He pulls a large cellular phone from his backpack. It flips open like a clamshell. I’ve seen wealthy people use them before. They’re such silly things. Who would want to have a phone with them all the time? There’s no way they will possibly catch on.
“I need to eat more,” I say. “I can grab a table and order us some food. Make your call.” I boldly walk to the closest café and ask if we can sit outside at a cozy table for two. It’s vaguely touristy because of the proximity to the museum, but they also hand us warm woolly blankets to drape over our laps and are quick to take our order.
We get a hodgepodge of delightful things, some grilled leeks, a plate of salty fries, a pot of mussels I didn’t know I was craving until their briny scent reaches my nose, rice pudding that comes in an oversized cauldron with its own bowl of caramel. We avoidtalking about Stella and instead keep things purposefully light. His recent vacation to Ibiza, but not the clubby side, the hidden beaches where locals go. My recent run-in with an American celebrity and her terrible children at the Orsay, tiny terrors with sticky fingers reaching for priceless art.
This could be the best date I’ve ever been on.
It’s not a date, I keep reminding myself.You’re keeping him company until we hear news about Stella.But his close attention and his chair moving ever closer allows me to indulge in the fantasy. Before we can order dessert, his phone rings. It sounds like a wounded bird chirping. He answers, chats quickly, then announces that we should make our way to the museum.
“We’re really just going to stroll inside after hours?”
“We really are.” Even though he’s the one who made all the arrangements, he seems slightly giddy at the prospect. I want to believe he hasn’t done this with many women before.
“Let’s go.” He grabs my hand to help me up from the table and doesn’t let go. The city shimmers under the golden glow of streetlamps. Instead of walking through the main entrance, the one with the glass pyramid shining like an alien spacecraft, we circle around to the back and knock on an unmarked door.
It’s answered by a distinguished-looking Parisian gentleman in a three-piece suit who greets Matthew with a warm hug.
“How’s your father?” he asks.
Matthew doesn’t grimace this time. “Excellent. He’s currently in Geneva.”
“Always on the go, that one. Let me take you upstairs. We do not have any events tonight so it will be quiet. Security is here, of course. I will be down in my office if you need me. Enjoy yourself.”
“Thank you very much, Laurent.”
“The pleasure is always mine.”
Once Laurent is gone, Matthew asks where I want to go first.
“You decide,” I defer.
“Well then. Follow me.”
It’s a privilege to be alone among the paintings, though it also feels like we’re trespassing in a sacred space. He strides quickly and purposefully as I trot behind him. He leads me to the seventeenth-century sculpture wing filled with marble Italian nudes.
We pause in front ofPsyche Revived by Cupid’s Kiss. The bare-chested god Cupid clutches the dangerously mortal Psyche in his arms, his hand cupping her bare breast and pulling her toward him for a kiss. The artist’s unique skill with the marble is in his texturing. Psyche’s skin seems to quiver beneath the god’s touch.
I feel Matthew’s breath quicken behind me as he watches me take in the sculpture.
“How does it make you feel?” he whispers.
“Like we deserve to enjoy this one life we’re given,” I say back before I can think about my answer. “We deserve pleasure.”
His hands land on my waist, warm and eager.
“What do you want art to do to you?” he murmurs, his lips close to my ear.
I admit the crushing truth. “I want it to annihilate me.”
He presses close behind me. “No one is here, you know. It’s just us.”
But the crowdsarenearby. Through the massive, barred windows, the crystal pyramid illuminates the courtyard outside and I see tourists snapping their pictures. The figures in the sculptures also stand in judgment of the two of us, particularly the stoic bust of Cardinal Richelieu. I absorb their stares as I step backward slightly, pressing myself into Matthew, only the thinnest layers of fabric separating us. He hardens against me, and if I turn, I could reach up and clutch his curls like Psyche desperate to have Cupid savor her. His lips find the exact tender spot where my neck and shoulder meet. A shiver of pleasure rushes through me as his mouth swipes along the ridge of my collarbone. My body hasn’t reacted like this to anyone’s touch in more than ayear. His hands clench harder onto my waist as I release a guttural groan.
I spin around, grasp his hair, and pull his head down to my breast. He wastes no time unbuttoning my flimsy shirt and pushing aside my bra to trace my hardened nipple with his tongue. I throw my own head back in ecstasy when he clamps down with his teeth ever so softly. He moans with pleasure as he falls to his knees and gathers my skirt in one hand and yanks it up to my waist, all the while kissing the insides of my thighs, my hips, running his tongue over my underwear. He finally slips a finger into me and presses his thumb firmly against my clit as I dig my nails into his shoulders and bite down on my lip to keep from crying out.
His grip on my ass tightens, his tongue moves furiously over every inch of me, the stone figures and paintings watching, rapt.
A door slams in the distance. Like teenagers caught by our parents, we both cry out quietly in horror. I was so close I was about to come apart right here in this cold, sterile gallery and now I’m aching for him to finish no matter the consequences, but he pulls my skirt back down and my fingers fly to the buttons of my shirt.
