Casanova LLC

Episode 7

“W e love without heeding reason, and cease to love in the same manner.”

― Giacomo Casanova

Alessandro

I walked into the sala, and she was already there. She was on the window seat where she’d untangled Friday night, feet curled up under her, a coffee table book of Venice’s palazzos on her lap.

It was so domestic. As if she were waiting for me to get home from work.

I pushed the thought away, along with all my other thoughts, as she glanced up at me and smiled.

I walked toward her, but as she unfolded herself and stood, I slowed.

She was wearing what she’d been wearing five years ago, at the rehearsal dinner. “This is freshening up?”

My tone was opaque. Her pause reflected that. “I thought—do you want me to change?”

“No, no, I love it.” I needed to get my head in the game. I needed to let go of where I just was and be here. “More than you know.”

Her smile opened up. And she shivered.

“Are you cold? It is a little cold in here. Right?” I walked to the bedroom, going to the thermostat by the kitchenette. I thought about asking her if she wanted a warm shower, or another bath. But I didn’t want to delay this any longer. I needed to get this…show on the road. So I grabbed a bottle of wine and was already opening it when I asked, “Want some wine?” She didn’t answer me from the other room. I called louder, as I poured, “Claire? Do you want?—”

Hands snaked around my waist and I jumped, splashing a glug of wine onto the counter. I laughed it off as her palms wound upwards, toward my chest. I felt her forehead rest itself in the center of my back. She inhaled deeply as her hands skated down my abs and around to my hips and back around to my thighs and then up to my shoulders. She kissed my spine through my shirt and lifted onto her toes to drop a kiss to the skin above my collar, like she’d done on the stairs the night of the ball.

I set the wine bottle down and plucked her hands off me, bringing them, together, to my lips. I murmured against them, “Wine?”

I ran through all the possible ways to play this. None of them seemed right.

Because I didn’t know where I was anymore. When I was.

She had to wear that outfit.

I’d never had a connection like this before. Not with any guest. Not with anyone.

Three days, fueled by five years. Years that lay dormant, never reactivated, until now. Now: her, in that blouse. Me, kissing her ringless finger.

* * *

The week of the rehearsal dinner, Jacopo had been visiting New York to meet new baby Lucca, and I’d asked if I could bring him to the rehearsal dinner as a plus-one. I think I stupidly wanted to impress him, to say look, someone important wants my art.

I’d been instructed to arrive at ten. We got there at nine fifty and were held at the door. People were already leaving. Standing there, I felt like I was twenty-two again and waiting to get into a club. When we were admitted into the airy white gallery space, we saw eight or so circular tables with elaborate flower sculpture centerpieces. In a corner was a jazz trio. The tables were mostly empty. Some held a few people, finishing bottles of wine or forking cake into their rich maws. Along the periphery, people had paired off to stand and talk in front of paintings.

I wanted them to be mine. After all, they had been picked up this morning from Cyril’s. A knee-jerk thought before I remembered that he was going to hand-sell them at an exclusive get-together at his house , and wasn’t that better?

Jacopo and I silently observed the room. A waiter came by with two glasses of champagne on a silver tray. We each took one.

We sipped and I watched him out of the corner of my eye.

I’d told him all about the deal. I’d told him what was expected of me and what I stood to gain. I hadn’t yet mentioned that it could mean the end of our line, that, given the privilege of money and choice, I might choose to leave Ca’ Casanova behind for good. But I wasn’t sure it needed to be said aloud. He’d only nodded at the news. Now, being here, sipping Craven’s champagne, I was having second thoughts. “So you’re okay with this?” I asked him in Italian, when what I really wanted was for him to ask me that.

“Okay? What is okay?” he answered in Italian, understanding that I wanted this to be a private conversation. “You do as we have done for centuries, Young Bull. When opportunity, she knocks, do we not open the door?”

“Sure. Right.”

I think he heard the hesitation in my voice, because he turned to me. “You deserve to have your art recognized. You are a man of many talents and you are being called upon to use them for your benefit for once. A nice change, no?”

“But that’s just it. Why does it have to come at the cost of entrapping a woman?”

“Entrapping? Ragazzo mio. He is entrapping her. And this woman, whoever she is, you think she will not find another wealthy man to make up for her loss? These people, they change partners like we change our underwears.”

“But what if she?—”

A woman appeared. She was obviously one of Richard’s: meticulously coiffed, fire-engine lipsticked, stilettoed, and a body that was better suited naked. I started to introduce us, but she was already walking on, sighing the word, “Follow.” As if she were tossing a cigarette to the curb. She wove through the room and approached Craven, who was laughing with the man next to him. She tapped him on the shoulder and whispered in his ear. He turned to greet me. Actually took a step toward me, like I was someone who belonged here.

“Ah! Vianello.” He shook my hand and patted my shoulder. “Glad you could make it.” He didn’t look at Jacopo so much as peripherally take note of him. “And what is this?”

“My uncle. Allow me to introduce you.”

“No need. The great Jacopo.” He pronounced the J. “An honor to be in the presence of such a legendary lover.” I stiffened; I hadn’t realized his “digging” had been that deep. “You must be very proud of your nephew.”

Jacopo answered with one word and it had the tonal weight of fuck you. “Sempre.”

Richard turned back to the man standing next to him. “John. This is one talented fucking artist. You know how much I hate that landscape shit. Dime a dozen. But this bastard. He got me, he really did. Remember, I told you about him first. Vianello. V-i-a-n-e-l-l-o. I give it six months and you won’t be able to beg me for one of his canvases. Come see ‘em when we’re back from Necker.” Done, apparently, with John, he turned back to me and started walking. “K, let’s get this party started. You come too, Jacopo. Just swing that big ol’ dick over your shoulder and follow me.”As we walked away, he leaned into me. “You two ever tag team women?—”

“No. And I’d appreciate it if you left him out of this. He’s retired now. He’s a very private?—”

“Totally, totally. Just one question: Is the Princess Diana story true?”

“You said shovels. Sounds more like you used a backhoe.”

“Just like to know who I’m dealing with. And up popped this magnificent creature”—he jerked a thumb behind us at my uncle—“like a regular old Jacopo-In-The-Box. Ha!”

“The J is pronounced with a Y sound, by the way.”

He pushed my shoulder. “I know! I’m just jerking you off. Sorry, yerking you off.” Laughing, he looked back at Jacopo. “You can take a joke, right? You’re Italian!”

Jacopo smiled. “Sì . But it has to be funny, right?”

Craven snapped his fingers. “Yes! There we go. Don’t take any of my shit. Love this fucking guy. Would you be my uncle?”

Fortunately, neither of us had to respond because we had just arrived at a large canvas of…I honestly wasn’t sure what. Paint. But standing in front of it was a perfectly sculpted woman in a perfectly fitted blouse and skirt. From behind, she was a knockout. But I knew better than anyone that a body like that was hardly a guarantee of a face to match.

