15. Stefi
15
STEFI
I stay on the train until the end of the line, get off at the last stop, and then walk fifteen minutes to a nondescript hotel where I check in for the night. It’s the sort of place where the staff knows better than to ask too many questions.
The lobby is deserted when I enter, so I ring the bell and wait for the clerk to show up.
It takes him almost five minutes. “Oui?”
“I’d like a room for the night,” I say in French.
He gives me a once-over. This is the sort of hotel that’s used by junkies, prostitutes, and pimps, and I stick out like a sore thumb. “I need your passport.”
“I lost it,” I say, slipping a twenty euro note across the counter. “I had to leave in a hurry.” I do have spare passports, but good passports that stand up to scrutiny cost money, and I’d prefer not to have to burn another piece of ID. “Can you help me out?”
He gives me another long look. This time, he’s wondering if I’m an undercover cop about to bust his business. If I’m going to stay here tonight, I need to soothe his nerves. “My husband was on his way home,” I murmur, my voice low. “He’s been drinking, and he gets angry and paranoid when he’s had too much brandy. I couldn’t face another. . .” I let my voice trail off and give him a beseeching look. “I had to get out of there.”
His expression softens. He thinks I’m a battered wife running from an abusive husband. Sadly, it’s not an uncommon story. “Not a problem,” he says, taking the money from me. “I’ll handle it.” He pulls a passport from under the drawer and writes the details into his register. “Two hundred euros a night. Cash only, no cards.”
Two hundred euros will buy me a nice room in a different part of town. Here, it buys me anonymity. “Could I have a room with a deadbolt?”
“That’ll cost extra. Another two hundred euros.”
My head snaps up. “That’s insane.”
“Junkies use the deadbolt, lock themselves in, and then overdose,” he explains. “I keep having to break the doors down. The two hundred is a deposit. I’ll return it when you check out.”
I don’t have time to argue. I pull the crumpled notes from my back pocket and hand them to him. “Second floor,” he says, holding out a key to me. “Stairs are through that door.”
I head upstairs. For the first hour, I occupy myself by cleaning the grubby room as best as I can with the threadbare towels in the bathroom. My stomach grumbles as I work, so when I’m done getting the space in decent condition, I cross the street for a doner and take it back up to my room. There are many excellent doner stands in Paris—this isn’t one. The meat is greasy, and the pita is stale, but it’s food, and I need the fuel, so I scarf it down.
Halfway through the meal, I suddenly realize I left my work laptop behind at the apartment when I fled from Joao. Ah well, it’s no loss. It’s not like I can show up at that job again. I used the same identity as my apartment rental, which is now irrevocably compromised. Goodbye, Lynda—I won’t miss you. Maybe Charlie can use that laptop. After all, she needs a computer, but she turned me down every time I offered to buy her one .
Thinking of Charlie makes my heart hurt. I push the pain down deep inside. Joao, Istanbul, and now Charlie. . . One day, it’s going to be too much, and I’m going to explode.
But not today.
I finish my meal, throw the sandwich wrapper in the trash, then sit cross-legged on the bed and pull out my personal laptop.
I stare at it for a very long time. More than anything else, I want to log into our chat room and talk to Joao. But I cannot. I must not. I inadvertently disclosed something during our last conversation that led him straight to my door, and I cannot take the risk of repeating that mistake.
Right now, the smartest thing to do is to turn off the lights and make myself fall asleep. I’ve only had three hours of rest in the last thirty-six, and I’m running on fumes. Sleep deprivation was a routine part of our training, but I never got used to it. If I get less than five hours a night, my brain refuses to function.
I pull the thin blanket over myself and close my eyes. My emotions have been put through the wringer in the last day and a half, and I’m exhausted. I should fall asleep almost immediately, but I can’t make myself relax, and sleep remains elusive.
And when I’m this keyed up, there’s one sure-fire remedy to calm me down.
Closing my eyes, I inch my hand lower until my fingertips brush my clit and slip into one of my favorite memories—the first time Joao and I made love.
We were both virgins. The mechanics of sex weren’t a mystery to us; we knew what to do. But neither of us had gone further than a few experimental touches. Until. . .
We’re in an abandoned cabin on the far side of the two-hundred-acre compound. Henrik Bach is away; he goes away every summer and returns with a batch of scared five and six-year-old children, and I’m sure this time will be no exception. And when I think of how afraid they’re going to be and what he’s going to do to them, my stomach heaves and my heart clenches with sadness.
But that’s later. Right now, Bach isn’t here, and Joao is on the bed next to me, his lean, muscled, naked body pressed up against mine. “Hello, little fox,” he murmurs, his hands cupping my face and bringing me in for a kiss. “Fancy meeting you here.”
I wrap my leg over his hip and kiss him back passionately, acutely aware of his thick erection pressing against my thigh. We’ve done some above-the-waist stuff before, but this is the first time we’ve both been fully naked, and my heart is racing with anticipation. I stroke his length with my fingertips, and he grabs my ass and tugs me closer. “Harder,” he rasps. “Stroke it harder.” He wraps his hand around mine and coaxes it up and down, showing me how he likes it. “Yes, just like that.”
His face is etched with desire, and a shiver rolls down my spine at his reaction. I kiss him again as I stroke him, and he finally pulls away with a groan. “No, not yet.”
“Why not?” I prop myself up on an elbow and stare at him. “Was I doing it wrong?”
“No.” He pushes me on my back. “It’s because I want to do this.” He cups my right breast with his hand and lowers his head to my nipple, gently sucking it between his lips. “And this.” He strokes my aching pussy. “You feel incredible,” he marvels, the tip of his finger slipping inside me. “Hot and tight.” He strokes me again. “Tell me how you like it.”
Another shiver runs through me. I move his finger until his thumb presses down on my clit. “Right there.”
He moves down my body and spreads my legs. His finger finds the exact spot he touched a moment ago, and his tongue follows. Joao was always a fast learner. “Here?” he asks, his voice muffled.
A shudder goes through me at the memories of that day at the cabin. First, Joao made me come with his fingers. Then, with his tongue, and finally, he positioned himself between my legs and pushed deep.
My breathing quickens as I picture him next to me, staring down at me with his ocean-blue eyes.
We were teenagers the last time we slept together. Joao is a man now, big, broad, and powerfully muscled. If it comes to sheer physical strength, I’m no match for him. If he were here now, would he hold me down as he thrust into me? Or would he push me up against the window, cage me in with his body, lock my hands above my head, and take me hard?
Are you going to think about me when you masturbate tonight, Stef? When you come, will it be my name on your lips?
Yes, and yes again.
My fingers circle my clit, fast and hard, and my muscles tighten as my orgasm draws near. My cheeks are flushed, and my thighs tremble as I press down on that sensitive bundle of nerves and arch and cry out as the tidal wave crests and a shock of pleasure explodes through me.
I groan out loud and pummel the pillow next to me. Instead of plotting how to escape him, I’m spending my time fantasizing about my husband.
Damn it. Damn it all to hell.