dancing, and background
singing to Yvette’s clear soprano when she’s persuaded to perform.
Hervé
doesn’t need persuading to read more of his sonnets. They’re all dedicated to
his wife, and every one of them is a plucky, resounding slap on Baudelaire’s
and Rimbaud’s long-dead cheeks.
At
around two in the morning, Yvette declares herself too tired to sing and Hervé
runs out of sonnets, at which point the party winds down.
Hugo
drives me to Claire’s. The country road is empty, and he takes advantage of the
easy drive and places a hand on my thigh. As he begins to stroke, the full
price of the decision I made tonight sinks in, making my stomach clench.
Hugo
Bonnet will never make love to me again.
*
* *
Fifteen
Claire
is asleep when I send Hugo on his way and tiptoe upstairs. Fifteen minutes
later, I change into my nightgown in the first-floor guest bedroom that used to
be the room I shared with Diane.
Lionel’s
semi-independent studio on the ground floor has been unoccupied since he
passed. Four years ago, Claire decided to empty it out, refurbish it, and rent
it out. She still hasn’t “gotten around” to doing it.
I
doubt she ever will.
As
I climb into my bed, someone knocks on my window. I pad to it and, after a bit
of struggling with the wonky handle, open it. Hugo is hanging from the iron
railing, flashing me a toothy smile.
I
fold my arms over my chest. “You’re crazy.”
“Can
we debate this inside?” His smile gives way to a grimace as he pulls himself up
a little and adjusts his grip. “Unless you’re curious to see if I’ll scream
when I hit the ground.”
I
step back and let him climb in.
“Phew.”
He closes the window behind him.
His
presence in my bedroom fills my body with a foolhardy joy I can’t suppress.
“You’re
mad,” I say. “Or drunk.”
“I
had only two glasses of wine since I was driving us back.” He gives me an expressive
look. “I’m a responsible person.”
He
shrugs off his jacket and takes a step toward me.
“All
right, then. You aren’t drunk.” I stare at him, my heart beginning to hammer.
“You’re a responsible madman.”
He
inches closer, eyes riveted to my breasts. I follow his gaze. My nipples are
tenting the silk of my nightie in a way that leaves little to the imagination.
When
I look up, my cheeks and ears are flaming. Good thing the light of my night
lamp is so dim.
“ Pichune ,”
he says and encases my face with his hands.
For
the life of me, I can’t send him away.
Just
one more night, I tell myself.
Our
last night together.
He
bends down and kisses me on the lips. His kiss is hungry and immediately deep,
latching onto my welcoming mouth, and his tongue pushes in and strokes mine. I
stand on tiptoe, throw my arms around his neck, and kiss him like there’s no
tomorrow. My body is ready and willing so much that my engorged pelvis aches.
Oh,
and by the way, there really is no tomorrow for Hugo and me.
But
I refuse to dwell on it now.
Without
breaking the kiss, he slides a hand down my back, cups my behind, and lifts me
off the ground. I lock my legs around his waist, reveling in how he holds me as
if I’m weightless.
Then,
for a few brief moments, I’m supported by only one sinuous arm while he unzips
his fly. I help him with the condom, and a few seconds later he’s inside me.
I’m
impaled to the hilt, arching and abandoning myself completely to the sweet
ecstasy of this act.
He
begins to pound into me right there in the middle of the room, making my
breasts bob with each thrust. My legs are wrapped around him, and my ass is
supported by his large hands, tight and comfortable, thank you very much. All
my sensations are heightened, building to a fever pitch. Before I know it, I’m
hovering on the edge, and when I climax, I bite my wrist to stop myself from
moaning.
As
always, he allows himself to come only after the quivering in my legs subsides.
“You’ll
sneak out tomorrow morning the way you came
singing to Yvette’s clear soprano when she’s persuaded to perform.
Hervé
doesn’t need persuading to read more of his sonnets. They’re all dedicated to
his wife, and every one of them is a plucky, resounding slap on Baudelaire’s
and Rimbaud’s long-dead cheeks.
At
around two in the morning, Yvette declares herself too tired to sing and Hervé
runs out of sonnets, at which point the party winds down.
Hugo
drives me to Claire’s. The country road is empty, and he takes advantage of the
easy drive and places a hand on my thigh. As he begins to stroke, the full
price of the decision I made tonight sinks in, making my stomach clench.
Hugo
Bonnet will never make love to me again.
*
* *
Fifteen
Claire
is asleep when I send Hugo on his way and tiptoe upstairs. Fifteen minutes
later, I change into my nightgown in the first-floor guest bedroom that used to
be the room I shared with Diane.
Lionel’s
semi-independent studio on the ground floor has been unoccupied since he
passed. Four years ago, Claire decided to empty it out, refurbish it, and rent
it out. She still hasn’t “gotten around” to doing it.
I
doubt she ever will.
As
I climb into my bed, someone knocks on my window. I pad to it and, after a bit
of struggling with the wonky handle, open it. Hugo is hanging from the iron
railing, flashing me a toothy smile.
I
fold my arms over my chest. “You’re crazy.”
“Can
we debate this inside?” His smile gives way to a grimace as he pulls himself up
a little and adjusts his grip. “Unless you’re curious to see if I’ll scream
when I hit the ground.”
I
step back and let him climb in.
“Phew.”
He closes the window behind him.
His
presence in my bedroom fills my body with a foolhardy joy I can’t suppress.
“You’re
mad,” I say. “Or drunk.”
“I
had only two glasses of wine since I was driving us back.” He gives me an expressive
look. “I’m a responsible person.”
He
shrugs off his jacket and takes a step toward me.
“All
right, then. You aren’t drunk.” I stare at him, my heart beginning to hammer.
“You’re a responsible madman.”
He
inches closer, eyes riveted to my breasts. I follow his gaze. My nipples are
tenting the silk of my nightie in a way that leaves little to the imagination.
When
I look up, my cheeks and ears are flaming. Good thing the light of my night
lamp is so dim.
“ Pichune ,”
he says and encases my face with his hands.
For
the life of me, I can’t send him away.
Just
one more night, I tell myself.
Our
last night together.
He
bends down and kisses me on the lips. His kiss is hungry and immediately deep,
latching onto my welcoming mouth, and his tongue pushes in and strokes mine. I
stand on tiptoe, throw my arms around his neck, and kiss him like there’s no
tomorrow. My body is ready and willing so much that my engorged pelvis aches.
Oh,
and by the way, there really is no tomorrow for Hugo and me.
But
I refuse to dwell on it now.
Without
breaking the kiss, he slides a hand down my back, cups my behind, and lifts me
off the ground. I lock my legs around his waist, reveling in how he holds me as
if I’m weightless.
Then,
for a few brief moments, I’m supported by only one sinuous arm while he unzips
his fly. I help him with the condom, and a few seconds later he’s inside me.
I’m
impaled to the hilt, arching and abandoning myself completely to the sweet
ecstasy of this act.
He
begins to pound into me right there in the middle of the room, making my
breasts bob with each thrust. My legs are wrapped around him, and my ass is
supported by his large hands, tight and comfortable, thank you very much. All
my sensations are heightened, building to a fever pitch. Before I know it, I’m
hovering on the edge, and when I climax, I bite my wrist to stop myself from
moaning.
As
always, he allows himself to come only after the quivering in my legs subsides.
“You’ll
sneak out tomorrow morning the way you came
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