“Baby.” Craven’s tone downshifted, like a synchronized transmission, to something gentler, slightly playful. “I want you to meet someone.”

And she turned.

She looked directly at me, and here’s what happened. I couldn’t make this up.

Lives flashed before my eyes. For a second or eternity, I was no longer here. She, her, that face, was everywhere I had ever been, in any time I had ever existed. Flashcards of incarnations. Her face lit by fire light, candlelight, gas light. Framed by a wimple, a bonnet, a veil. She lay under me, with straw under her; above me, with beams of charred oak above her. I saw her reflected in the mirror of a shaving stand while I took her from behind in a coaching inn on what I somehow knew was the road to Scotland. I saw her with a baby at her breast. I saw her in a cotton shift in a sunny farmhouse kitchen preparing breakfast; I could smell it. We stood at each other’s side in a cemetery, in mourning blacks, rain pouring down; I heard thunder. I saw her singing along while I played the guitar in a field of new mown hay. I saw that face old, weathered, and worn; and beautiful.

I went into shock. That’s the only word for it. As I stood there staring at her, there was talking around me, Richard nudging her into a guessing game about who I was, giving her three chances, being teasing and cajoling and insufferable as far as I could tell.

Her eyes kept flicking between me and Richard and every word that was coming out of her was enshrined in the most alluring mouth I had ever seen. My initial wave of sentimentalism (if that’s what it could be called) was now being supplanted by lust…and the realization of what I had been commissioned to do tonight. I wanted to reach out and shake Richard’s hand and say, “Thank you, you fucking idiot.”

The next time she spoke, I actually heard her voice. “I give up! Tell me.”

“You’re so close! He’s in the art scene…”

“Richard, you’re boring him.” She flicked another look my way and it occurred to me that I should probably move my face. “He’s one of your painters?”

“He is now,” he cooed. “Of certain landscapes…of certain Venetian land?—”

“Oh!” Her eyes flew to mine, open and wild. “The painting from Cyril’s? Of sunset on the water—the wall and Moorish?—”

“The painting that is currently being hung in our bedroom. Merry Wedding!”

“Oh, Richard!” And she kissed him. On the cheek. What a waste of those lips. “You are amazing.” And then she turned to me. “As are you! I’m such a fan. Oh my God, this is so exciting. I’m Claire.” Thrusting her hand out to me.

“This is Alessandro Vianello. I bought him for you.”

I was still frozen. I only unfroze when I felt Jacopo’s hand stealthily appear at my lower back, nudging me into action.

I took her hand. And there was a literal spark. A crackle of static electricity.

We both yanked our hands back. She shook hers out, chuckling. “Magic hands! I knew it.”

“Baby, you have no idea. I’m gonna rep him, too.”

“Are you? Oh, that’s wonderful. Thank you.” She put her hands to her chest and looked at me. “I can’t wait for people to see how brilliant you are. I hope you get everything you want.”

Right now, there was only one thing I wanted.

“I actually had a question about your technique?—”

“Babe, why don’t you save it for later? The mayor’s been waiting to talk to you all night and he needs to leave soon.”

“Oh, of course.” Her disappointment was quickly covered by gracious poise. She had an Old Money comportment that I wanted nothing more than to dismantle.

Richard turned to me. “But, hey, bar’s open for another half hour. Why don’t you help ‘em clean out the good stuff and we’ll clear out the riffraff and you two can talk later. Okay? Partner?”

“Sure.” It was the first thing I’d said and it was so stupid. Not to be outdone by what I said next: “Sounds good.”

And then Jacopo’s hand was back on my body, nudging me away. My eyes found Claire’s one more time and I caught a glimpse of de-composure, of a crack in her fa?ade, and I wanted to burrow myself into it, spread it wide, push down the walls until there was nothing left standing but the two of us.

Jacopo steered me bodily away and all but shoved me toward the bar. When we arrived, he leaned into my ear. “We go. Now.”

“What?”

“Come, let’s go.”

“N-no, I—I have to stay.”

“We go. Now.”

“Are you forgetting the entire reason I’m?—”

“I forget nothing. It is you who must forget. Forget the deal. Forget her.”

“What the fuck are you—twenty minutes ago this deal was the best thing to ever happen to me and now you’re?—”

“Twenty minutes ago I had not seen her.”

After a moment, I turned, resolutely, to the bartender. “Two bourbons, please. The Pappy.”

“Alessandro—”

“We’re not doing this.”

“So you deny what I just saw with my own eyes?”

“What, that she’s gorgeous? That he’s an idiot?”

“More than gorgeous.”

“You jealous? Is that what this is?”

The look on his face at that. I had to turn away. Luckily, the bourbons were waiting for me. I picked up both glasses and held one out to him. “Take it.” He just looked at me. “I’m sorry. Okay? That was a stupid thing to say.”

“A very stupid thing.”

“Which is why I’m sorry.” I nudged the glass at him. He still resisted. “There’s four hundred dollars’ worth of bourbon in this glass. Enjoy it. Please.”

“Nipoto. I have drunk rice wine of the emperor’s private cask from his daughter’s navel. Keep your hillbilly swill.”

I set the glass on the bar.

We regarded each other.

“Lie to me. But not yourself. This deal is bad for you.”

“You worry too much. It’s fine. I’m fine.”

He clapped me on the shoulder. “For all you have learned, there is still so much. I will see you back at Livia’s. Tonight .”

He left and I shot the rest of my drink, because why not, and then I set about savoring his, settling my back against the bar and surveying the crowd.

To be more accurate, I was surveying her. The craziness (or whatever it was that I had felt and my uncle had seen) had subsided. My mind had come back to itself. I had regained control. I could now assess her as I would assess any woman.

She was standing next to Richard, saying good-bye to people. I watched her grab brief moments of solitude between the good-byes. I watched her complacent mask occasionally slip. I watched, and built my strategy for what was to come.

But the more I watched, the more I realized how wrong my assumptions had been. I’d imagined a trophy wife. Fake and gaudy and quietly simpering. She was the opposite. She was the kind of woman who didn’t spend your capital, but added to it. What had Craven said? She expands my portfolio ? I understood now. Yes, she was elegant and poised, but just beneath that was a genuine and authentic woman. She was dressed in a simple white cotton blouse knotted at her navel and a white flowy skirt with little black dots. It was quality and probably came off a runway, but it wasn’t flashy. This was her rehearsal dinner and she looked as if she’d come directly from an afternoon tea. The guests acknowledged Richard first, but quickly gravitated toward her. And stayed there. She was magnetized.

Their relationship made sense to me now. He was getting married, something he swore he’d never do , because she made him—his choices—look interesting. Inspired. He’d chosen her, hadn’t he? Imagine what he could do with your stock portfolio. This was a woman whose sole purpose was to make people go: If she likes him well enough to marry him, he must be special.

