Chapter Nine #3
“I’ll have the same,” Benoit said. He drew a cigarette from a slim silver case in his breast pocket. Snapping it open with his ink-stained hand, he offered me one.
The bartender put a short glass of brown liquor in front of each of us.
The burn from the first sip was heavenly.
I took a second drink, the burn a little duller after the sharp shock of the first, but fortifying nonetheless.
Benoit had both forearms resting on the bar, and he rotated his glass in his wide, manly hands. His wrists were so broad.
“You said that you like me. When we were outside.”
“I did.” He smiled his devilish smile, likely pleased that it was bothering me enough to bring it up again.
“You made a pass at me when we first met. Do you even remember?”
“I remember. We were backstage at the Comédie Francaise.”
“I’m surprised.”
“That I remember? Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because you strike me as the kind of man who makes passes at many women all the time.”
“What?” He winced. "What gives you that idea? I resent the accusation.”
“Oh, I’ve offended you?”
“You have.”
“Stop it. I’m not blind. You ooze flirtation in every interaction with every woman. You even flirt with Apolline.”
“Well, I am a man. And why shouldn’t I flirt with Apolline?”
“She’s married!”
He looked at me hard and licked his lips. “What if I told you that I’d been very taken with you when I saw you at the theater, and I’d been trying to think of a way to approach you all night?”
“Oh, like I’m special.” I ramped up my show of disbelief.
The color on his cheeks rose. “Mademoiselle, you are absolutely special. I’ve never met anyone quite like you. And if I haven’t made you feel that way, then it’s my fault.”
He was being serious, and now I felt foolish. Boorish, even. I didn’t know what to say.
When I didn’t speak, he continued. “But don’t worry. I know you don’t like me. And I respect you, remember? I can stop trying to get you to like me back.”
Was that what he’d been trying to do? Get me to like him?
I shouldn’t have liked him. Liking him was a bad idea.
He was really the only thing standing between me and what I wanted.
But my immediate reaction was no. No, I didn’t want him to stop trying to get me to like him.
Because I did like him. I knew I shouldn’t, but I did.
The thought of him not liking me felt sad and lonely.
Liquid courage burning in my gut, I said, “I don’t want you to stop trying to get me to like you. I do like you. A little.”
He smiled broadly and victoriously. “Only a little?”
“Oui. And I prefer not to talk about it.”
“I see.” He grinned like a cat that finally caught the mouse. And then he didn’t say anything. Finally, I’d shut him up. We sat there, side by side, and drank our whiskeys in companionable silence.
After we left the bar and were heading upstairs, a strange urgency came over me. We were about halfway up the three flights to our floor, and he was walking a few steps behind me. I stopped and turned around to face him. He stopped one step below me, right at eye level now. Close. Again.
His eyes were blue and bright around dark pupils that expanded as I stared into them.
I didn’t break eye contact, and he didn’t either.
He had one of the hotel room carnations pinned to his lapel and its subtle spicy scent reached me.
We’d been this close now countless times.
It was no longer an unfamiliar place. Dare I say it wasn’t even uncomfortable any more.
But—and I’ll never know where my sudden boldness came from—I wanted more.
I wanted to be closer. And so I tipped forward and kissed him.
He flinched when my mouth collided with his, like he might pull away; but I already had my hands on the sides of his head.
In an instant, he understood what was happening and put his arms around me, holding me close.
I wanted to sing, he felt so good. I leaned against him with all my weight and let him press my lips open with his.
His tongue swiped mine, and my knees almost collapsed. It wasn’t enough. I wanted more.
My hands fell to his shoulders, pulling him closer.
Holding me in place with one hand on my waist, his other began to wander toward my front.
When he grasped my breast with the sweetest squeeze, I almost fell apart.
His mouth pressed and kissed me into an oblivion of arousal.
His breath was hot and liquefying. Without loosening my grip on him, I pulled my mouth away from his, no longer able to breathe.
And his lips fell to my neck. I tilted my head back so he could keep kissing, like I’d gone completely mad.
And the only words in my head were finally and yes.
Complete madness was the only way to describe it.
Footfalls coming from above stopped him, and we both froze and held our breath to listen. Someone was coming down the stairs. He righted me and released me, while I smoothed my dress and hair. We continued upward, reaching our floor as the gentleman heading down passed us with a polite nod.
“What happened back there?” Benoit said casually when we’d reached my door.
“I’m not entirely sure.”
His hair was messy where my fingers had slid through it. His mouth was red and bitten. He eyed me, looking for something in my face. I didn’t know what. Did he want me to invite him in?
Before I could speak, he took my hand and kissed it and said goodnight. He walked away. Two doors down, he stopped at his door and smiled sheepishly. Then he blew me a kiss, opened the door, and was gone.
Alone in the hallway and seemingly frozen where I stood, I shook my head to clear it.
My heart raced in my chest, like I’d been running for my life, or headlong into something.
A worn floral carpet ran the length of the hall, and the walls were paneled in oak wainscoting.
The sound of someone moving around upstairs carried down through the walls.
I was astounded by how moving, how right that kiss had been.
Completely astounded. It must have been all the champagne.
In my room, I undressed and saw to my toilette.
Then I lay down in bed in the darkness and relived the weight of his hands squeezing me.
That kiss. It unleashed something—a raw passion that had been latent inside me.
There was no way he couldn’t be thinking about that kiss.
He’d been just as starry-eyed as me at that moment we broke apart.
That tragedy of an interruption. What if no one had come?
I might have let him pull up my skirt right there, I was so gone in that kiss.
I was not supposed to like Benoit Levin.
He was my rival, not my love interest. But the truth was that I liked Benoit Levin very much.