Chapter 14
CHAPTER 14
Relatives and friends, too squeamish to visit when my mum was dying, were only too happy to pop by offering their nosy condolences after she’d gone. In some ways, despite the claustrophobic chitchat and the endless sorrys , I was grateful; they brought home-cooked dinners wrapped in tin foil, reminisced with my dad about old times, and made a fuss of Zo?. At least it kept us busy and on top of the housework. As long as no one said it was a blessing or shit like that, then they could stay.
The morning after she’d gone, Max disappeared back to work, and we let him go, with a promise to stick close to the blokes over at Ars and not bugger off on his own.
Naturally, there was a mountain of paperwork to complete. Death—even an expected death—gave birth to an untold level of petty bureaucracy I hadn’t been prepared for. In comparison, the health and safety crap on my desk at work held appeal.
I didn’t have a chance to see éti for five days, though we spoke often. Though she was in my head no matter what, her sweet voice in the background, calling my name. Her love accompanied me on my solitary early morning walks along the beach; it whispered on the ocean breeze drifting through my cracked window as I lay alone at night. My free hours were wasted staring out at the sea, tracking with my eyes where it began, pounding harmlessly at the shore up to where, in a boundless roar, it dipped and vanished over the horizon.
The island winds suited my mood, billowing through my mind, rustling happy memories of my mum folded up in there, like neatly laundered bedding. They served as a gentle reminder that not now—maybe not even any time soon—but someday, I’d enjoy unwrapping them, rejoicing in them, and my family would find our way back to each other. And, in those precious quiet moments alone, with éti in my mind and waves crashing at my feet, each one heralding a new world being born, I felt like my mum’s child again, with her permission to grieve.
“Mon dieu, éti, I want you so fucking bad. I want to taste you on my tongue. I need you. I want to fuck you hard and come deep inside you.”
I don’t know what éti had been expecting a week after my mother passed, but not this. Not a rugby tackle onto that pristine fireside rug and an orgy of crude desire spilling from my lips. Seemed death had made me brutally horny. Shoving up her blouse, I yanked aside her bra.
If it shocked her, she hid it well. “Nico, slow down. ?a alors , I’m here—you’ve got me.”
Sex and bereavement. Sex and grief. Two words rarely lumped together on a page, never mind alluded to out loud. Yet here I was, discovering on the fly that they went hand in hand, fuck knows why. But right now, I didn’t give two shits about the psychology. A reflexive reaffirmation of life? A numbing anaesthetic from immeasurable pain? A tale as old as time, or a two-fingered YOLO?
Pinning her to the rug, I rutted against her, driving my tongue into her mouth. “Need you, éti. Need you so bad.”
“It’s okay, Nico. And I need you too.”
I freed my dick from my trousers and hitched up her skirt. Even the touch of her warm skin on mine had me ready to spill.
“Sorry, éti, I’m so, so sorry. I just have to…”
“It’s okay. Do it. Let me take care of you. I want it too, my love.”
It wasn’t all one-way; my girl was strong and pushed back. Her legs clamped to my waist, she yanked on my hair as I circled her, pressing my dick again and again hard between her thighs. Her hips rose as her firm body met me with every thrust, anchoring me in place as my knees slipped on the thick rug.
“Love you, éti, need you, éti.” Repeating it over and over, I pounded my dick against her, like a blunt cudgel, every harsh stroke, every crude word, hammering out all the desire and want and pain bottled inside. Eyes squeezed shut, I blanked out the world, until nothing else but this moment existed, this basic urge, this raw and living hunger. Three more strokes, then, hard and fast and in the most glorious spike of relief, I spilled all over her. Marking her flesh, crying out my joy even as it twisted into something else.
And came back down to reality.
Oh, God, I’d fucked up. With éti, with my precious éti, my shelter, my home, my love that came without warning. I’d fucked up.
“I’m so sorry, so, so sorry.”
I repeated it like a litany, as if I apologised enough times, she’d forgive me more. Rolling off her, I lay on my back, panting, covering my face with my hands. For days—weeks, probably—I’d been a glass case of fragile emotions; now new guilt piled into the mix. An overwhelming sense of loss and emptiness flooded my mind, and without warning, my eyes sprung a leak. I choked and coughed as rivers of salt poured from my mouth and nose, running into my hair. Making a mess of the beautiful rug, but they wouldn’t stop. I just lay there, bawling my fucking eyes out. “Please say I didn’t hurt you. Please tell me that, éti. Please.”
“Hush with that nonsense.” A hand pushed one of mine away; a finger pressed against my wet lips. Strong arms pulled me onto my side, so we faced each other, heads close enough to kiss. She tangled a leg through mine. “You didn’t hurt me. I wanted it, too.”
I shook my head violently, wiping away snot with my sleeve. “I hurt you—I must have. That wasn’t me. I’m not like that. You don’t want me like that.”
