Chapter Twenty Eight
Mateo: Hey, wild one, excited to see you tonight. You got your costume ready?
Ophelia: Yes, I’ll be the one that looks like an absinthe fairy masking as a garden nymph.
Ophelia: Yes, Chef. ;)
Mateo: Btw, my place is hard to find. When you get here, walk down the alley on the side of the house and ring the first doorbell on your left.
Ophelia sat uncomfortably in her car idling on Chartres St. She was nervous about wearing a costume on their first real date—like she was presenting a dramatized version of her actual self.
The dress was gorgeous, though a bit revealing in the best way.
The vintage basil-green organdy dress was, in fact, a deep V-cut leotard with a sewn-in sheer skirt.
She found it at one of the many costume shops in New Orleans several years ago and wore it to Mardi Gras with shimmery wings and an elaborate headdress that featured a bottle of absinthe and little green faeries.
But for tonight, she left the wings and headdress at home and opted to place fresh flowers from her yard strategically through her hair.
The sun was starting to set, and faint sounds of cicadas could be heard from inside her car. Ophelia couldn’t quite tell where his place was. She was definitely on the right street, and she saw the house number, but no alley. She reread the text again.
Walk down the alley on the side of the house and ring the first doorbell on your left.
It was getting darker, so she called his cell.
“Hello, Ophelia,” Mateo crooned in a seductive voice.
Jesus Christ, this man. She honestly had forgotten just how…
potent he could be. This date was exactly what she needed after her interaction with Etienne.
Mateo was clear and direct. He wanted her, and he had made that known up front.
She didn’t need to waste any more time fawning over someone like Etienne.
“Hi. I’m not sure if I’m in the right place ’cause I don’t see an alleyway.”
She was so curious about him. She enjoyed the way he made her feel, so perfectly sensual. Almost dangerous in a way.
“Oh, let me come for you,” he said. Ophelia’s mind immediately went to hundreds of filthy innuendos.
A few moments later, she saw Mateo’s tall frame turn around the corner. She began gathering her things to get out of the car, but Mateo opened the passenger door and rather abruptly bounced into the car. He filled the whole space as his long legs scrunched up against the dash.
“Hi,” he said, smiling. His lips were plump and stretched over his beautiful white teeth. Magnetic.
Ophelia’s heart fluttered, and her eyes felt heavy again. “Hi.”
Mateo leaned in and lightly kissed her cheek. “You look wonderful,” he said. “This costume is perfect for the theme.”
His scent instantly overpowered all air in the vehicle. The heady scent caused Ophelia to muffle a cough behind her hand.
“Thanks. I can’t believe I already had this,” she said, trying to refocus as she smoothed down the bustier lines of her costume.
She felt dizzy from the strength of his smell.
It reminded her of the unfortunate scent of Lysol in a bathroom that was clearly over-sprayed to cover up a more offensive stench.
It was shockingly odd for someone so seemingly beautiful and obviously well-groomed.
Her body whiplashed from horny to confused to potentially grossed out.
Was she being rude? She smiled at him reassuringly to show she wasn’t judging him for his scent.
Mateo returned her grin with a smolder that wouldn’t be out of place on the cover of romance novels. It did not have its intended effect on Ophelia, who turned away, unable to hold his gaze yet.
“So am I in the right place?” she asked, grabbing the steering wheel and wondering if it’d be rude to crack a window.
“Nope. Just turn the corner, and you can park right in front of the entrance.”
Ophelia restarted the engine and drove the car around the street, nervously parallel parking in front of the alley. She was good at parallel parking, but the smell was beyond distracting and made every movement seem difficult. She needed to get out of the car.
The moment she placed the car in park, Mateo hopped out and jogged around to the driver’s side to open her door. He still maintained his self-assured demeanor, but Ophelia could tell he was excited, which she found endearing.
Ophelia stepped out of the car and rushed to gulp down fresh air. She tilted her head up as if to examine the night sky and breathed in deep. Better.
“And where’s your costume, sir?” she asked, gesturing to his casual attire of jeans and a perfectly fitted T-shirt.
“Haven’t had a chance to put it on yet.”
Mateo moved back to allow her to walk away from the car door, and she could feel his eyes wander all over her body.
She sauntered around him and stood on the sidewalk as he drank her in slowly.