The best thing that could happen to her, I began rationalizing, was that he divorced her. And in the meantime, I would give her an incredible night. A night to remember, to show her what she was missing. I could help her like I helped all my guests.

Because I knew—I just knew—what their sex life was like. Like so many rich pricks, he had control issues. Power issues. That’s why there would be other women, if there weren’t already.

It was a shame, but it wasn’t my problem. She’d have to save herself.

I decided that the first moment I saw her would be the last moment I cared about her.

The room had emptied. There were now about a dozen people left. A few aimlessly wandering individuals and pairs and trios scattered around the circular tables. Two men talked with Richard by the exit. Claire had disappeared.

When Richard finally said good-bye to the men, he turned to me, knowing right where I was, and pointed discreetly behind me.

Marching orders in hand, I finished Jacopo’s bourbon and took the last two glasses of room temperature champagne off the abandoned tray sitting on the abandoned bar, and went off in the direction I’d been sent.

She was standing in front of another large abstract on the back wall of the gallery, studying it, alone.“Ready?”

“For what?”

Her head whipped to me. “I’m so sorry. I thought you were Richard.”

“Do you need him?”

“No, no. He knows where to find me.”

We smiled politely at each other.

“May I join you?”

“Of course.” I went and stood next to her. I offered her a glass of the warm champagne. “Oh, thank you.”

“Allow me to be the first to congratulate you on your upcoming nuptials.”

“You are hardly the first—ah.”

An hors d’oeuvre of humor was necessary for the entree of seduction. I affected a wounded look. “You mean there was someone else?”

“A few hundred someones.”

We both took a sip of champagne and turned our attention to the painting.

It was the size of an SUV. It was blood red with streaks of gold filigree going through it and had feathers affixed to the bottom. One small upper corner was blue.

I gave it a moment. “What do you think?”

She opened her mouth, but nothing emerged for a few seconds. “I like…”

“The blue,” we said at the same time.

She covered her laughing mouth and glanced over her shoulder, before admitting, “It’s not my style.”

“Is it anyone’s?”

“Richard’s buying it.”

My eyes flicked to the price tag: three hundred twenty-five thousand dollars.

“He asked my opinion. Which he likes to do. But I don’t think it matters. In the end, he gets whatever he wants.”

“He’s lucky he’s got you.”

She lifted a shoulder at that. “I used to work here.”

“At this gallery?”

“He knows I know the market.” She raised her glass to coy lips. “Even if I hate it.”

“Should I be flattered or offended that you told him about my work?”

Her eyes went teasingly scolding. “Don’t make me say again how in love I am with your work.” She looked over her shoulder again. “I’m just surprised he is.”

“Maybe he just wants you to be happy.”

She didn’t answer that, just smiled diplomatically at me.

“Well, thank you. For wanting something from me.”

“Don’t thank me, I didn’t ask for it. I just showed him a picture of the painting I’d seen at Cyril’s. Although, admittedly, I couldn’t shut up about it. That said, I’m thrilled he’s taking you on. There’s nobody better.”

We sipped.

“I really think what you do is special. The first time I saw the painting, I…I was…transported.” She looked away. “You do something on a canvas that—it moved me. You moved me.”

She sipped.

So I sipped.

She was such an interesting contradiction. I could feel her rigidity, propriety, and could hear it in her low, cool tone. But just beneath the surface, there was a yearning. Like if I tripped a wire inside her she could laugh or cry or shout or come or maybe all at once.

Richard wanted me to bed her.

I wanted to trip that wire.

“Thank you,” I said again. “That moves me . What else could an artist want, but to move someone?” I was trying to get her to look at me again. To further a connection.

But when she did look at me again, it was only to say, “There is one element I was curious about. It’s minor.”

“Sorry?”

She immediately looked away. “No, I’m sorry, never mind.”

“No, no, please.” I turned fully to her. “It’s one of my early pieces. You may have noticed the one thing I wanted to improve, but couldn’t figure out how to, at the time.”

“It’s such incredible work?—”

“On the count of three, we’ll both say it. Okay?”

Her lips curled in on themselves, keeping a smile at bay. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. Let’s do it.”

“Okay, it’s your ego.”

“It can take it. Ready? One. Two. Three.”

And we both said: “Proportion.”

“I knew it!” She laughed as I spun around and started pacing, a show of frustration. “The boat?—”

“With the church behind it.”

“Duomo.”

“Right, the duomo.”

“It’s too big. Goddamn it.”

“It’s such a small thing. Hardly noticeable.”

“You noticed it!”

She smiled meekly and turned back to the SUV of a painting parked in front of us. It was just so…red.

I let our exchange linger in the air, like a scented candle that had yet to be lit. That I was determined to light.

She broke the silence. “As if being all red wasn’t bad enough, it also manages to be a nothing shade of red. Your colors are extraordinary.”

“Now you’re just trying to make me feel better.”

“Is it working?” With that impish smile, she went back to the painting. “Seriously, they’re so full of intention. They’re like people. You make me want to know more about them. Seek them out. Live wherever they are.”

Now that moved me. “No one’s…ever said that to me before. Not that way.”

Her head whipped back to me. “Really? But it’s undeniable. You’re so…undeniable.”

I could have said the same to her.

She pivoted fully to me. “The proportion thing, really, it’s such a nonissue. I looked at your website, your other paintings, they’re perfect.”

“So why don’t you want one of them?”

“I mean, I’d happily take all of them, but…because the early one is not perfect. It’s your potential. Seeing not only who you are, but who you want to be.”

How could I be so intimidated, attracted, and grateful at the same time? Who…was this woman?

On instinct, like two animals at a watering hole, we turned. Craven was twenty feet away, closing in on us, wrapping a scarf around his neck.

“Oh.” She looked surprised. “I’ll grab my coat.”

“No, stay.”

“But I thought we were going out.”

“I know, I know, but the party went later than I thought. I gotta go meet Carter and Quinn, and you know how they are. Apparently they have a surprise for me.” He gave me a bro-y grin. “With those two it could be anything from a car to a hooker.”

“Richard!” She gave him a semi-playful slap.

“I’m joking .” He mouthed theatrically at me: no, I’m not . Then he winked at her. He held out his hand and I took it as briefly as possible. “You’ll see that my precious jewel is returned safely to her hotel?”

“Richard.” Not so playful this time. “I don’t need an escort.”

He didn’t even look at her, just at me. “And I don’t need you on the streets of New York alone. Vianello?”

“It would be a pleasure.”

He kissed her on the cheek. She took his arm and said, quietly, “I’d like a moment together? Just one? Before you leave?”

“Babe, I gotta go . They’re waiting.” He pinched her chin. “See you tomorrow. I’ll be the guy in the tux at the end of the aisle.” He winked at her again, then spun away. “Don’t keep her up too late,” he called. “She needs her beauty sleep!”

