He trails off and rubs his mouth. “At the risk of saying more than I should, I consider intimacy an intimate act, as the name implies. I was an eager student in my youth, taking lessons from those with whom I did not intend to form any attachment, much the same as I believe you did, but once I had mastered the basics...” He shrugs. “As I grew older, my needs changed.”
“You speak as if you are five-and-fifty.”
He chuckles. “Non. I speak as a relatively young man who was introduced to such matters at a definitively young age.”
“Lucky lad.”
He lets out a laugh. “True enough. Most lads are luckier in such matters than lasses, having far vaster opportunities. But now you have an opportunity of your own, with a man possessing a decent amount of experience and ample quantities of enthusiasm, which is at least as important.”
“Enthusiasm is very important. As is reciprocity, as you have said. Pleasure for both partners. I believethatis what we are lacking here tonight.”
He pushes my hair behind my ear as he smiles. “You do not need to worry about that tonight, crécerelle.”
“You do not want me to reciprocate?”
“I do not want you to feel that my actions bore the expectation of reciprocity. I wanted to give.”
“Understood. But if I wish to give in return? To further my own education?”
He tilts his head, gaze boring into mine as if to be sure I mean it. Then he says, “All right. What would you like to do?”
“I believe the question is, What you would like me to do?”
“Non, crécerelle. I did what I wished to do, and now you should do the same.” He folds his hands behind his head. “I am at your disposal.”
I hesitate, uncertain. He waits without a word, letting me take my time, which I appreciate because I am at a loss here. The lovers I have had either did not want my active participation or conveyed their wishes very clearly. The freedom to explore on my own is wondrous, but also new and somewhat daunting.
I sit up, straddling his hips and look down at him. He is truly beautiful, and fresh desire flares, smoldering embers leaping to life.
“What is it that you wish to do to me, crécerelle?” he asks softly.
“Everything.” I blurt the word and then feel my cheeks heat.
He gives a husky growl of a laugh. “I do like the sound of that. May I make a suggestion?”
“Please.”
“We have all the time you’d like. Time tonight. Time tomorrow night, if you do not tire of me so quickly. You said you wished to proceed slowly. May I suggest that is where you begin?” He takes my hand and traces it down his jaw before kissing my fingertips. “Take your time and get to know me. Would you like that?”
“I would very much like that.”
“As would I.”
I have never sleptwith a man before. My experiences were not the sort that ended with a night in bed, and I was glad of that, having no desire to share my bed with anyone. Now I sleep on a thin blanket atop cold rock, and I would not trade it for the most luxurious bed in London.
I did as Nicolas suggested, and my simple—if comprehensive—explorations were all that was required to satisfy him, which leaves plenty of options for later. When I finished, he conducted a little exploration of his own, which I very much appreciated, having discovered there is great pleasure to be found in pleasing another.
After that, we fell into exhausted sleep as the sun began to rise beyond the cave opening. Now it is full daylight, and I am drowsily entwined with him as he sleeps. I use the opportunity to gaze upon him and enjoy the sight of him and to grieve, just a little.
Is it possible to grieve for someone you have not yet left? Before now, I would have rejected such a silly notion. But I am looking at him, and I am feeling more than it is safe to feel, and I am already seeing into the not-too-distant future when he will kiss my cheek and tell me how much he has enjoyed my company, and then we will part ways, never to meet again.
I am trying to focus on the moment. He is here, and I am here, and he is in no hurry to leave. I should not be borrowing grief and regret from the future. And yet, perhaps there is a purpose to such melancholy thoughts. I know an end is coming, and so I will enjoy every moment between now and then. Enjoy it and emblazon it upon my memory.
There is no future between us. It is odd for me to even consider such a possibility, as I never have with a man before. A true partner? A lover of long acquaintance? That is not Nicolas. It cannot be Nicolas. He is a wanted man, repaying a debt before he returns halfway around the world to the island he calls home, where he has family and a future. I am as much a visitor here, out of my time, separated from my world, and I must return there, where I have family and my own future.
I have not been tempted to tell him my truth. There’s no reason to do so. He thought my clothing seemed odd but chalked it up to fashion. If he thinks I seem odd—which I am certain I do—he has chalked that up to my quirks of character. I do not need to tell him I have not yet been born. I will never need to tell him that. We will enjoy our time together, and then he will bid me a fond adieu, and we will part with him being none the wiser, which avoids any conversation in which he might need to assess my sanity.
I will not grieve for what is yet to come. Or, if I do, I will allow it only as a reminder that these incredible moments with an incredible man will come to an end, and he will leave me with memories I shall cherish forever.