This joining in all its head emptying, muscle twisting glory.
This exquisite and yet torturous release.
19
Rose
The following morning—the morning following the afternoon spent in Remy’s arms, christening several surfaces including the piano (lid down after my butt played a few discordant cords) his pristine and tidy desk, the shockingly cold kitchen worktop, along with a little fooling around out by the moonlit pool—I feel the most content I can ever remember being in quite some time. I mean, it’s not like I’m one of those people who live for misery, the kind who looks on life as a glass half full. But for the first time, I feel like my glass is overflowing.
The morning sun shining through the drapes gives Remy’s bedroom a silvery, almost ethereal feel as I slip from his enormous bed and pad over to the adjoining bathroom to brush my teeth, once again grabbing Remy’s discarded shirt to cover my nakedness. I’d more or less made the garment my own late yesterday, though as I press my nose into the collar, I realise with a tiny burst of pleasure that it still smells like him. Like rich and sensual, like bergamot, spice and the heady scent of his skin. It doesn’t, however, look quite so pristine, stained, and crumpled as it is in my reflection. My hair also looks like an opossum has nested in it overnight and I am definitely going to make use of my company scarf for the coming week. But those aren’t the things that catch me off guard because, as I close the bathroom door behind me, I realise I’m smiling.
Smiling!
Before seven a.m.
On a workday!
And ducking my smile into Remy’s shirt only makes me smile harder because it just smells so heavenly.
I take care of business in a bathroom fit for a five-star hotel. Marble and chrome, dark cabinetry. The tub is matt black and big enough for a family, the double shower unencumbered by such trivialities as glass. It’s the kind of bathroom that has never once been offended by the sight of a greying washed-out towel, let alone run out of toilet tissue. I wash my face, then spread a little paste on Remy’s toothbrush, figuring I’ve had more intimate possessions of his in my mouth over the past eighteen hours. My own toothbrush isn’t too far away—just a few floors below—but I can’t wait that long. I give my hair a quick finger brush before deciding it’s too painful and giving up. Then I give my reflection a silent pep talk.
I resolve to take this experience for what it is; to stay in the moment and let the future take care of itself. I’m in Monaco, in a hot man’s apartment—a hot man who has the hots for me. So. Much. Hot!
Because for the first time in a long time, I have no prickling urge to creep out before my gentleman caller (ahem) awakes. Though I suppose I’m the “caller” in this scenario. A caller who isn’t ready to leave, let alone run far, far away.
As I run the toothbrush over my molars, my mind slips to the day before and Remy’s description of how he’d tried to reach me, along with his sensitivity in the task—the way he’d considered how it might look to my new colleagues, and my reluctance to become the topic of any kind of office gossip. Colour me a little moved and impressed. Seriously, I find myself touched by his care and thoughtfulness.
As I rinse, I realised I’m content, that my psyche isn’t preparing for any kind of internal freak-out. Our differences in station, income, or background don’t seem to matter right now. I mean, I’m not about to choose flowers for my bouquet, but I feel content in enjoying what this is, for however long it might last.
It’s enough for now.
Or so I tell myself as I make my way back to bed, avoiding the crushed cookies and strawberry stems discarded from our midnight feast. An empty bottle of champagne lies on its side, a small sticky puddle forming under it from where it’d been knocked over, not during the throes of passion, but when he’d begun to tickle me in retaliation for something snarky I’d said. I find myself blushing at the memory of how, as I’d laid back against the pillows to catch my breath, he’d reached for his glass, splashing the cool liquid between my breasts. I’d gasped in shock, everything inside me drawing tight as Remy bent forward, his tongue following the trail of the liquid . . . until he wasn’t following it anymore. I don’t think I’ll ever forget how, with his mouth pressed low on my stomach, his eyes rolled up my body to meet mine, daring me to stop him. Even now, just thinking of it, I almost melt into a needy puddle.