We watched him go and I could feel her disappointment. She didn’t look at me as we turned back to the painting. “You were saying?”

“I believe you were saying. Something about my potential?”

She chuckled, but it was halfhearted. “Right. Are you working on anything at the moment?”

“Just finishing one up, actually.”

“Do you have any pictures?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.” I reached in my pocket for my phone. I could feel her looking out into the room. “Sorry you got stuck with me.”

“It’s fine. Really. I just… He does this. I’m used to it. And we’re not even married yet.”

This was where I could place a wedge between them. Let her vent. Comfort her. Listen to her. Then make my move.

But at the moment, I wanted to show her my painting more.

I pulled the picture up and handed my phone to her. “It’s not finished.”

Her body softened. It was as if she had come to my bed. “Wow.” She zoomed in with her fingers. “God.”

I looked at her looking at it and I didn’t want to be anywhere else.

“It’s…” She put a hand to her forehead and stroked it.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes.” Then she thrust the phone back at me and laughed. “How do you do this to me?! Can you send me that?”

Perfect. Now I’d have her number. Just in case. “Of course. But for your eyes only.”

“On my honor.” A girl scout. An adorable one.

I attached the photo to a new message and handed the phone back to her. “Just put your number in.” She did, and some compulsion to be honest made me say, “You should know it’s been promised to someone, though.”

“Another desperate woman?”

“My uncle, actually. It’s his favorite pier.”

“Then I won’t be jealous.” She handed me back the phone and I pressed send. A moment later, her purse dinged.

I put it back in my pocket, hunched up my shoulders. “So. It would seem our plans for the night have changed.”

“Sorry? Oh, right. Mine and yours.” She chuckled. “Well, I couldn’t have asked for a better escort, but we should get going. Big day tomorrow.”

“The biggest. How excited are you?”

“Very!”

“Where will I be delivering you?”

“Just a few blocks from here. The Mercer.” She lifted her glass to her lips again. “He insisted on the tradition of sleeping apart the night before the wedding. I told him I didn’t—it’s a very nice room.” She hitched her purse further up her shoulder, readying to leave. “I have a bit of work to do, actually.”

“Work? After your rehearsal dinner?”

“I know. But I’m starting a company and it’s 24/7 at the moment.”

“Impressive. Congratulations.”

“Right now it’s all emails and paperwork and lawyers and frustrations, but I’m determined to make it great.”

“She’s ambitious, too. What kind of company?”

“Cosmetics. It’s called Visage.”

“Good name.”

“Thank you.”

We were silent.

Now was the moment.

I threw back my champagne. “All right. I’m taking you out for a drink.”

“What?”

“We’re celebrating. You’re getting married. You’re going to be the next Estée Lauder. You single-handedly launched my career. Technically, we should have multiple drinks. Come on!” Boldly, I took her arm.

She laughed and disentangled her arm. “Hang on, hang on. Let me get my coat.”

I had gotten her to unlock the door and hand me the key. Perfect.

“Allow me.”

“But you don’t know which one it is.”

I made a show of looking embarrassed. “Rrrriiight. But what kind of escort would I be if I let a lady get her own coat?”

“Follow me,” she giggled.

I watched her walk away across the white floor of the gallery. The sway of her hips, her straight shoulders, her swan neck.

God help me, she was going to enjoy this.

I tailed her at a respectful distance, down a small hallway, and into an alcove. When she walked in, an automatic light flickered on. She continued across the space and went to a nondescript door with a STAFF ONLY sign on it. I waited in the alcove, taking in the significant number of canvases stacked against the walls. She emerged, holding her coat, and pointed back at the door with her champagne glass. “Once an employee, always an employee.”

“May I?” I took her glass and purse. But before she could wriggle into her coat, she gasped slightly. “Oh! The new Kneepkens.” She dropped the coat and went over to one of the stacks, peeled off a canvas. “Come here.” I set our glasses and her purse on the floor and went over. She squatted down, knees together and off to the side, ladylike, and laid the painting flat on the floor…revealing the gap in her blouse and the little cotton bra underneath.

Fuck me.

It was so simple. So basic. So everyday. And so, so, so erotic.

“Have you heard of Linda Kneepkens?”

“No.” I found I had to clear my throat.

“Upstate. Bit of a recluse, but in the best way. What she does with a palette knife.” As she examined it, I gravitated closer to her, knelt down beside her, and observed the painting, sure. But mostly her.

I cataloged her. Every ridge and slope and swirl. And what I couldn’t see, I filled in with my imagination. An imagination suddenly on fire. The way it was when I painted.

She continued to speak, but I wasn’t sure what she said. My blood was rushing. Her fragrance had entered me and I was consumed with thoughts of entering her. But not for Richard, or my paintings, or for some manufactured artistic fame. Just for me.

“You’re not what I expected.” Only after I said it did I realize I’d interrupted her.

She blinked a couple of times, migrating herself from her wavelength to mine. Her eyes came to my face. She studied me. “Neither are you.”

I registered the moment she saw me. Really saw me.

Her eyes staggered back to the painting.

But mine stayed on her. Jesus, her collarbone. The way it caught the shadows in the room.

She squared the canvas, trying to implement some order. “I expected you to be an old Italian artist who didn’t speak any English.”

I joined her on the floor. Sat cross-legged and leaned back on my hands. The embodiment of non-threatening. “Sorry to disappoint. I can’t be old, but I could speak Italian if you like? Do a lot of this?” I made the garlic bulb hand gesture. “Sono nato a New York . ” Then I adopted the accent Jacopo used when he wanted to play up the broken English thing. “I was, ah, how you say, born of my mother, here-uh, in New York-uh.”

She openly laughed. “Do you still live here?”

“Ehm, uh, parta—” She groaned, and I held up my hands, surrendering. “Part-time. With my sister, who lives in Hudson Yards. I’m only here a couple of months a year. Which is when I do most of my painting.”

“You rent the space from Cyril.”

“I had an easel at my sister’s, but when she and her husband had a baby, I decamped to Brooklyn. It turned out to be even better for me.”

A piece of her updo fell down and she swept it behind her ear. I wanted to take the rest of it down. “Do you have a…significant other, Mr. Vianello?”

“No.” I didn’t elaborate. She glanced at her champagne glass and I reached across the painting and scooped it up, anticipating her want. I made sure our fingers brushed when I handed it to her.

Sitting casually on the floor together, it felt like we were two children escaping a boring adult party. The perfect atmosphere for telling secrets. “Any cold feet?” She laughed. “I’m not talking frostbite here, but an itty bitty little tingle? In your pinky toe?” The smiles between us were growing more genuine, more honest.

“Not a single tingle.”

“So you’re positive he’s the one?”

“He’s the best man I’ve ever been with.”

“Not worried there’s an even better one out there for you?”

“You know the saying, ‘A good man is hard to find’? Richard’s a good man.”