His eyes tracing her from the light petal-pink slippers to her firm calves, up to her runner’s thighs that revealed themselves through the sheer green fabric of her costume.
His eyes narrowed and darkened at the apex of her thighs for the briefest of moments.
His gaze continued to swirl around her hips to the curve of her waist, and when he reached her full breasts that pressed against the green fabric, he sucked in his bottom lip just enough to catch it in his teeth. Finally, he met her eyes.
The full body sex scan that Mateo just embarked on was flattering, truly, but she was still regaining her composure from the smell of him, letting the fresh humid air revive her.
To a normal person, a bad odor probably wouldn’t be that big of a deal, but Ophelia had that weird thing about smells.
And the fact that she had such an intense reaction to Mateo’s scent was unsettling.
She recalled the night by the pool that Jolie so fatefully interrupted.
He had an interesting scent then. It was tangy yet sweet-smelling, one of those smells that was curious but not quite right.
The memory of his scent fully came back to her.
Vinegar. Metal. Clay. Nectar. His scent still had those notes, but it was amplified in a putrid way.
Ophelia took in one more deep breath of the clean air and composed herself. She called on her sensual side. It was a date, after all. “You just gonna stand in the street staring?” she asked with a smirk.
Mateo cleared his throat and slammed the car door. He ran his eyes over her again. The way he looked at her was obscene. Practically pornographic. His eyes were locked on the beauty mark above her glossed pink lips. She raised her brows with intrigue.
Oh, he wants to play. Okay.
Ophelia turned, arching her back and swaying her hips as she walked down the sidewalk, and Mateo’s footsteps quickened.
He reached for her hand and, with the force of a skilled dancer, turned her to face him again, an inch separating their bodies. Mateo leaned into her ear and rumbled, “You’re going in the wrong direction, wild one.”
She caught a hint of the sickly-sweet smell again, less intense this time.
Swiftly and with grace, Mateo led Ophelia by the hand through a damp, narrow alley that felt eerily familiar.
She could feel the wood-paneled wall on the right and the brick wall on the left sweating and expanding from the heat of the air.
While it was early fall, New Orleans typically didn’t get its first cold snap till Halloween.
He guided her through a door at the back of the alley and up a stairwell into a studio apartment.
“Wow,” she said softly. His apartment was flooded with artwork.
The multitude of pieces created wonderful, deep textures and dynamics in the single room space.
Ophelia admired the display of art from the doorframe, unable to move from all the beauty.
Art hung on every inch of the wall. The paintings and sculptures felt like they were alive.
The pieces almost connected like vines, growing roots from one frame or one sculpture to another, searching for light through cracks in the wall.
In the center of the room was his bed. It was the second thing Ophelia noticed. Sitting in the middle of the room without a bed frame adorned with fine, beige linen sheets and a duvet.
Ophelia and Jade had a theory about men: the true nature of a man could be seen in how he kept his bed.
Was it pushed up to the side of a wall? Was it a king, queen, double, or God forbid, a single?
Were the sheets clean or filled with cum stains?
And Mateo, well, his entire room was a temple to his art, and at the center, the stage, the altar, a place of performance, of ritual—his bed.
Ophelia felt that weird whiplash-like sensation again.
Her feelings about Mateo swung on a pendulum.
She couldn’t seem to get a handle on herself around him.
Alarms blared in her head, but her body wasn’t listening.
She was capable of managing a casual relationship, and it was abundantly clear to her by his studio he was not someone looking for a commitment.
She needed to realign. The past three weeks of texting messed with her head, built up her emotions in a way that wasn’t healthy.
Ophelia stood still in the doorframe, assessing the situation. Mateo smirked as if he knew what she was thinking.
“Like it?” he asked as he casually walked to the kitchen and lifted the lid of a Dutch oven, giving its contents a quick stir.
Ophelia snapped out of her trance and entered the studio, letting the door close softly behind her. “It’s beautiful. Is all the work yours?”
“All of the sculptures and some of the paintings and mixed media are mine. The rest is from fellow artists.” Mateo began looking for something in the cabinets, opening and closing various doors.
The steam from the pot reached Ophelia. Well, at least the food smells great. Savory, pork, spices, citrus.
