Her nails dig into my back, her hips buckingagainst mine, and I’m lost in the rhythm of our bodies, in the way she feels around me, in the way she looks up at me like I’m hers.
When I finally come, it’s with her name on my lips, pulsing deep inside her, filling her. She clings to me, her body trembling with aftershocks.
We’re both breathless, spent, and utterly wrecked.
But we don’t say the words that I can feel pulse between us.
We don’t need to. The way our bodies move together, the way she looks at me, the way I feel when I’m inside her—we know, this is love, raw and unspoken.
Later, we lie on the grass to dry, the sun warm on our skin, the river whispering nearby. Tara props herself on an elbow to look at me.
“You really hide yourself away here, don’t you?” she asks softly.
“Yes. Here, life is simple.”
“And you like that?”
I look at her, admiring the flush in her cheeks, the tangle of her hair. My heart swells in a way that frightens me. “Yes. Especially with you,” I confess.
The weekend passes like a dream. Mornings with coffee and croissants from the village bakery, afternoons wandering vineyards, evenings curled on the sofa with a bottle of wine, and her head on my shoulder.
For once, I am not calculating appearances or weighing risks.
For once, I am alive.
* Vault or cellar; often used for wine cellars/tasting rooms, but also for vaulted spaces like jazz clubs or cabarets in Paris (French)
* The butcher shop (French)
* Bakery (French)
* To health (French)
* I love you (French)
CHAPTER 15
Tara
Marisol might be a nerdy engineer, but she’s into fashion and absolutely envious in the best way possible that I’m attending Paris Fashion Week. I’ve been instructed to take a ton of pictures, which I have delegated to Cece, who will be doing so anyway.
Speaking of CeceandJean, they are beside themselves, buzzing like kids on Christmas morning. Thanks to their persistence and connections, I’m now at a runway show in a cavernous tent in the Tuileries.
It’s another world.
Cameras flash everywhere, and the air is thick with perfume, couture, and anticipation.
People float past in gowns that look sculpted, and in suits so precise they seem tailored by geometry itself.
I don’t fit in…again!
I’m in my favorite flowy, white, lacy boho dress,simple sandals, and a matching straw bag I bought in Mexico City. I might as well have a sign that says:Not from this planet.
Meanwhile, Cece is in a vintage Chanel dress and looks like a goddess. When I complained that I’m out of place, she waved a hand, saying, “You look fabulous. Different is chic.”
Right!
The music starts, and models stride out under the lights, blank-eyed and fierce.
