if he leaned
rather farther out than felt comfortable. He could see the
tops of people’s heads as they went down the sidewalk
in front of the hotel; some hurrying, perhaps to their own
assignations in hotel rooms, and some ambling along,
looking in shop windows. Tourists, he guessed.
When he turned back around, prepared to adjust his
expectations downward, Jessica was smiling warmly at him.
“How is it that you are not married?” she
asked.
“Never met the right woman,” he answered, his
eyes moving all over her body, to her face, her hair, her
lovely eyes.
“Perhaps Mourency is too small for a man like
you,” she said, walking over to the small sofa, a
loveseat really, and sitting down, stretching her legs out
and slipping off her heels.
“What’s a ‘man like me’?” he
asked, coming closer.
“Oh…unbelievably hot. Unbearably sexy. You
know,” said Jessica.
Tristan wasted no time getting to the loveseat and taking
her hand. “No, I’m not sure I do know,”
he said. “I hope you will elaborate.”
She was really grinning now, as he leaned forward and
inhaled next to her collarbone, and then kissed it, barely
touching his lips to her skin.
“I don’t want you to think Americans are
slutty,” she said, leaning her head back and letting
an almost-silent moan escape her lips.
“I very much hope they are,” said Tristan.
“At least, the American I had lunch with today. Just
that one.”
He leaned close to her now, his body already encircled by
her legs while she was still sitting up on the loveseat. He
put his face right up next to hers, looking into her eyes,
touching her hair, feeling more aroused, and happier, than
he could remember.
And Jessica, who was indeed feeling delightfully slutty now
that she was about to make love to a man she had just met
that day, was feeling very pleased with the world herself.
With Paris, with herself, and with this brown-eyed man who
felt so good in her arms, so alive.
It’s wrong, she thought, to wish he could bite me. I
really have to let that go.
She lifted his face to hers and kissed him with every bit
of skill and affection she could find in herself. And that,
to her surprise, led to something else.
He was blazing hot, he took his time, and she thought, as
they moved to the bed, her body humming with desire, that
she would definitely stay in Paris an extra few days.
13
The forest. Another world. Or, a look at what the world was
like before people showed up and started building things
and making a mess. As Jo walked, she was turning her head
and looking all around to get the most complete view she
could, the widest possible picture of this place, of the
immense trees, ochre leaves, and ferns dying back in
advance of winter. She was paying close attention to what
she could see and smell and hear, because it was lovely and
even majestic, and because she did not want to think about
how long this walk might take. A person who likes to ride
horses, she thought, is sort of by definition someone who
would rather let someone else do the hard work of getting
from one place to another.
It was not that Jo minded the work, actually. It was that
she minded the speed. Or lack thereof.
At first, after she discovered Drogo had run away, she
tried to do a calculation about how far they had come,
using the number of hours she had ridden. She was a little
pleased to have remembered the formula
rate x time =
distance
. Lot of good that did her. All those
naysayers in her algebra class who used to whine about how
math wasn’t useful in the real world–here you
go, people, a big fat chunk of evidence for you.
In the forest, too many variables remained unknown.
If only she hadn’t been so stubborn about bringing
her cell. But she hated the feel of it in her pocket when
she rode, and hadn’t wanted to wear a pack either.
Well, being sorry about it
rather farther out than felt comfortable. He could see the
tops of people’s heads as they went down the sidewalk
in front of the hotel; some hurrying, perhaps to their own
assignations in hotel rooms, and some ambling along,
looking in shop windows. Tourists, he guessed.
When he turned back around, prepared to adjust his
expectations downward, Jessica was smiling warmly at him.
“How is it that you are not married?” she
asked.
“Never met the right woman,” he answered, his
eyes moving all over her body, to her face, her hair, her
lovely eyes.
“Perhaps Mourency is too small for a man like
you,” she said, walking over to the small sofa, a
loveseat really, and sitting down, stretching her legs out
and slipping off her heels.
“What’s a ‘man like me’?” he
asked, coming closer.
“Oh…unbelievably hot. Unbearably sexy. You
know,” said Jessica.
Tristan wasted no time getting to the loveseat and taking
her hand. “No, I’m not sure I do know,”
he said. “I hope you will elaborate.”
She was really grinning now, as he leaned forward and
inhaled next to her collarbone, and then kissed it, barely
touching his lips to her skin.
“I don’t want you to think Americans are
slutty,” she said, leaning her head back and letting
an almost-silent moan escape her lips.
“I very much hope they are,” said Tristan.
“At least, the American I had lunch with today. Just
that one.”
He leaned close to her now, his body already encircled by
her legs while she was still sitting up on the loveseat. He
put his face right up next to hers, looking into her eyes,
touching her hair, feeling more aroused, and happier, than
he could remember.
And Jessica, who was indeed feeling delightfully slutty now
that she was about to make love to a man she had just met
that day, was feeling very pleased with the world herself.
With Paris, with herself, and with this brown-eyed man who
felt so good in her arms, so alive.
It’s wrong, she thought, to wish he could bite me. I
really have to let that go.
She lifted his face to hers and kissed him with every bit
of skill and affection she could find in herself. And that,
to her surprise, led to something else.
He was blazing hot, he took his time, and she thought, as
they moved to the bed, her body humming with desire, that
she would definitely stay in Paris an extra few days.
13
The forest. Another world. Or, a look at what the world was
like before people showed up and started building things
and making a mess. As Jo walked, she was turning her head
and looking all around to get the most complete view she
could, the widest possible picture of this place, of the
immense trees, ochre leaves, and ferns dying back in
advance of winter. She was paying close attention to what
she could see and smell and hear, because it was lovely and
even majestic, and because she did not want to think about
how long this walk might take. A person who likes to ride
horses, she thought, is sort of by definition someone who
would rather let someone else do the hard work of getting
from one place to another.
It was not that Jo minded the work, actually. It was that
she minded the speed. Or lack thereof.
At first, after she discovered Drogo had run away, she
tried to do a calculation about how far they had come,
using the number of hours she had ridden. She was a little
pleased to have remembered the formula
rate x time =
distance
. Lot of good that did her. All those
naysayers in her algebra class who used to whine about how
math wasn’t useful in the real world–here you
go, people, a big fat chunk of evidence for you.
In the forest, too many variables remained unknown.
If only she hadn’t been so stubborn about bringing
her cell. But she hated the feel of it in her pocket when
she rode, and hadn’t wanted to wear a pack either.
Well, being sorry about it
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