I couldn’t tell if she was trying to convince me or herself of that. She started to get up. “If we’re going to get that drink, we should go.” I reached for her glass again, joined it with mine in one hand, and offered her an empty palm. She took it and I hoisted us both to standing. She went to move the painting back to the wall, but I beat her to it. Then, before she could ask, I had her coat held open. As she shrugged into it, I straightened her bent collar. She let out a small chuckle.

“What?”

She turned around; I was already holding her glass back out to her. “Just wondering how on earth you’re single.” We were now standing closer to each other than we’d been before. But she didn’t step back. She just considered me.

“I’m not really a one-woman kind of guy,” I said.

“You just haven’t met the right woman.”

“Well, the right woman is hard to find.”

She grinned at me. I grinned at her. We had advanced to banter. We were officially flirting. And she felt safe doing so. Because I knew she was getting married tomorrow and her fiancé was in business with me.

But she wasn’t safe.

She lifted her glass to her mouth. “Maybe we could help you find her.”

“Thanks, but…” I let my gaze linger on her. “I think it might be too late.”

“Too late? How old are you?”

“Twenty-seven, but that’s not what I meant. Why? How old are you?”

“Same.” She sounded like she might stick her tongue out at me and say na-na-na-na-na-na.

I tipped my chin down. “Twenty-seven and you’re never gonna see another man’s twig and berries for the rest of your life.”

She guffawed. It was a deliciously loud burst. “Twenty-seven and you call it ‘twig and berries,’ are you serious? God. ” I may as well have been tickling her. Her hand went to her giggling mouth and her enormous ring nearly blinded me under the fluorescents. “It’s like reverse dog years for men. Twenty-seven for me is forty; twenty-seven for you is twelve.”

“Oh, so that’s why you like older men.”

“I don’t like older men .”

“You just marry them?”

“He’s forty-two. That’s eighteen in dog years.”

“Cradle-robber. So what do you like, then? The money?”

“I like Richard! Why does it have to be about anything else?”

There was a part of me that wanted to expose him for who he really was, but that wasn’t why I was here. I had to keep reminding myself of that. “It doesn’t. I get it. He must be quite the man to win a woman like you.”

“Stop it.”

“I’m serious. He’s a lucky man.”

She was getting embarrassed. “Can I tell you something?”

She was also getting brave. I loved this contradiction. “Anything.”

“I don’t know why he wants to marry me.”

In the ensuing silence, she drank. And when she was done, I still hadn’t said anything.

“I believe it’s your turn to speak. Please?”

“You won’t want to hear what I have to say.”

We stood there, a smiling game of chicken playing across our lips. I let my eyes drop to hers. I didn’t have to act the little groan that escaped me. I shook my head slowly. “You have a mouth meant to be painted.”

“Spoken like a true artist.”

“That’s not the artist talking.”

“Well, my mouth is hardly a reason to marry me, Mr. Vianello.”

“Okay, fine. What do you want me to say?”

“You don’t have to say anything. I’m sorry I brought it up.”

“But what if I want to? You should know how special you are. Even if you don’t know it yourself.”

She smiled so wide, I heard her cheek make a noise. “Flattery will get you everywhere .”

I moved imperceptibly closer and the most decadent flush crept up her cheeks. “I believe you. You know why?” I tapped a finger against the pink crescent of skin. “You’re blushing.”

“I’ve had too much champagne.”

“And not enough of something else.” Her eyes flickered and I thought I’d pushed too far. So I quickly covered with, “Do you need more food?”

She gave the smallest shake of her head. “No. But we should go. Unless you have more flattery to offer?”

“I thought you’d never ask. He’s smart, but you’re smarter.”

“Yeah, well, he’s the billionaire. All I have is an Art History degree.”

“And yet you managed to reel him in.”

“He pursued me. I pushed him away for years.”

“See? One smart cookie.” She grinned. “You have a dimple.” I pointed at it. “And you’re goddamn gorgeous. That doesn’t hurt.”

“I’m pretty.”

“And you’re delusional.” Another laugh. “And you’re kind.”

She paused. “How would you know that?”

“You radiate it. And you’re passionate.”

She chortled, “No, I’m not!”

“Yes, you are!”

“Oh, what do you know about that?”

“About women’s passion? A lot, actually.”

She regarded me. “Really.”

“Really.”

“What, in your expert opinion, makes me passionate?”

“Art.”

“ Your art.”

“Is there any other worth talking about?”

“Okay, that’s true. But that doesn’t mean I’m a passionate person.”

“Okay, that would be true, if it weren’t for the fire in there.” I stared at her cheeks. Then her chest. “I refer you to the aforementioned blush.”

“We can’t all be blessed with a perfectly bronzed Mediterranean complexion.”

“Aw, gee, I hadn’t thought you’d noticed.”

“I didn’t mean it like?—”

“And you’re curious.”

“Curious? Like, peculiar?”

I chuckled. “No. As in you possess curiosity.”

“And what am I curious about?”

“What aren’t you curious about? Which, in turn, makes a man very curious. About you.”

We’d been standing still for so long that at that moment, the automatic lights turned off. But Claire didn’t flinch. Didn’t once stop looking at me, in fact.

“About what, exactly?” It was a whisper.

“All of you. Every part of you.”

With the light coming in from the rest of the gallery, I watched her swallow.

We stayed just like that.

“So,” I murmured, “Would you agree?”

“To what?”

“To being curious?”

The silence that fell over us made the unspoken answer ring loudly in the air. I took a chance; I brushed a finger against the hand at her hip. She didn’t move away. She just said: “Yes. But I’m not that person.”

“But you could be. Tonight, you could be.”

She made a little moan in the back of her throat. I wanted more of that sound. “I’m drunk.”

“No, you’re not.”

“No,” she breathed, “I’m not. God.”

“But you are curious.”

“Is that what they’re calling it these days?”

In the background, the sound of tables being put away, glasses being collected. It had to be now.

“Let me take you somewhere.”

“For a drink?”

“If that’s what they’re calling it these days.”

Her breathing shallowed. “This isn’t happening.”

“It is.”

“You’re not serious.”

“I am.”

“You can’t be. Where would we even…? Not my hotel. Other people, wedding guests are?—”

“Cyril’s studio.” I stepped even closer. Dropped my mouth to her ear. “I have the key.”

She leaned her head into my jaw, as if she needed it to hold her up. She was trembling, fine tremors that made me want to run my hands down her, smooth them away like wrinkles from a bedsheet.

So lowly I barely heard her, she asked, “Can I trust you?”

I couldn’t answer.

Because I didn’t want to lie to her. Not any more than I already had.

And upon realizing that, I realized I couldn’t…

Do this.

Any of it.

Because there was someone else here with us. And he wanted proof.

A video.

