"You don't look like a guy who loves to read," she says with a smile, and I immediately smile in response; I just couldn'tnot.I've never seen someone smile like this before.
"I'm full of surprises." I wink at her playfully, and she lowers her gaze, blushing.
I love the effect she has on me. But even more, I love the reaction she has to me.
"I'm Antoine." I extend a hand to her.
"Camilla," she responds, looking up at me again and then at my hand, waiting a couple of seconds before giving me hers.
"It's nice to meet you." I take her wrist in my palm and slowly bring it to my mouth for a kiss. I press my lips gently, barely touching her, brushing them over her velvet skin.
She shivers and takes her hand back. I smile, surprised by the reaction this little gesture made. How would she react if I kissed her on the lips? Or any other places she might be sensitive to?
My cock twitches at that thought, and I change the way I sit so she won’t notice. I suddenly feel like it’s hotter in here, even though it's almost twilight.
I don't understand what is happening, but I never want this feeling—this warm pleasure inside me—to end.
"Why do you like such a tragic trope in your novels?" I ask the question I've been thinking about each time I saw her reading.
"Novels?" She raises an eyebrow in surprise.
Shit. Now she knows that I've been watching her. That's what happens when you try to be smart with your hard-on.
"I saw you at the beach yesterday; you were readingAnna Karenina,"I confess, looking into her eyes intently. "And the day before, it wasMadame Bovary.And even though all those books are depressing, I think you're the happiest when you read. That's the only time the sadness disappears."
"Sadness?" she clarifies, even more surprised now.
"In your eyes," I explain as if it's obvious. "Your gaze is sad and wandering as if you don't want to be present at the moment, but it changes when you start reading."
Camilla's eyes enlarge again. She opens her mouth but closes it again, probably looking for the right words. I think she's intrigued by what I'm saying and wants to know more but is afraid to ask.
"You've been...spying on me?" she asks finally with interest rather than anger.
"No."Yes. Maybe. I don't know what to call it. "I was watching you," I say as if it is not the same; I just don't want to scare her off. "And the more I studied you, the more often I wondered: Why are you so sad?"
And the more I wanted to wipe that sadness off your face, I want to add but bite my lip to keep silent. It's not the time.Yet.
She knows I'm waiting for an answer, but something tells me that she's not ready to open up herself just yet. And why should she? She knows nothing about me. I guess I should be the first one to open myself to her.
But the problem is...I want her to tell me, just like I want her to know me better. For all my life, I didn't care what other people thought of me; I never paid attention to another person's feelings, except maybe my sisters'. Then why now? What's changed?
"And what do you see when I read?" She breaks the silence first. She doesn't want to talk about what's bothering her, but I'm glad she at least keeps talking to me after I practically confessed that I'm a stalker.
"I see the real you," I say after a long pause, without breaking our eye contact. "It's mesmerizing, and it makes me want to know more about you, the real you, and not the mask you're wearing when your parents are around."
"They're not my parents," she blurts out and bites her lip. I guess she thinks she said too much.
"Well, I'm glad because they're crazy, especially that woman." I remember how during one of the breakfast meals, she forced Camilla to change her hairstyle three times before letting her eat because'it wasn't as neat as it’s supposed to be.'
She stares at me for a couple of seconds, and I wonder if maybe I went too far, calling her relatives crazy. She loves them anyway because blood is thicker than water, right?
But then Camilla starts laughing loudly; her voice spreads around, filling this boring, quiet place with a bright, sonorous laugh. And I start laughing too.
"How do you know I'm sincere when I read?" she asks after calming a little, trying to breathe. "Maybe it's the mask, and the rest is the real me."
"No." I shake my head confidently, as we're both still smiling at each other; she won't lie to me. "You can't be wearing a mask when you're so deeply into reading that you notice nothing. Yesterday, some woman screamed at her husband for about fifteen minutes straight and chased him around the beach, trying to hit him with an empty champagne bottle. You don't even remember them, I'm sure."
"I do," she says immediately, obviously lying. "I just don't care."