CHAPTER 6
Mark
The restaurant was everything I’d imagined a Parisian fine dining establishment would be—soft lighting, crisp white tablecloths, the gentle murmur of French conversation flowing around us like music.
Lucien sat across from me, gesturing elegantly with his wine glass as he spoke about the Femme Fatale lipstick line.
Our CEO was exactly as I’d pictured him from our video calls—mid-forties, impeccably dressed in a charcoal suit, exuding that effortless French sophistication that American men could never quite replicate.
“The campaign must capture the essence of desire,” Lucien was saying, his accent making even business jargon sound poetic. “Not manufactured desire, but the real thing. The kind that makes a woman feel powerful, irresistible—”
I tried to focus on his words, but something was happening under the table that made concentration impossible.
Simone’s leg had found mine.
She was sitting to my right, ostensibly taking notes on her tablet, but her bare calf was sliding up and down against my leg in slow, deliberate strokes.
I glanced at her. She met my eyes with a look of pure, unapologetic lust. Her red lips curved into a knowing smile, and she pressed her leg more firmly against mine.
This is it, I thought, my pulse quickening. This is where my open marriage begins.
“Mark? Your thoughts on the target demographic?”
Lucien’s voice pulled me back. I cleared my throat, shifted in my seat, which only seemed to encourage Simone’s exploration, and tried to remember what we’d been discussing.
“Right. Yes. The target demographic.” I took a long sip of wine. “Women aged twenty-five to forty-five who want to feel—” Simone’s foot had reached my thigh now, “—confident and sensual in their everyday lives.”
“Précisément,” Lucien said, seeming satisfied.
The dinner lasted another hour. Every course felt endless as Simone continued her game under the table, her fingers occasionally brushing my hand when she reached for her water glass, her perfume—heavy and floral—overwhelming my senses every time she leaned close to show me something on her tablet.
Finally, finally, we were saying goodnight to Lucien on the sidewalk.
“Simone will coordinate with you on the initial concepts,” Lucien said, shaking my hand. “She has excellent instincts for what women want.”
“I’m sure she does,” I managed.
Lucien departed in a sleek black car, and suddenly it was just Simone and me on the Paris street, the Eiffel Tower twinkling in the distance.
“My apartment is close,” she said, her voice dropping to that throaty register that had captivated me during our video call. “Perhaps you would like a cup of coffee?”
Simone’s apartment was a study in minimalist chic—all white walls and glass surfaces and uncomfortable-looking furniture.
“Make yourself comfortable,” she purred, disappearing into what I assumed was the bedroom.
I sat on the edge of a steel and leather chair that was definitely not designed for comfort. My phone buzzed—a text from Amelia.
Hope your dinner went well. I’m heading to bed. Love you.
Guilt twisted in my stomach, but I pushed it away. This was the arrangement. This was what we’d agreed to. Amelia had said yes.
Simone emerged wearing a black silk robe that left very little to the imagination.
As she crossed to the window, I realized that the robe was made of a silky, almost transparent fabric through which the soft peaks of her breasts were clearly visible against the light.
She pulled out a cigarette from a gold case, and played with it between her fingers with a playful smile on her face.
“Do you mind?” she asked, not waiting for an answer before lighting it.
The smoke hit me immediately. My throat constricted, my eyes started watering.
“Actually,—” I started coughing, harsh and uncontrollable.
Simone turned, looking at me with confusion. “You are allergic to smoke?”
“I’m not allergic, just uncomfortable. ,” I said between coughs. “Could you—”
She took another long drag before stubbing it out on the ashtray on the table, half filled with cigarette stubs. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know. It’s just that I need my cigarette before we begin. And after. Without this,” she looked longingly at the ashtray. “I don’t enjoy it.”
She crossed over to me and leaned down to kiss me. I could taste the acrid bitterness on her lips, and my coughing intensified.
“Your coughs are so cute,” she smiled, as she sat down beside me. “And sexy. I’ve never slept with someone who doesn’t like to smoke. This is going to be interesting.”
She took my hand and led me to the bedroom. The space was as austere as the rest of the apartment—a low platform bed with stark white sheets, more glass and metal surfaces.
Simone let her robe drop.
I should have been aroused. She was objectively beautiful—tall, slender, with the kind of body that graced magazine covers. But as she lay back on the bed, all I could think was how angular she looked. All sharp edges and protruding bones.
Am I getting old? I wondered as I fumbled with my shirt buttons. Why isn’t this working?
I missed Amelia’s soft curves. The way her body yielded when I touched her, the way she fit perfectly against me.
No. Stop thinking about Amelia.
I joined Simone on the bed, and immediately the smell of smoke overwhelmed me again. It was in her hair, on her skin, everywhere.
I kissed her neck, trying to find enthusiasm, and started coughing again.