“Do you want a glass of wine?” asked Mateo as he found the bottle of wine he was looking for.
“Sure.” She composed herself and walked closer to a collection of sculptures that lined the sill of the warehouse-style window.
The figures were about a foot tall and made from clay.
They appeared to be miniature versions of the sculptures she had seen on his website.
All, of course, were women, something that hadn’t struck her as odd before, as plenty of artists drew inspiration from the female form.
But now she wondered who all these women were.
Mateo carefully poured one glass of wine and walked toward her at the window. “So how was visiting your grandmother?” he asked, handing her the glass. “You said you had a lot to tell me.”
“Oh yeah. I don’t know. It was just really sweet to see her.
She’s got quite the personality, so we laughed a lot,” said Ophelia, leaving it at that.
She had been excited to tell him about being a Traiteur, but it wasn’t the right time.
And she was no longer sure if he was someone that she could trust in that way.
Treating was still so new and intensely private to her.
Quickly changing the subject, Ophelia asked, “How was Mexico City? I’ve always wanted to go.”
“It was wonderful. I got to see my brother, who also came to town to visit. We ate a lot of food, he drank, I danced,” he said with a gesture of his hips.
“Oh? Dancing, huh?” Ophelia asked with a smile.
“Mm-hmm. Salsa, some bachata.” Mateo continued motioning through the dancing, pulling a smile from her.
“You’ll have to teach me someday,” she said, taking another sip of wine.
“How about now?” he asked as he wrapped his arm around her waist and grabbed her glass of wine, setting it on the windowsill. His scent slammed into her again. It wasn’t like the scent of something outwardly bad, but it just didn’t sit right with her.
Ophelia went along, learning the basic steps of salsa in his ornate bachelor pad with sculptures of mainly nude women watching. With every spin or step in their direction, she locked eyes with one of them. They were distracting.
Mateo himself was distracting too—his scent, the way he ran his hand languidly from underneath her shoulder down to the small of her back, how he brought her in closer to him every time.
The full lengths of their bodies were pressed together, and Ophelia’s breasts swelled against the pressure of her dress pinned against his chest. His pupils were blown from lust, and he tracked every breath she took.
Her body was betraying her. Wetness gathered in her sex as he moved her along the wood floor.
Ophelia felt faint. It was him, his touch, his smell.
It was all too much and not enough. She had never felt this way before—like her mind was fighting against an intense fog, trying to consume her, to warn her, but her body had left the station.
It was wet and swollen in all the right places. So compliant.
He was intoxicating her. The way his skin felt so smooth over strong, muscled arms. How his hand gripped hers, and his other hand now pressed into her hip.
Her eyes fluttered closed, and she saw a flash of her tiger behind her eyelids.
Just like that, the fog retreated, and her mind came back to her.
She stepped away abruptly. A flash of confusion lit across Mateo’s face, but he quickly composed himself.
Ophelia plastered on her go-to coy smile to hide her discomfort.
“Sorry, I’m dizzy. I haven’t eaten much today, and your food smells amazing.” She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear.
Mateo gave her a self-assured grin and strolled to the kitchen. “It’s pozole. My grandmother’s recipe.” He brought down two bowls from a cabinet.
“What’s pozole?”
“A traditional stew with hominy and pork. Honestly, it’s more of a cold-weather dish, but it’s the best dish I make. Takes all day.”
“I mean, it smells incredible,” she said in earnest.
They ate dinner at the kitchen island on barstools.
Mateo put a Leonard Cohen album on the record player.
He taught Ophelia how to top the pozole with added textures.
She layered in avocado, more lime, shredded cabbage.
The dish was delicious and rich with an abundance of flavors that burst in her mouth.
They talked between mouthfuls, and Ophelia kept the conversation light and devoid of sexual intensity by asking him questions about the various pieces in his studio.
After dinner, Mateo put on his costume of pleather gold pants and a matching vest that he wore without a shirt.
“What are you supposed to be?” asked Ophelia. She giggled at his ridiculous pants while admiring his form. His dark skin glowed, and the physical urge to touch him, to lick him, returned. He ran his hands through his black hair, strands falling beautifully into his face.
Mateo laughed. “I have no idea,” he said, throwing his arms up. “I’m making do with a random Mardi Gras costume as well. You ready?”