Neither of them had the control to make it last. With his free hand down the front of her dress, Emile pinched at her nipple. She gasped with pain and it was enough to shoot her body over into a shuddering climax. A short series of hard, fast thrusts and Emile was coming, too. He collapsed against her, his solid weight pressing her into the wall and holding her upright. He let her hands go and they fell onto his shoulders, grasping at the fabric of his shirt.
Eventually, her breathing returning to something like normal and her heart stopped beating like she’d just gone up against Usain Bolt. She twisted her head from under Emile’s shoulder so that she could see his face. “Can we do that again?”
He pushed himself off her, with his hands pressed to the wall either side of her head. “Give me a minute, chérie.”
She grinned, and then they were both laughing.
He laid a hand on her cheek, and she stilled. “Move in to my apartment, Thérèse, and we’ll do that all night, every night. Days, too, if you like.”
That was a bigger step than she’d taken with any of her previous boyfriends. She liked her own space and she didn’t like to share.
“You work such crazy hours,” he said. “You can’t rush home to change before work every morning you decide to stay with me. And I want you to stay with me a lot.”
“You could come over to my house sometimes.” They could work out a rota, perhaps. His apartment on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Hers on the other nights if they felt like it.
“Your home is just fine, chérie, but mine is bigger. And I need to be near the physio and the gym.”
Guiltily, she looked down at his foot. “I’m sure that wall sex is not in the recovery manual. Sit down.”
He stayed where he was. “You see? I need you to take care of me.”
She raised an eyebrow. “I do not take care of people. If you need assistance, you’ll hire someone.”
He shrugged. “I only need you.”
“I’m serious, Emile. I’m not a nurse and I’m not a housekeeper, and if you think that would change just because we’re living together…”
He laid a finger on her lips. “Sh. I don’t think that. I just want you there.”
“Mondays to Fridays,” she offered. “I’ll need to go home and check on things at least once a week.”
“That’ll do to start with.”
Just as his lips brushed hers, a voice called up the stairs. “Hello! We’re back, and your father’s pouring the sherry.”
Theresa slid out of Emile’s arms and frantically started smoothing her dress down. “Oh, God, she’ll know what we’ve been doing.”
“I rather think that’s what she was hoping we’d be doing.”
She stared at him. “Have you met my mother? Whatever she was hoping we’d be doing, it wasn’t hot sex up against a wall while fully dressed. Wait here.”
…
Emile ignored her instruction and followed her into the bathroom. While she cleaned herself up as quickly as she could, swiftly applied some lipstick and mascara, and smoothed the worst of the creases out of her dress, he washed himself and tucked his clothes in.
“It’ll have to do.” Theresa was checking her appearance in the mirror. Emile ran his hands through her hair, coaxing the spiky tendrils upright.
“You look incredible.”
She rolled her eyes at him and brushed at her dress. “Fortunately, Mum will have no trouble believing that the creases are down to my incompetent packing. Don’t look so smug.”
Emile stood behind her and winked at her in the mirror. “Don’t look so sexy, then.”
She shook her head. “Do you really have to work later?”
“No. But since your parents think so, I will leave after lunch.”
She nodded. “Right.”
“I’m sorry, I said that wrong. We will leave after lunch.”
“It’s Christmas Day, Emile.”
“We have to celebrate, no?” He winked at her reflection.
“Oh, yes.”
And it might not be forever, but it was a beginning. His hand closed over the small jeweler’s box in his pocket. She’d run if he tried to give it to her today. But whenever she was ready, so was he.
Chapter Eleven
By March, Emile was training as hard as they would let him, but Theresa could tell that he was frustrated by his progress, though she wasn’t sure why. It had been clear for weeks that he wasn’t going to make it back into the Woolwich team this season, so surely there was no reason to risk aggravating the injury.
“Why don’t you take it easier?” she suggested one evening when he was heading off to the gym for another workout. “You know the doctors said that the more rest you could give it, the better it will be in the long run. Why push so hard now?”
He gave her an incredulous look. “You want me to stop training now?”
Theresa shrugged. “No, but you could dial it back a bit, surely? It’s only another few weeks until the end of the season, isn’t it?”
He nodded.
“So, why not just aim to be back ready for August?”
He shook his head in disbelief. “You really don’t know, do you?”
“No, I don’t. I could understand if I thought you might make it by April, but you know that’s not going to happen, don’t you?”
He slashed a hand through the air in frustration. “Yes, I know that. But after April…”
She tilted her head, waiting for him to explain.
“It is the World Cup, Thérèse. I had thought everyone knew this, but no. My girlfriend, excuse me, my wife, cares so little about my job that she does not know about the most important tournament in the game. The World Cup, mon ange.”
“Oh.” She mentally consulted a calendar. “2014 is World Cup year?” It only happened every four years. She did know that much.
He let out a long breath. “Yes.”
“I’m sorry, I hadn’t realized that. When is it?”
“June. They will announce the squad early in May.”
“So you have to be fit by then.”
“Not completely. If there is a chance I will be fit to play, they could still include me in the squad. But there has to be a good chance of that. I have to show them I can do it.”
“I see. I’m sorry, Emile, I should have known that.” She went over and picked up his holdall. “Go on then. Do whatever it takes.”
He blinked in surprise. “You aren’t going to stop me?”
“Could I?” she asked curiously.
He shook his head slowly. “No. But you could try.”
“I don’t want to stop you, Emile. I want you to be the best.” It mattered to him, and so it mattered to her. She’d never want to get in the way of his dreams.
“Even if France beat England?”
She shrugged. “It’s only football. Why would I care about that?”
He laughed. “That’s something, I suppose. I’m glad to know you won’t be cheering for the opposition.”
“No. Now go on, get all hot and sweaty. And don’t shower before you come home, okay?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Okay, but I want you waiting for me in your lawyer clothes.”
“Really?” She looked down at her charcoal grey pinstriped suit. “These?”
He hooked his finger between the buttons. “Oh, yes, chérie. These will do just fine.”