Darrel, on the other hand…
My heart flutters at the mere mention of his name. Sixteen years my senior, he’s a man of the world. He knows things I don’t. Whether or not he’s a knight and a bodyguard, he has without a doubt experienced life in a way that neither Philippe nor I have. There’s a depth to him that draws me in.
He’s mysterious, handsome, strong, desirable, and funny. He intimidates me a bit, but in a good, stimulating way. The fact that he’s closer in age to my parents than me should put me off, but it doesn’t. The opposite is true. Inexplicably, I find the tiny wrinkles around his eyes and the white that streaks his thick, reddish hair irresistibly hot. His athleticism is a sharp contrast to Philippe’s softness. He has a solidity, a heady virility that takes my breath away.
I’d be fanning myself right now if I were a Regency damsel. Or if I had a fan.
The line moves faster. Philippe and I resume the walk three minutes later, armed with churros. I glance over at him. His face has now taken on an anxious look, so I tune in. He’s talking about a report he must present at the next staff meeting.
I give him a reassuring smile. “It’s going to be fine. You’ll do great!”
“Thanks! I hope so.”
The sun begins to dip in the sky. I’m about to suggest we head back to the parking garage and drive home.
“Shall we get some tea or mulled wine? I’m freezing.”
How can I deny a freezing man?“Sure.”
I scan the charming architecture and quaint shops that line the street, looking for a bar or a coffee shop. Philippe finds one first. I let him lead the way to a bistro down the street. It’s a lovely place, at least from the outside, with its windows fogged up from the warmth inside.
The interior is cramped but inviting. We take a seat at a small wooden table by the door, the only one available. The smell of cinnamon and cloves hangs in the air, dissipating every time someone opens the door and returning as soon as the door is shut.
We order mulled wine. Philippe drones on about his report and PowerPoint presentation, accompanied by the clink of wine glasses and the scrape of chairs against the floor. I rearrange the decorative orange peel on the rim of my glass, swirl the wine in it, and inhale its spiced aroma.
“Should I include those in my slides?” Philippe asks me. “Or is it too much? I can always refer to the report for more information.”
“Good idea,” I say, my voice flat.
No clue what he’s talking about.
Photos? Tables? Charts?I could ask, but I won’t, because I truly don’t care.
Here’s what I do care about. Philippe’s seduction of me has never gone beyond a chaste peck on the lips. Nice and clean. No tongues, no saliva, no fuss. And I liked it that way! But now… Now I’ve tried kissing the wet and messy way with another man. And I loved it.
How fucked-up is that?Too much, even for a nutcase like me.
But wait, it gets worse! I want more with that other man. Icravemore. All I can think about is how I can carve out a few hours during the week to go to Darrel. Because I might burst with pent-up lust if I have to wait until my parents hike next Saturday.
I’m still a virgin but in name only.
My innocence, my chastity flew out the window after I took a bite of the proverbial “carnal knowledge,” and enjoyed it beyond measure.Not a terrible thing.The rub lies in the fact that I know why I liked it so much. Because I did it with Darrel, and not with Philippe or some random guy. By making my first sampling so awesome with the kind of lover I didn’t dare to dream of, Darrel has ruined me for Philippe.
And here’s where it becomes tragic. I suspect he didn’t ruin me just for Philippe. There is a good chance he ruined me for all other men.
Was it as special for him as it was for me?
“What?” Philippe asks. “What was special for you? Who are you talking about?”
I clamp my hand on my mouth.
Crazy Stella spoke her thoughts aloud again!
Exhaling slowly, Philippe sits back and strokes his glass. His expression is dark, not livid, but defeated as if he’d feared this would happen and it did.
I keep silent. There’s nothing I can say to make this right. Lying that it was him on my mind would be beyond the pale. It would be an insult to his intelligence.
At length, he speaks, “Is there something you want to tell me?”
