hell I would let her take that away from me. I hadn’t put up with her all this time for nothing. That inheritance was mine.
“I understand,” I said softly.
“Excellent. I trust you’ll know what to do.”
I stood and made my way to her side to try to help her stand, but she dismissed my assistance with the wave of a hand. Slowly but surely she made her way to the door and opened it. Waiting outside in the hall was good old Don—her trusted driver. He went to her immediately offering his arm. As she placed a wrinkled hand on his forearm covered in a black suit, she turned to look at me, ready to fire her loaded words one last time, “Don’t disappoint me, William.”
She left without taking another glance at her disobedient grandchild. And as I watched her walk away from me, an intense dislike bordering on hate for Valentina spread like black ink inside me. Why couldn’t she do what I wanted? Why did she have to stay there?
I planned our trip to Paris as a way to appease her. She always got difficult and testy around our anniversary. But a last minute meeting came up, and Brooke wanted me to take her away for a night. After that, I lost interest in going. I figured Valentina would come back on her own. I never thought that she would choose that moment to finally grow a backbone. Like always, Valentina’s timing was just fucking perfect.
Angrily shoving those thoughts aside, I get up, letting the ball bounce on the carpeted floor, forgotten, and stand in front of the floor to ceiling window behind my desk. Rubbing the back of my neck, I stare at the skyline of the city. The lights are everywhere. Everything appears to be pulsing with life—that is everything on the other side of this glass wall.
I chuckle, thinking of the naïve boy I once was. Before I discovered that evil lurked beneath the most perfect façades. I often wonder what would have become of me had my father turned out to be a decent man. Would my life be any different? What if I had been adopted by a different family?
There was a time when I had hope.
Hope came in the shape of a tall girl-woman with wild hair the color of milk chocolate. When I first met Valentina, I saw someone full of dreams, full of life. I took one look into her guileless eyes and felt that maybe the world wasn’t such a shitty place. I wanted to believe what she believed in. I wanted to be the man she thought I was because that man was good and worthy. Unsullied. Was I in love with her? No, but I wanted to be. And for a while, I fooled myself into thinking that I had finally found peace.
But like all fantasies built upon shaky walls, the cracks soon started to show, slowly crumbling down and turning to dust. I wanted Valentina to save me from myself, and for a while I’d thought she could, but I was wrong. No one could save me. So hope contorted itself into despair, marring the beauty of the promised land within my reach.
Her love began to choke me. I couldn’t be near her without feeling impatience and disappointment. Disappointment because she wasn’t the woman I thought she was. She was weak, needy—her love for me made her pathetic. It was like a noose tied around my neck depriving me of air.
Valentina. Once my hope, she was now the one who could ruin everything that I’ve worked damn hard to achieve. And there’s no fucking way I’m going to let her.
A few doors down, I hear the faint sound of Larry’s grandfather clock announcing the hour. It’s past midnight. I pack my things, go down to the garage, get in my car, and head home.
But even on my drive across town, I can’t stop thinking about it all. My family. My past. My present. Valentina. Tightening my hold on the steering wheel, I change lanes and head somewhere else.
Brooke takes my cock in her hand and brings it between her legs, rubbing her clit with it. Sitting up on the bed with my back reclined against the frame, I watch her magnificent tits as she pushes me inside of her, coating my cock with her desire. And unlike my frigid wife who I basically have to coerce to have sex with me, this woman is made to fuck.
I circle her waist with my fingers as I guide the punishing rhythm of our coupling. It’s hard and fast. She slaps me when I lean over and bite her tit, making sure to draw blood. Darkness blacks out my conscience. I flip her onto her back and enter her cunt in one punishing thrust enjoying her cries of pain and need. When she begins to fight me, scratching my face and my arms, my hands go to her delicate neck. Tightening my hold around the fragile length, I watch her trying to take her next breath while my cock continues to piston in and out of her mercilessly—viciously—fucking the life out of her. Our bodies are covered in sweat. The room smells like our dirty souls. And I fucking love it.
