His movements are like a dance where his eyes close for only an instant and then return to mine. He doesn’t retreat into his own mind, and we connect so deep that for an instant I feel as though we are a single being. As I feel him increase in force, I pull him closer and shatter in ecstasy yet again as he watches in such awe that it pushes him over his own eruptive edge.
David pulls back the sheets of the tightly tucked bed of starched linen and slides me inside before slipping in behind me, still fully erect, as if eager to go again. I still feel among the fog and clouds as I hold David so tight to me that he adjusts himself against my exposed back.
“That was, I mean, wow. I wasn’t expecting that, really,” he says as his labored breath recedes to normal. I wait for that moment he does the typical male retreat that most men do right after sex.
“I don’t think I even know what day it is anymore,” I say.
I forgot how good sex could feel, the delectable exploration of an unknown body from the inside with moves that aren’t of a familiar routine, but that of an unbridled lover you want over and over and over again. Then, the rabbit hole of guilt takes me away in an instant as I see Matt’s face and that of Billy. I will never again be able to call myself faithful to my husband, even if it’s something only I know. I will forever be a wife who has cheated, even if this all ends as I plan to do here and now. What is done is done, but now this must end.
“It’s the first day, that’s what day it is,” he says without hesitation.
“The first day of what?” Anger sweeps over me as if he is to blame for all that I have done.
“The first day we ever made love, and in Paris, no less.”
David has a way of making things seem permanent, even though I know his type likes anything but. It has to be torture for the women he dates. Perhaps that’s why they fall for him so easily, believing he will catch them mid-fall and live happily ever after only to find out otherwise.
“Is this the first time you’ve had sex in Paris?” I turn over and ask with a tinge of spite as if he is to blame for my infidelity. However, with a single look, I’m taken aback by the brightness and alertness of his perfect blue eyes against the pure white sheets.
“It’s the best sex I’ve had in Paris.”
His answer jolts me back to reality and alludes to the broader truth that it’s probably just the best sex he’s had in Paris today. My eyes return to the city that lies just outside the window. The truth vibrates like a percussion orchestra in my head. You don’t leave your husband for a man like this; you cheat with him once and leave.
“So tell me more about the David who lives outside of hotels.”
“The David who lives outside of hotels? Well, I don’t get to see him very often because of my job. But when he’s in London, he likes to see his mates from university and go out to dinner and the likes.”
“And in terms of love?”
“I love a lot, I quite like love.”
“That’s not what I mean,” I say as I nudge him in the shoulder. “Have you ever been married?”
“God, no.”
“All right then, who was your last girlfriend?”
“Is this what I have to look forward to from a journalist?” he says with a wide smile. “Well, that was awhile ago, but I was dating a woman named Ana who was a model from near my hometown.”
“Model named Ana. Got it,” I say with sarcasm.
“She wanted something far more serious than I was ready to commit to, so we thought it best to part ways.”
“So she moved out?”
David laughs at my question with some dismissal as if I said his skin was purple and not the most aristocratic of pale, perfect alabaster white.
“We definitely didn’t live together. I’m home so seldom that I like to keep my house off-limits.”
“You mean bachelor pad?”
“So, what about you? How long can I linger in bed with you at the Ritz?” He doesn’t seem comfortable with
David pulls back the sheets of the tightly tucked bed of starched linen and slides me inside before slipping in behind me, still fully erect, as if eager to go again. I still feel among the fog and clouds as I hold David so tight to me that he adjusts himself against my exposed back.
“That was, I mean, wow. I wasn’t expecting that, really,” he says as his labored breath recedes to normal. I wait for that moment he does the typical male retreat that most men do right after sex.
“I don’t think I even know what day it is anymore,” I say.
I forgot how good sex could feel, the delectable exploration of an unknown body from the inside with moves that aren’t of a familiar routine, but that of an unbridled lover you want over and over and over again. Then, the rabbit hole of guilt takes me away in an instant as I see Matt’s face and that of Billy. I will never again be able to call myself faithful to my husband, even if it’s something only I know. I will forever be a wife who has cheated, even if this all ends as I plan to do here and now. What is done is done, but now this must end.
“It’s the first day, that’s what day it is,” he says without hesitation.
“The first day of what?” Anger sweeps over me as if he is to blame for all that I have done.
“The first day we ever made love, and in Paris, no less.”
David has a way of making things seem permanent, even though I know his type likes anything but. It has to be torture for the women he dates. Perhaps that’s why they fall for him so easily, believing he will catch them mid-fall and live happily ever after only to find out otherwise.
“Is this the first time you’ve had sex in Paris?” I turn over and ask with a tinge of spite as if he is to blame for my infidelity. However, with a single look, I’m taken aback by the brightness and alertness of his perfect blue eyes against the pure white sheets.
“It’s the best sex I’ve had in Paris.”
His answer jolts me back to reality and alludes to the broader truth that it’s probably just the best sex he’s had in Paris today. My eyes return to the city that lies just outside the window. The truth vibrates like a percussion orchestra in my head. You don’t leave your husband for a man like this; you cheat with him once and leave.
“So tell me more about the David who lives outside of hotels.”
“The David who lives outside of hotels? Well, I don’t get to see him very often because of my job. But when he’s in London, he likes to see his mates from university and go out to dinner and the likes.”
“And in terms of love?”
“I love a lot, I quite like love.”
“That’s not what I mean,” I say as I nudge him in the shoulder. “Have you ever been married?”
“God, no.”
“All right then, who was your last girlfriend?”
“Is this what I have to look forward to from a journalist?” he says with a wide smile. “Well, that was awhile ago, but I was dating a woman named Ana who was a model from near my hometown.”
“Model named Ana. Got it,” I say with sarcasm.
“She wanted something far more serious than I was ready to commit to, so we thought it best to part ways.”
“So she moved out?”
David laughs at my question with some dismissal as if I said his skin was purple and not the most aristocratic of pale, perfect alabaster white.
“We definitely didn’t live together. I’m home so seldom that I like to keep my house off-limits.”
“You mean bachelor pad?”
“So, what about you? How long can I linger in bed with you at the Ritz?” He doesn’t seem comfortable with