“Mon Dieu,” she muttered.
I tried to focus, tried to get into it. But everything felt wrong. Our bodies didn’t fit together the way I’d expected. Where Amelia was soft and warm, Simone was all hard planes and sharp hipbones that dug into me uncomfortably.
Finally, I managed to get aroused enough to begin. But as soon as I started, Simone made a high-pitched squeaking sound that made me freeze.
“Are you okay?” I asked, pulling back.
“Oui, oui, continue.”
I moved again. She squeaked louder, a sound somewhere between a groan and a whimper that sounded painful.
I stopped. “Am I hurting you?”
“Non! This is normal for me. Keep going!”
But every thrust was accompanied by that squeaky, groaning sound that made me think I was causing her pain. I kept stopping, kept asking if she was alright, kept losing whatever momentum I’d managed to build.
In desperation, I closed my eyes and thought about Amelia.
That night in her studio. Clay everywhere. Her body covered in mud, her skin flushed with desire. The way she’d begged me, pleaded with me, submitted to me completely.
“Fuck me, please. Fuck me hard, Mark.”
The memory sent a shiver down my spine. Finally—finally—I felt myself fully aroused.
I kept my eyes closed, kept thinking about Amelia. The way I’d smeared clay across her breasts, her stomach, between her legs. The cold stickiness of it, the filthy beauty of her covered in earth.
I thrust harder, trying to recreate that intensity with Simone.
I thought about pinning Amelia’s arms above her head, the way she’d arched beneath me. I tried to do the same with Simone, but she jerked her hands away.
“What are you doing?” she demanded.
“Sorry, I thought—”
“Just continue.”
I thought about Amelia’s full lips, the way I’d parted them with my muddy fingers, the way she’d sucked them clean. That look in her eyes—pure devotion, pure submission, pure desire.
“Yes, sir. Sir, please. Sir please, fuck me, please.”
The memory drove me harder. I thrust into Simone with increasing intensity, desperately chasing the feeling I’d had with Amelia in that studio.
Simone’s squeaking reached a crescendo, and she let out a loud, screeching moan that was somehow both irritating and slightly arousing.
She shouted something in French and her body slightly loosened.
She came with a loud sound, which along with the image of Amelia’s beautiful submissive body as we made love in her clay studio, was just enough for me to come.
I finished with a soft groan and we both slowly released our grasps around each other.
“Fini,” she announced breathlessly. “That was so good.”
But I wasn’t completely satisfied. The rhythm with Simone was just… not what I had expected.
Simone rolled away and reached for her cigarette case on the nightstand. The click of her lighter cut me off. Smoke filled the room immediately.
I lay there, staring at her thin bare back as she took long drags from her cigarette. With Amelia, we could go for hours. Round after round, her submissiveness feeding my dominance in an endless cycle of mutual pleasure.
This felt like a transaction that had just concluded. I started coughing again.
The taxi wound through Paris streets, the Eiffel Tower growing smaller in the distance.
I slouched in the back seat, my mind churning.
Why couldn’t I get aroused by Simone the way I thought I would? Why did I have to imagine my wife’s face just to fuck another woman?
The sexual compatibility Amelia and I had, the way we understood each other’s bodies, each other’s desires, maybe that was actually pretty rare.
Maybe I’d be more open about my fantasies with the next woman. Find someone who was into the same things.
But even as I thought it, doubt crept in.
Would anyone come close to what I already had with Amelia?
The taxi pulled up to our building. I paid the driver and trudged upstairs, exhaustion hitting me like a wave. The jet lag, the disappointing sex, the smoke I could still taste in the back of my throat—all of it weighing me down.
I opened the apartment door to deadly silence.
The living room was dark. I moved quietly through to the bedroom, and there she was—Amelia’s comforting, familiar silhouette under the covers.
Relief washed over me, so intense it almost brought tears to my eyes.
I sat on the edge of the bed, just watching her sleep.
Her strawberry blonde hair spread across the pillow, her breathing deep and even.
She’d kicked off most of the covers—she always got too hot at night—and I could see the curve of her hip, the softness of her body that I’d been missing all evening.
I reached out and stroked her cheek gently.
She made a small sound, a sleepy moan, and shifted slightly toward my touch.
God, I loved her. My sweet, innocent wife.
I was so tired. The jet lag was hitting me hard now, making my limbs feel heavy and my thoughts fuzzy.
I stripped off my clothes, leaving them in a pile on the floor.
I was too tired to take a shower, so I pulled on my pajamas and slipped into bed beside her.
I wrapped my arm around her soft waist, pulling her close.
She mumbled something unintelligible and nestled back against me, fitting perfectly into my arms the way she always did.
In the soft, comfortable familiarity of her breathing, surrounded by her warmth and her vanilla scent, I finally fell asleep.