She comes first, her eyes closing as her cunt spasms intensely around my cock. When I can’t hold it any longer, I pull out of her and spill myself on her stomach. I throw back my head, a shout torn from my chest, the intensity of the orgasm blinding.
I’m now lying in bed as I watch her naked form step out of the bathroom. While she towels her wet hair, I observe the red marks I’ve left behind on her body, perversely enjoying them.
“I might not be able to see you for sometime.”
She tilts her head to the side making her blond hair fall over her left shoulder. “Your wife is back?”
I shake my head, the anger and resentment that disappeared as soon I got here stir awake inside me. “Loretta has given me an ultimatum.”
“She did?” she asks, raising an eyebrow. “What is it?”
“Don’t worry your pretty little head. I’ve got it under control. Come over here.”
She discards the towel on the floor before joining me on the bed and straddling my lap. I raise a hand to trace my fingerprints on her neck. A depraved pleasure coats my senses. “Did I hurt you?”
Brooke shakes her head. “You’re one sick motherfucker, you know?”
I chuckle wryly before remembering my grandmother’s warning and sober up. “I’m going to miss this,” I say, running the back of my fingers along her tits to her stomach and down to her hot, wet pussy.
Closing her eyes, she moans when I spread her apart and rub her clit with my thumb. Her hands go to my shoulders for support as she begins to grind herself on me. “You make it sound final …” she gasps when I impale her with four of my fingers. “What are you planning to do?”
I kiss her instead of giving her an answer.
You’re my midnight thought and my 11:11 wish.
THE AIR SMELLS LIKE sweet grass, and the sun’s bright and warm with not a cloud in the sky. I stand on the veranda transfixed, watching the outline of a woman running and laughing as a group of kids chase her. Lips wide, her unruly curls flow down her back with a dandelion flower crown sitting unevenly on top of her head. She’s wearing a dress more suited for a day at the beach than an exclusive diplomatic party at a chateau outside Paris, but one look at her, and you wouldn’t give a damn whether she wore a sack of potatoes or a ball gown. You wouldn’t be able to take your eyes off of her. And it isn’t because she’s the most striking woman in the place. There are others with far more classical features than hers. But none of them can hold a candle to her. She reminds me of the sea: untamed, unpredictable, but beautiful, so damn beautiful.
Va
lentina glances in my direction, eyes shining, an inviting, healthy blush on her cheeks, and waves enthusiastically before the pack of brats tackle her with hugs. I bury my hands in the front pockets of my slacks, enjoying the show, and laugh at the sight. Even the kids have lost their heart to her.
“It’s really lovely to hear that sound once again …”
Absorbed in the tableau unfolding in front of me, I’d failed to notice my cousin coming to stand next to me. Tearing my eyes away from Valentina, I focus on Sophie. Many say she’s the beauty of the family, and I have to agree. “What’s that?”
“You. Laughing.”
I nod. “There are a lot of kids here.”
“Oh, you know Jack. He must always invite everyone who’s remotely associated with the Embassy.” She studies Valentina. “They all seem to really like her.” She lifts a flute of champagne to her lips, takes a sip. “Be careful, Sébastien.”
“What do you mean?” I frown, not liking where this is going. “Nothing’s happened.”
“Not yet,” she adds, watching me from the corner of her eye. “Listen, Sebs, I really like Valentina, too. I truly think she’s the perfect woman for you. Her one, maybe only, flaw is that she’s married.”
“I know.”
“You think you know, babe. But you’ve never been married. You can’t erase the years they’ve been together. And the moment you try to make her choose between her husband and you, you’ll lose her.” She pauses, measuring her next sentence. “For all you know, it could be another rough patch.”
About a week ago, Sophie and Jack came over for dinner at my apartment. Valentina was there. Conversation flowed like the wine. One glass turned into five or eight bottles. Before I knew it, Valentina opened up about her marriage. There was no anger anymore. She didn’t even blame William. It was as though she had finally come to terms with the state of whatever was left of it. And the bastard in me was happy.