Tucking a few strands of my sodden hair back, she huffed. “I think I’ll be the judge of what I do and don’t desire, Monsieur La Forge.”
“And I’m sorry for crying. I’ve been so desperate to see you. And so fucking miserable. I can’t stop.”
“Then don’t. Don’t fight it.” The hand in my hair began a regular stroking, so soothing, so loving. Like maybe something my mum would have done. “Let it go. Let it all out, my angel.”
“I’m going to miss her, éti,” I sobbed. “I never properly told her, but I loved her so much.”
“I know you did, my love. And you still do. Death doesn’t stop that. And she’ll have known. She’ll have seen it, I promise.”
“I’m doing my best to care for them, but I don’t know where to start.”
I never wanted the hair stroking to stop. My heavy eyelids closed as fatigue enveloped me. As my éti enveloped me. “Love you, éti,” I managed, fading to nothing. “So fucking much.”
“I’ve had so many fantasies about making love to you on this rug,” I murmured sometime later. “Romantic ones, involving candles and wine. The fire actually lit. Me not sobbing my heart out. I’m so sorry, éti.”
My head had been in éti’s lap for a while. I was minded to move in there, permanently. My face felt sore, as if the skin was stretched too tight, and my chest ached, like it had done for as long as I could remember. While she soothed me like a child, a fragment of peace blossomed in a tiny corner of my unhappy soul, and I clung to it as I reached out for one of the chestnut curls framing her pretty, pretty face. “You’re so beautiful, by the way. I meant to say that when I arrived. And I’m sorry for messing up your outfit. You looked amazing.”
A chipped-tooth grin split her face, the naughty one that made me feel naughty too. “We could always see if I’m amazing out of it. And that kindling is ready to go. We only need to strike a match. I’m happy to skip the wine if you are.”
Her hand strayed to her blouse buttons, and the first one popped open. Followed by the next and the one after that, until the garment slipped from her shoulders. Her bra followed, a frivolous black lacy thing, revealing an unblemished, creamy expanse of chest. Reaching up, I grazed a fingertip over the bud of a nipple. As we both watched it bloom to a hard point, a sweet blush pinked her cheeks.
“I can’t undress the rest of me with your head in my lap.”
Instead, she started on the buttons of my jeans, palming me through the thick denim. A delicious warmth settled in my belly. I felt hazy and calm. Yes, I could definitely live here forever. Her hand dipped under the waistband of my boxers, and while she fondled me back to hardness, I sighed with contentment.
“I’m enjoying you too much to move my head.”
She chuffed softly. “That’s okay. I’m quite enjoying your head there.”
My eyes never straying from hers, I rubbed the gritty stubble of my cheek up against my swelling pillow. Her lips parted, and I caught a hitch in her breath. I did it again, turning my face into the thin fabric of her skirt, blowing a gust of hot air against her. She moaned, weak and soft.
“Tell me if this is okay?”
“Better than.” She rolled her hip against my cheek. “I like how you make me feel.”
I blew again, my lips pressing against the fabric, knowing more flimsy black lace lay hidden under her skirt. “Can I touch you here, with my mouth, like this?”
Another soft moan and she pushed up again. “Putain , yes. It makes me feel sexy. You make me feel… like a sexy woman.”
Absolute emotional honesty. We’d reached that level now.
“And how about this?” I mouthed her arousal, feeling it pulse, then buried my nose deeper, nuzzling into the skirt folds over where her thigh met her groin. I breathed into her again, and she leaned back on her elbows, spreading, and arching up into me, revelling in the sensation.
As I pulled away and rose to my feet, she made a frustrated sound.
I grinned down at her. “Patience, sweetheart. I have a fire to light, remember?”
Mon dieu, her pale body was magnificent as she leaned back on her elbows, waiting. Wanton and debauched; her blouse and bra abandoned; the scrap of black lace buried in the thick woollen pile. The crimson skirt bunched around her knees, and I threw her a wink. “Looks like I’ve already lit one.”
With a satisfying scritch, the match spluttered to life . Squatting , I nudged it against the balled newspaper piled in the grate, blowing gently, coaxing it to life. Thin ribbons of flame licked against the dry kindling; sharp fragrant pine smoke filled the air. Taking a second match, I lit the two fat candles squatting at each end of the mantel, then shrugged out of my shirt and turned back to éti. With my hand at my open fly, I paused, all innocent wide eyes. “What? You want these off too?”
I gave myself a lazy stroke and then another. The fire crackled to life behind me, and éti wriggled.
“I want you to get back down here and stop torturing me.”
When we were both naked, I settled in the cradle of her spread thighs. Taking their own sweet time, her fingers smoothed a path down my spine, setting a fire herself, like she was lighting a match over every vertebra. Her mouth, made for mischief, curved up at me as she jerked her chin towards a little niche tucked in the side of the brick hearth. I followed the direction of her gaze.
