“Apollinaire,” Alexandre says, glancing up at me. “Though I suppose you’re not overly familiar with the French poets.”
“No,” I admit, drinking the last of my glass of port. “But—I think I might like to be?”
“Ah.” Alexandre looks pleased. “Then perhaps we’ll have to do this again. But for now, I think a hot bath is in order. Your feet must be sore.”
He tosses back the last of his port, and I follow him down the stairs to the bathroom, where we go about our nightly routine. Once I’m tucked into bed, I pretend to drink the tea, and once the downstairs is silent, I creep back upstairs the way I have every night recently.
But tonight, the door to his room is closed, the light inside turned off. I freeze in place, wondering if I’ve fucked up and beaten him to his room, but the rest of the apartment is dark and silent, too, not a sound stirring anywhere. I hover outside, wondering if the light will flicker on, if I’ve missed something. After a few minutes, it becomes apparent that Alexandre has simply—gone to bed.
I feel a pang of disappointment as I sneak back downstairs to my room. After the intimacy of the dinner and the wine and poetry in the library—more romantic than any actual date I’ve ever been on, if I’m being honest—I’d craved the only physical intimacy that I’ve been able to have with Alexandre.
But clearly, he hadn’t craved the same, even alone.
I slip back into bed, and despite my churning thoughts, I fall asleep quickly. The wine made me tired after not having drank in so long, and I sink into a deep, dreamless sleep that’s only disturbed by sounds in my room that, at first, I’m not entirely surearen’ta dream.
My eyes flicker half-open to see Alexandre standing near my bedside, in the silk pajama pants and open dressing gown that I see him in every morning, his hand moving furiously. It takes me a split second to realize what he’s doing—looking down at me as I sleep, stroking his cock in the frantic, urgent motion that I know by now is his rhythm as he gets close to the edge.
My heart leaps into my throat. I should be scared, creeped out, disturbed—any number of things that I’mnot.What I am is instantly wet, my pulse racing as I try not to let Alexandre see that I’m awake, afraid of startling him into stopping before he finishes, desperately wishing that I could join in—touch myself, touch him. Instead, I lay frozen, wishing for more than the dim moonlight allowing me to see a glimpse of his thick, straining cock in his fist, his taut expression, his clenched jaw as he furiously strokes himself closer to a climax.
“A-ahh!” He groans deep in his throat, biting down on his lower lip in an effort to silence himself. I see the white spurt of his release over his hand, his hips jerking and cock throbbing as his toes curl into the rug, and I feel like I can’t breathe. I want to taste him, to touch him. It feels like torture to lie there in silence as he comes in his fist in jerks and shudders, finally going very still as the last drops of his cum slide over his fingers.
The guilt on his face is instant and obvious, even in the dim moonlight, and my heart clenches in my chest. I can see the regret written all over his expression in an instant as he backs up, still clutching himself, fumbling for the doorknob as he slips out of the room almost as quickly as I woke up and saw him there.
I want to go after him. I want to tell him how I feel, beg him to stop keeping this last part of himself separate, to let us really be together.
But I don’t. I lie there in bed trembling and aroused, and as my hand slides down my belly towards the waist of my own pajama pants, I know one thing for certain.
If anything more is going to happen between Alexandre and me, I’m going to have to be brave enough to make a move.
And I also know that I can’t wait much longer.