“Your parents don’t strike me as very Christian people.”
Comprehension flashes in her eyes. “Ah, their cult, of course! You know a month ago I would’ve laughed if someone told me my parents worshipped a mage.”
“A lot has happened over the last month, hasn’t it?”
She nods.
I gather her to me, no longer worried about my cock spooking her. My erection is dead. When I was Stella’s age, I would’ve remained hard regardless of the bleak conversation we’d just had. It wouldn’t have mattered if I lived to see another day as long as I got laidtoday.
But I’m two years short of forty now. Despite the life I’ve led, despite all the risks I’ve taken, I’m still here. I have managed to reach the boring age of reason when survival trumps sex.
“What time is it?” I ask after a long while.
She checks her wristwatch. “Ten past nine.”
“You should go in case your parents finish their dinner early.”
“That’s extremely unlikely,” she argues.
“I’d rather not tempt fate. The last thing I want is to get outed before I’m ready.”
She pulls back a little to peer into my eyes. “Ready for what?”
To have a fighting chance when I take them on.
My voice heavy with mockery, I say, “For whatever the Ever Mage has in store for me.”
She responds with a feeble smile and begins to fumble around for her clothes.
STELLA
The crisp, frigid air nips my cheeks as Philippe and I stroll along the streets of the historic center of Annecy. It’s a sunny early-March afternoon, and the sky is a brilliant shade of blue, dotted with cotton-like clouds. We pass pastel-washed medieval buildings, funky shops, and cozy cafes with colorful awnings. The low hum of cars in the distance and the conversation of the Sunday shoppers around us mingle with the sound of my heels on the cobblestone.
The sweet scent of churros from a food truck parked down the street wafts in the air.
“What some churros?” Philippe asks.
“Sure, why not.”
We get in the line.
Philippe chatters on about his business trip, his words punctuated by the occasional puff of warm breath in the chilly air. I try to listen, but my thoughts drift to Darrel.Again.
“You should’ve seen the view from my hotel room!” Philippe raves. “The skyline was amazing.”
“Cool.”
He keeps talking, oblivious to my lack of enthusiasm.
Can it be that he’s used to it?Before my stolen moments with Darrel and the shock of how I responded to him, I never stopped to consider how lukewarm my reactions were when I am with Philippe.
An image of Darrel’s head between my hands as he suckles on my nipple pops into my mind.Again.
No business trip account or anything Philippe could ever say can compete with that memory. It makes my heart race with longing as my inner muscles clench with an unfulfilled need.
I can’t help but compare the two men. Philippe, only three years older than me, is pudgy and shapeless. There is something almost childlike in his appearance. He’s calm, reasonable, and always friendly. He knows what I’ve done, and he wants to marry me anyway.
Mom is right; he’ll make a good husband and the best father. Yet, I often catch myself wishing he looked different, talked different, thought different. Knew more. Had experienced more. His stories are mundane. His jokes are tired. His conversation bores me to death.