Suddenly, the thought of giving a man like him a weapon like that against a woman like her…

Even now, I couldn’t say who pulled away first. I truly think it happened simultaneously, down to the millisecond. All I know is one moment her hair was tickling my jaw and the next we were looking at each other and then we were both saying, “I can’t.”

And then we both said: “I want to…”

And our synchronicity made us smile the tiniest bit. But she also looked like she’d been picked up by a tornado and set down in what used to be her backyard. “But we can’t.” We confirmed. We vowed.

She stepped away from me.

The lights blinked back on as the electricity left our bodies.

She turned and walked stiffly out of the alcove.

I stood there so long the lights went off again.

And then I walked all the way back to Liv’s and crawled into the pull-out sofa bed next to a softly snoring Jacopo, and stared at the ceiling until the sun came up.

I wandered the city that day. I got intentionally lost. While somewhere, in the same city, she got married.

And I stayed lost.

* * *

It was the sound of her glass being set down that brought me back. She had finished her wine. “Do you want more?”I asked automatically.

She shook her head, already moving to the bed platform. She took her small purse off, set it on a chair. She climbed the stair, turned around, and sat on the edge of the mattress, where she’d first touched herself in front of me. Was there any place she could be that wouldn’t conjure memories of what had already been?

She bent over and I got a view of that bra again—another memory—and she undid the straps of her shoes. I should be doing that for her. But I was greedy. I wanted to watch her. Burn the images into my mind. For later.

I sipped at my wine, but my taste buds were not responding. They were elsewhere. Partnered with all my other senses as she toed her shoes off, put her hands behind her on the mattress—thrusting out her chest—and looked at me.

I set my barely touched glass down and approached her. “Good evening, ma’am, welcome to The Olive Garden. Would you like to hear our specials?”

She bit back a smile. I returned it, staring down at her. Tickle before you squeeze.

“What do you want, Claire?”

Her smile went closed-lipped. She didn’t answer.

I tried again. “Where do you want to start?”

She looked away.

We could do this silently, I thought. That could be fun. I might enjoy that. God knew I’d talked enough. Maybe that would be helpful, actually. Her body could talk and I could just listen to it. We could slake ourselves in the quiet of our human sounds.

But her silence didn’t feel like an invitation; it felt like she was considering bailing. “Aren’t you going to say something?”

“I think we’ve done enough talking.”

The tightness in her voice stopped me. I went down to my knees in front of hers. I plucked her fingers up, which had been nervously toying with the bedspread, and held them. “This is safe. This is us.” I clenched my jaw. “This is my job.” I wasn’t sure who I was reminding, her or me. “When you filled out the preference sheet, you had to think about what you wanted. Now, I want you to voice your wants.” She swallowed and I watched the ivory column of her throat bob. I had an irrational desire to bite it. I ran a finger lightly over her hand.

“I want you to touch me.”

“Where?”

“Wherever you want.”

“Where would you like me to start? Here?” I tapped her knee with the hand that wasn’t already engaged with her fingers. She shook her head.

“Maybe higher.”

I removed my hand from her knee and placed it on her cheek. I slid my fingers under her chin and gently raised her head, so we looked each other directly in the eye. “High enough?” I said with a whisper of a smile.

“Maybe lower,” she murmured with a sensual giggle.

I freed her chin and ran the backs of my fingers down that throat, let the knuckles pass down over her collarbone. Lower. Her breath hitched. I flipped my hand over and gently squeezed her breast. So perfect. Perfection matched only by the soft moan that escaped her. “There?”

“I want—” She panted. “I want…you to undress me. Just my blouse. And bra. I want my skirt on when you take me the first time.”

My reaction was immediate. I could envision it all and I wanted it. I ached for it. And she’d said, when you take me the first time . Implying…well. My fingers went to the buttons on her blouse. “There’s nothing more attractive than a woman who knows what she wants.”

When I reached the tied knot at the bottom, I put my hand on her chest and pushed gently. She took the hint, leaning back onto her elbows, giving me room to work. “Did you bring this outfit for me?”

Her gaze stayed on my untying fingers. “I didn’t think you’d remember it.”

“How could you think that?”

“I mean. It’s a blouse and skirt. It’s not particularly memorable.”

“If this outfit wasn’t for me…” I undid the last button. “Why?”

She sat up and shrugged the material down her shoulders. I pulled it off and let it fall to the floor. She was face to face with me now. Eyes open, lips parted, and very present. “Because I want to feel how I felt that night.”

I eased my hand up behind her back and unsnapped her little bra with two fingers. “And how was that?”

Her back arched slightly. “Alive.”

Her bra dropped. I tossed it on top of her blouse. “And what are you feeling now?”

She covered her chest with one arm, peering at me. “Nervous.”

After a considering moment, I leaned back.

I did my best to appear calm. “Why are you nervous?” Why was I nervous?

She nibbled her lip. “I don’t want to disappoint you.”

What? I didn’t want to disappoint her . “How would you disappoint me?”

“I’m not…known for…” She closed her eyes and sighed. “I’ve never been good at this. Oral, yes. Sex? I want it to be good for you, too.”

I didn’t. I wanted it to be fucking terrible. I wanted to never want to have sex with her again. But I knew the way you know a head cold is coming on that I wouldn’t be so lucky.

I leaned forward, brushed a wisp of hair from her forehead. Ran my hands down along her shoulders. “I want you to know how much I want this. Want you. How attracted I...how much I…feel for you.”

“Have you ever felt like this before?”

“No, that’s just it. That’s why I?—”

“Then why do you think this will be like it’s been before? Some very wise person once said, ‘No assumptions, no expectations.’” I kissed her temple. “Socrates?” Her other one. “Plato?”

After a moment, she nodded.

“Just keep wanting what you want, feeling what you feel, and speak it. All of it. Let me know you, Claire. I want to know your voice.”

Her eyes cleared, then, as if I’d unlocked her. The final, tricky little padlock in the escape room of her being. “I want you to kiss me.”

I captured her mouth without hesitation. She effortlessly dropped to her back and I moved over her. Our kiss deepened, my hands braced on either side of her head, her fingers carding through my hair.

They traveled to the neck of my sweater. “I want this off.”

I reached behind me, whipped it over my head. She was up on her elbows, kissing my chest, my throat, one shoulder, the other. Her hands found my belt. “Off.”

I rocked back on my knees, feet finding the step. Unbuckled, unbuttoned, unzipped. Pushed down and off until I was standing in my black boxer briefs. I let her look at me until I couldn’t take it anymore; the desire, the want, the promise in her eyes. I nudged off my shoes and socks, disentangled myself from the cluster around my feet.

I crawled back up her body, dropping kisses along it as I went. She moaned such a breathy yes when I brushed her breasts that I lingered there, mouthing, licking, sucking until she arched into my mouth. “I think…I mean, I want…”

My eyes went to her face: closed-eyed bliss, with a little tension in her brow. “Yes?”