“A strange place to keep massage oil, éti.”
“Keeps it warm, though.”
“Aren’t we going to make a mess of the rug?”
She shrugged. “I have other rugs. Can we do it like this, facing each other? I mean… can we… does it work?”
The rosy glow spreading up her neck was like catnip. I lowered my face to hers, planting a kiss on the end of her nose. “I don’t see why not. There has to be some point to all that yoga shit you do.”
Relaxing again, she giggled. “Several thousand years of transcendental searching to liberate the soul into the true self dismissed as ‘all that yoga shit’. You have a silky tongue, Nico La Forge.”
“No complaints thus far.”
I prepped her, surer of myself than our first time, tangling my silky tongue around hers in time with my fingers coaxing her open. She dripped some oil on her own hands, and tentative fingers explored the divide of my arse as I ground against her thigh. One fingertip circled my sensitive rim before neatly dipping inside. Heat flooding my face, I flinched. Her finger stilled.
“What? You don’t like that?”
“Well… yeah.” I squirmed. “No one’s ever touched me there before.”
“It’s nice. You should let me do it. You’ll like it.”
My embarrassment easing, I snorted. “You’re an authority now?”
She rubbed again with her finger. Tendrils of pleasure curled up my spine. “Sure I am. I told you—I’m a quick learner. A 'see one, do one' kind of girl.”
She pushed me onto my side, so we faced each other. I moaned as her finger explored deeper. “And I like being your first for something.”
While her lips parted against mine, my eyes fluttered closed. Her fingertip smoothed against some hidden part of me, lighting me up from the inside out. “You’re my first for everything, sweetheart. You should know that by now.”
In the soft hearth light, we moved against each other. Both of us were learning, and we fumbled around, giggling to each other as we worked out the position. Entering her felt like the first time all over again and we took it slow, staying face to face, the way she wanted.
“Love this, Nico,” she breathed. “Love you.” Her hands alighted on my cheeks, she pressed tickling kisses against my chin, my nose, my neck, my eyebrows. Each soft touch, each tender glide and push an unspoken promise of days, months, and years, a lifetime.
My pulse dropped to a steady beat as her every touch, her every sigh, ignited fingers of flame. My mind clouded, I lost myself to the rhythm, to my beautiful woman and the beautiful feel of her. Warmth flooded between us when she came and I followed, our climaxes neither endings nor beginnings but affirmations of the future.
I stayed at éti’s for seventy-two hours straight. Most of it in bed, with éti absorbing the ebb and flow of my sadness and indulging my grief-powered sex drive. Charles and Florian stopped by with a couple of paintings she wanted to try for size. I didn’t say much, happy to listen to my girlfriend flirting outrageously with Florian, and Charles’s measured tones lapping it all up.
“Max knows about éti,” I confided in Florian as the other two debated the pros and cons of various overseas investment opportunities. Conversing in French, this time, but it might as well have been Mandarin for all Florian and I understood. I’d checked in at home; my mum’s sister had settled in for the weekend, helping my dad dispose of leftover medical stuff and turn the living room back into a normal space. Another unpleasant task no one had prepared us for.
“Will he be able to keep it a secret?”
I shrugged. “At the moment, yes, I think so. He has too much else on his mind. And éti asked him to, and he’s in awe of her. But I suppose he might let slip at some point.”
“You’re on borrowed time, aren’t you?”
“Yeah,” I agreed with a sigh. “I just need someone to lend us a little more, to get some distance, you know, from all of this. A chance for some normality. I think éti wants that too.”
“Have you talked to her about it?” Florian made a minute adjustment to a painting of himself, raising one corner a fraction, then tilted his head to the side. If I had to stare at my best mate’s handsome face every day, then this one would do, bent over a rake out on his salt flat. At least he had his clothes on.
“Not really. She’s enjoying her privacy too much. The freedom being éti is giving her. She’s learning a lot about herself. In some ways, she reminds me of Zo?, or how Zo? was until my mum got sick. She’s still experimenting with how she looks, and makeup and stuff, like a teenage girl. And then in other ways, she’s old and wise. She always knows what to say to cheer me up at any given time. She goofs around—she teases me. She also has this very professional persona she can switch on in an instant, like now, discussing investments. It’s scary, to be honest, but then, when it’s just us, she’s soft and caring and…”
In the next room, éti’s joyous laughter rang out as Charles teased her about something. Florian gave me a smug grin, one that said I’d been rhapsodizing over my girlfriend for a lot longer than normal. Heat spread up my neck.
“Don’t hold back, Nic. Why don’t you tell me how you really feel about her?”
Connard . “I love her, Flor. And I'm so fucking lucky. Like you wouldn’t believe.”