One Summer in Paris(90)

She tested herself by trying to think about David, but she couldn’t even conjure up his face. It was like pressing on an old bruise and discovering it didn’t hurt anymore.

When Philippe put his arm around her, she leaned into him.

All around them were groups of young people, shoulders bare, legs bronzed from the sun. The soft lap of the water against the banks was all but drowned out by the sounds of laughter and conversation. Someone near to them was quietly playing a guitar.

It occurred to Grace that she missed out on this part of being young.

She thought of her life in two parts—before the death of her parents, and after. Neither part had featured picnics on riverbanks with nothing to think about but the perfection of the moment.

And it was perfection.

When she turned to Philippe it was inevitable that he would kiss her. Or maybe she’d kissed him. She wasn’t sure.

When he stood up and tugged at her hand, she followed him, and they walked along the river toward his apartment.

It had been so hot that the first drops of rain took them by surprise. The few damp spots turned into a steady patter and then a downpour that soaked the sunbaked streets. He tightened his grip on her hand, laughing as they sprinted the short distance to his apartment.

Breathless, they tumbled through the door.

Her hair was plastered to her head and her dress was soaked.

His white dress shirt clung damply to his chest and shoulders and his dark lashes were clumped together by rain.

Her stomach felt hollow. She thought it wasn’t possible to want him more than she already did.

And then he smiled. “Paris needed cooling down.”

She’d needed cooling down, too, but nothing seemed to be working.

She stroked her damp hair away from her face. “We’re dripping on your floor. Do you have a towel?”

“Of course. More importantly I have champagne in the fridge.”

Champagne.

The first and last time Grace drank champagne had been with this man.

And now here she was doing it again.

He vanished and returned a few minutes later with a bottle and two glasses. “The towel can wait.”

He handed her a glass, and she watched as the bubbles rose. She took a sip and closed her eyes. It was cool, dry and utterly delicious.

His apartment was impressive, with large shuttered windows and polished wood floors. The walls were lined with books and impressive artwork, but the main focus of the living room was the grand piano.

It stood in polished grandeur, and she was left with the feeling that the apartment had been chosen especially for this one single piece.

“How long have you lived here?”

“Ten years.” He flung open the doors to a terrace to let in the cooler air. Rain splashed the tiles and the wrought-iron table. It clung to leaves and soaked parched plants.

She heard the distant rumble of thunder and rubbed her damp arms. “It’s fabulous.”

He glanced around, as if verifying her statement. “I spend less than a hundred nights a year in this apartment. I’d lived here for eighteen months before I even unpacked the boxes.”

She tried to imagine a life where you spent more time in hotels than your own place.

“You must miss your own bed.”

He gave her a devilish smile. “I do. In fact, I think we should go and say hello to it right now.” He put his glass down and scooped her up, and she gasped with shock and muttered something about weighing too much for romantic gestures, but he carried her anyway, executing a smooth turn so that he didn’t smack her legs against the door.

He lowered her to the floor, and she saw that his bedroom overlooked the river. Through the windows she could see the slow curves of the Seine, the river stippling under the force of the rain, light bouncing along the surface.

She thought to herself this is romantic, and then he kissed her.

There was nothing tentative about it. Nothing questioning or cautious. This was a kiss that was only ever going to have one ending.

His mouth was hot on hers, and his hands moved straight to the zipper of her dress. The fabric was damp and clung to her, but he peeled it down, leaving her standing in her underwear.

She’d wondered if she might feel self-conscious when the moment came, but as it turned out it was the last thing on her mind. Her blue dress landed on the floor along with his shirt and the rest of his clothes.

He hadn’t opened the windows in this room, and the rain thundered against the glass, increasing the feeling of intimacy. It was just the two of them, cocooned in this room, protected from the weather. From the world.

He kept kissing her, deeper, harder, as if he was determined to make up for all the time they’d missed. The heat of it almost burned her up. He kept one hand behind her head, the other on her lower back, locking her against him. She felt the heat of his skin and the intimate pressure of his body, and then he lowered her to the bed, and she wrapped her arms around him, feeling the ripple and flex of muscle as he took his weight on his arms.

Finally, his mouth left hers, but only so that he could kiss her in other places. Her jaw, the curve of her neck, her shoulder. And all the time he was murmuring soft words in French, telling her how much he wanted her, how she was beautiful, how she tasted incredible.

He explored her in so many intimate ways she lost count. She felt the silken stroke of his tongue and the skilled slide of his fingers. She squirmed and shifted, but every movement brought him closer and simply fed her hunger. It was intensely erotic and she suspected that whatever he was doing, playing the piano or making love, he gave it his whole self. He wasn’t someone who dealt in half measures, but it turned out neither was she. Her desperation matched his, and when he finally sank into her she cried out. He paused for a moment, giving her time to adjust, his breathing unsteady as he held back. She was the one who urged him on, driven by a ferocious need that she didn’t recognize, and then he was kissing her again and thrusting deeper, until sensation made her mind blank. She couldn’t hold on to a single thought, she could only feel. Hard against soft, silk against steel. Her body tightened around his and she heard his raw, fractured groan and felt sensation explode around her. Her orgasm triggered his and they kissed their way through it, sharing each spasm, each thrust, each gasp. It was the most intimate, all-consuming experience, and afterward she lay limp in his arms, listening to the rain splashing onto the roof. He’d left the bedroom door open and a breeze wafted through, cooling her heated skin.