“I want your mouth.”

“Where?”

“Lower.”

I moved down to her quivering stomach. “Here?”

She smiled. “Not quite.”

I jumped back up to her breast, took her nipple in my mouth, tongued it voraciously. “Are you saying you want this even lower?” I asked around her flesh. She nodded fiercely. “Say it.”

“I want it.”

“Want what?”

She huffed a laugh. “I want you to eat my pussy! Clear enough?!”

“You don’t have to shout.” I released her and scooted down the bed, settling on my knees on the step, the perfect height for what we both wanted.

She ran her hands over her face, through her hair, expelling a ragged here-we-go breath as I drew her skirt up, pushed it to her waist. Looked down.

No panties.

I stared. Just stared. I hadn’t been this close before.

She was perfect. If anyone could rightly be called a connoisseur of the female mons , I suppose I was it. And hers was…top shelf. I had to say something to break the trance I was in. “I never would have guessed this was part of the outfit that night.”

Her palms were on the side of her head, looking at the ceiling. She chuckled hoarsely, “It wasn’t. That night, I was wearing panties that matched the bra.”

“Why the change?”

She looked down her body at me. “Because you didn’t get to take advantage of it at dinner on Thursday night. Because?—”

“Don’t you dare say his name.” She laughed and I studied her. “Tell me. What would I have done?”

After a moment: “You would have spread my legs.”

I grabbed her knees and tugged her down, pulling them apart as I did. “Like this.” It wasn’t a question. “And then?”

“Touched me.”

I placed my hand on her upper thigh and slowly dragged my thumb upward over her seam, rubbed the back of my knuckle lightly under her nub a few times. Felt her begin to part. Used my other hand to help that along. “Anything else?”

“Tasted me.”

I dropped my head.

Christ, she was candy. I could get lost here. She was going to have to ask me to stop.

I used my lips for the broad strokes, my tongue for the finer work. In return, she liquified, her body becoming a saturated palette.

She made a sound of surprise and I glanced up. Her head was lifted, watching me, the cords in her neck taut. I lifted her legs, put her feet on my shoulders, pushed her knees back toward her chest, and feasted.

She bucked, her inner thighs clenching my head. I took time, letting her get used to it. Kissed her pubic bone, ran slow, soothing hands up the outsides of her legs, over her stomach, and up to her breasts. Palming them. Massaging. The whole time, tasting her depths.

Her body unfurled to the mattress, a keening moan rushing out of her.

Her thighs released, butterflying.

And for the next minute, my tongue and her body danced. Then I inched a finger toward her opening and when I felt her start to coil, I reached in, just far enough for her to feel me…feel her…feeling me.

I felt a drop of excitement rise out of me, dampening my boxers.

Her hands went above her head, into a fisted prayer. Her body began to undulate.

“So fucking beautiful.” I hadn’t meant to say it, but she just kept kicking down walls inside of me.

“You’re going to make me… I want…”

I increased the depth of my finger. I varied the tempo on her nub. “Whenever you want, Cara.”

“No…I…I want you inside me.”

“I will be.”

“When I come. I want you…inside me…when I come, Alessandro.”

Hearing her say my name jolted me. I curled my finger. “Who said you only get one?”

“I want all of them with you inside me. So you feel me.”

“I feel you.” I dropped my lips to her pearl again and it spasmed against them.

She pulled at my hands. My head. My shoulders. Desperately tugging me upward. She wriggled herself up the bed, skirt twisted around her waist. “I want you to look at me. See what you do to me. Feel me grab you from inside while I drink everything I can out of you.”

Jesus Christ. Was this how Dr. Frankenstein felt when he realized he’d created something he couldn’t control?

She pulled me down on top of her, her legs already around my hips, reached between our bodies, took me in her hand, and guided me straight into her?—

“Okay, okay.” I stole myself back from her, trying to chuckle while also trying to wrest back control. I sat up between her legs.

She matched my chuckle, but it was frustrated. “Noooo, I’m so close!”

So was I. So was fucking I. I slid myself up and down her drenched center. “Cara?—”

She groaned and lifted her hips. Her hands clutched my shoulders, urging me forward. “Now!”

I should give her what she wanted.

I should edge her longer.

I should get this over with.

I should make it last forever.

I should concentrate.

I couldn’t, I was splintering.

I went on autopilot, notched myself at her entrance.

And she came. Or started to. But she interrupted herself, pushing at my shoulders. “No, not yet, fuck.”

“Amore mio , go. Let it out. Enjoy it.”

Her neck arched and her eyes closed and she fluttered around me, rippling, twitching, bucking. Then she stilled. And like after an earthquake, she waited to see if there would be an aftershock. Sure enough, her thighs quivered and her body grabbed once more. She took her time to recover, then opened her eyes, seeking mine. “Wow. You…got even for last night.”

On a satisfied laugh, I kissed her. Then we went to our sides, limbs tangling, hands tracing, breaths mingling. She leisurely caressed the side of my face. Then she touched my temple the way I’d touched hers. “What are you thinking about?”

She could tell I was thinking about something? That was relationship territory. I had to be more careful. “Funny you should ask. I was just thinking about the time you told me you weren’t passionate. How right you were.”

She slapped my shoulder and kissed me again. Harder.

When we’d built the fire back up, which took less time than I thought it would, I placed her onto her back and pressed my naked body onto hers. My length found its way between her folds, swimming through her newly pooled desire.

With her eyes open, staring straight into mine, I pushed my crown inside, and rested there, prepared to slowly work my way in. But her body wasn’t satisfied with that. It drew me further in, welcoming me. She was open, hungry, smooth as silk. Before I knew it, I was fully seated. We looked at each other with surprise. At how easily, securely, comfortably we fit together.

“God,” we said together.

Eventually, she found more words. “You can move.”

“I know. I will. Believe me I will. But not yet. This feels too good.”

“It does. I can’t believe how good.”

Claire

I was so full. I’d been so empty, for so long, even before my husband died, and now?

Fucking hell.

I was tempted to close my eyes, but I didn’t want to miss a moment of this.

He softly kissed my open lips. Brushed his back and forth.

And yet he remained still, nothing more than the pulse of him, beating deep inside me. I couldn’t imagine what would happen when he moved.

And then he did. Just the smallest movement out…and a reach back in. His eyes told me there was more to come.

“Now we can do what you want,” he said against my mouth.

“I want to open myself to you.” With that, I drew my knees up around his waist.

He readjusted, settling himself right where I needed him. He moved again. This time with more intent, and I bore down on him. “Let me bring it to you.” Thrust. My eyes closed. “Look at me.” The intensity of the pleasure had made me momentarily forget. I opened them as his thrust took on a rhythmic cant. “Do you know what those eyes do to me?” Short thrust. Long thrust.

A whine escaped me. A finger came up between our lips. “Try keeping all the sound inside you this time.” The finger left and both his hands went to the side of my head, bracing and soothing in equal measure. Thrust. Thrust. Thrust. My legs started to tremble. My breath broke into small pulses against his mouth. He settled into a steady rhythm, but changed the depth. Shallow; deep; very deep. Then the pace increased. Then he stilled, as far inside me as he could be, his pelvic bone placed perfectly. I was on the precipice when he said to me, with his eyes as much as his words: “Come, Claire.”

Neither of us moved. And in the stillness, as in the eye of a hurricane, I swelled like an overflowing reservoir. Until I spilled over the dam.

Swallowing my sounds pushed every sensation down into my solar plexus. I shook, I vibrated, possessed. I dug my fingers into his strong shoulders. He responded by going deeper—how was that possible?—with the smallest spine-based thrust. I curled in on myself and he held my head, making me look into his eyes. As if there were any other place I’d look.

What I saw there…

I’d never felt more powerful. His witnessing of what was inside me, what he’d lured out, what I’d given over to him, humbled both of us.

I spun around the galaxy a few times.

When it was over, when the spilled water was seeping slowly into the ground, he unclasped my head. He sat back on his knees, still inside me. Ran both hands down the length of my body spread before him. His breathing as ragged as mine.

I looked at him, the curves and angles above me. His hair falling into an eye, his awestruck mouth, his chest heaving.

I loved him.

If I hadn’t before—and I had, I knew I had—the proof was irrefutable to me now.

Nothing would ever be as real to me as this.

An animal sound escaped me, and his face jerked up to mine.

I was already moving, sitting up, my hands clawing up his arms. I threw my chest against his, my arms around his neck, and my legs around his waist. I buried my face in his shoulder and sobbed. “Thank you.”

“Claire—”

“Thank you for helping me find myself.”

After a moment, one of his hands came to cradle my skull. His other arm banded across my lower back, pulling me so, so tight to him. He was still like iron inside me.

We stayed like that, just breathing together, until my emotions settled. He even swayed me gently, back and forth. “How is it possible that I want more?” I whispered.

“You never know what’s possible until you want it.”

I clenched my inner muscles and felt him surge inside me in answer. So I rolled my hips forward. He swallowed against my neck. I pushed back against the hand at my head and he let me pull away. I found his lips and kissed them, as I slowly started to slide along him.

Still on his knees, he pitched me back, suspending me in a forty-five-degree angle, his hands cradling my back. So I leaned away, and let him have me.

He fucked me. That’s the only word I had for it. I’d never had reason to think it, let alone say it, but I was sure this was why the word had been invented. “Fuck me.” I kept saying it, as if I had always said it. “Yes. Fuck me. Fuck me.” My voice changed with each repetition. And he obliged.

“More,” he commanded.

I eagerly gave it to him. “Don’t stop. I swear, I could come again.”

“And you will. Together. We’ll do it together.”

“Is that what you want? You want to fuck me until I come? You want to come together?”

Was this just dirty talk?

Or was this just who we were, being who we were, together?

Or was this just him at his performing best?

Why was I thinking ? Stop it!

His ever-increasing thrusts brought me present. I gave myself fully over, arched my back as he released me from his hold; my shoulders hit the bed. My arms flung out like wings. Giving him full access. I wanted every drop of him. I repeated, with a voice that I didn’t recognize. “Is this what you want?!”

His voice was a graveled road. “Yes.” His eyes shot up from where they’d been focused—at the place of our joining. He looked wild, unbridled, uncontrolled.

“You want this?” I taunted, as I bore down on his thrusts.

“You. I want you. Claire. For five. Fucking. Years.” I was done for. “From the moment I saw you. And I’ll never stop. Wanting you.” The last two words were said as if he were damning himself, a mixture of ecstasy and anguish.

But it was honest. The most honest he’d been with his feelings. For me.

We had come to a turning point. We had touched something else. Something deeper.

We were at a place where our moves had become interchangeable. I no longer knew who was doing who. Then, without a word said between us, we simultaneously stopped. Locked in the depths of each other and eye to eye, we…stayed. Hovered. Over some kind of abyss.

Our breaths worked as billows…until we ignited.

He trembled and I blazed. Both our hands reached for the others’; entwined; clenched; braced, like the arch of a cathedral. We held on for dear life. Together.

My insides became hot with him. And I devoured it.

He collapsed onto me, and I grunted at the unexpected weight, but it felt so good, so right. I felt so…joyous. I was buoyant, even with his leaded weight atop me. I was raw, unfiltered, like honeycomb.

“I want more.” And then I laughed. I couldn’t help it. “Obviously not right now.” The laugh brought unexpected tears with it. “I just don’t want us to be over.”

He’d made me understand what I’d been built for. Not only had he unlocked me and handed over the key, but he’d shown me a whole new room.

His hands were in my hair, his nose in my neck. He just stayed there for another handful of seconds. He drew a long breath, inhaling me. Then he sighed, in a way that bordered on regretful.

He braced himself on his elbows over me, so as not to crush me. He kissed the side of my neck, gave me one last, long stroke, and pulled out. He stood and walked, like David come to life, into the bathroom. Shut the door.

I floated for a few minutes, waiting for him to come back. When he did, when I heard the bathroom door open, I expected him to crawl back into bed with me.

He didn’t.

His footsteps stopped and I opened my eyes.

He was fully dressed.

Collecting our wineglasses.

Moving to the kitchen.

Turning on the sink.

I came up on an elbow.

“It’s later than I thought. I have a meeting.”

I looked at the ornate rococo clock above the mantle. “It’s ten.”

“Time got away from me.”

“You have a meeting at ten o’clock at night?”

“It’s the only time she had.”

She? I said it aloud: “She?”

He dried the glasses now. “Prospective client.”

“You have a client right here.”

“Clients pay.”

My anger flared. “Fine. How much to not be an asshole? And I thought we were guests .”

He set the wineglasses down and walked over to the bed. Stood above it.

Stood above me.

“Trust me, this is what you need right now: distance. I’ll be back by midnight. You’re welcome to stay until then.”

With that, he turned heel, picked up his jacket, and walked to the door.

And…left.

I couldn’t stay here a moment longer.

Shaking, I clambered out of the bed, got dressed, tried to gather my wits so I didn’t leave anything— dear God, please don’t let me leave anything —hastily ran my fingers through my hair, fumbled with the straps of my shoes, and staggered to the door. I turned back once more, looking at the bed. The site of my humiliation.

I knew what I had to do.

I opened my purse and pulled out my wallet. Seven-hundred-fifty euro. A fraction of his value, an insulting amount. And yet: all I had to my name. I walked back to the bed and left it there, right in the middle, in the divot my shoulders had created, still warm. He would never be able to say he did me a favor. This was a transaction. Services paid, services rendered. Quality product, timely delivery. Five stars.

Choking back sobs, I left, leaving the door unlocked behind me.