Today there was construction going on in the avenue de l’Opéra in the first arrondissement, and the ride took twice as long. When the cab finally pulled up in front of Mathieu’s building, I practically threw my money at the driver and raced up the steps.
I knocked on the door. Mathieu opened it and, before I could utter a word, pulled me toward him.
I’ve never swooned. Never felt unbalanced. But the kiss he gave me took away my breath and made me unsteady. I grabbed hold of his arms.
“I think I might faint,” I whispered.
“Then I need to put you right to bed.” He laughed.
As Mathieu led me away, I realized that he was wearing only trousers. His chest was bare, and his golden skin glinted in the afternoon sunlight.
The apartment was just two rooms. The front parlor was small but decorated with the most modern furnishings, all simple geometric-shaped pieces in blacks and rusts. More evidence of his highly evolved sense of style. And beyond it his bedroom, with one tiny circular window that framed the snow-white basilica of Sacre Coeur almost perfectly.
Mathieu sat me down on his bed and kneeled at my feet.
“If you feel faint, we should take off your hat,” he said playfully. With nimble fingers, he pulled the cloche off my head and then continued his game. “And this dress. Mon Dieu! It’s positively constricting.”
I sat obedient and still, reveling in his delight, as he undid the pearl buttons at my neck and wrists. “You’ll have to stand for a minute. Do you think you can?” he asked, as if I really were infirm.
Nodding, I rose and was surprised to find I actually was still unsteady on my feet. His every touch and glance took me to the next level of arousal. Mathieu pulled my peach-colored pleated chiffon dress over my head. I stood before him in my matching pale peach silk charmeuse brassiere and slip. His eyes roamed over the lingerie, and his gaze pierced my very insides. As if he were making love to me with just that look.
He pulled down my slip, and I stepped out of the pool of silk.
I began to shiver.
“Now you are cold?” he teased. “We need to take off your brassiere and stockings and shoes and get you under the covers.”
First he undid the brassiere’s hooks and then gently slipped the straps off my shoulders and dropped the lacy garment. He leaned down and mouthed first my right nipple and then my left. My skin puckered under his ministrations.
“Now for these . . .” he said, as he ran his hands up my legs, fiddling with the garters that held my hose in place. He deftly undid each one. Then, more slowly, he rolled the stockings down. As he did, he embraced my thighs, my knees, calves, and ankles.
By now, my breath was coming in short puffs. I reached out and buried my fingers in his hair, feeling the silken curls. He threw back his head and looked up at me again. His mouth was open, his eyes glazed.
“One more little thing, and then we’ll get you under the covers,” he said huskily, as he pulled down the lace garter belt, which he left lying on the floor as he indulged in the place between my legs with curious but very gentle fingers.
I heard a moan escape from between my lips.
“Oh, you’re in pain. No, no, that won’t do.” He laughed as he yanked down the coverlet and helped me into his bed.
Standing in front of me while I watched, he undid his trousers and stepped out of them and then his shorts. He was boldly and beautifully naked, and I felt my breath catch in my throat. I was torn between wanting him to join me in the bed or having him stay right where he was so I might continue gazing at him.
“Can I get you anything?” he asked.
I nodded, not quite trusting my voice, and held out my arms.
How do I describe what it is like when Mathieu and I are together? I am not the poet. Not the bard. Every word seems so pedestrian when I put it down. I want to write about how it feels as if the sky is raining stars on me. As if I am floating, then flying, then soaring. As if we are no longer earthbound. As if I am not flesh and blood anymore but pure sensation, and Mathieu is light—pure, burning, searing white light—entering me, gracing me, ennobling me, setting me on fire until I am burning and burning and then have no choice, want nothing but to explode. And I do.
After we played at love, I took a nap. While I slept, he slipped downstairs to the patisserie on the corner, and so I awoke to the smell of delicious, creamy coffee.
“Did you have a nice nap?”
“I did.”
“Take your pick.” He offered me the plate. On it was one Paris-Brest—a wheel of choux pastry filled with a delicious praline cream—and a lemon tart. I chose the Paris-Brest.
I took a bit of the delectable treat. The pastry was light, the flavored cream even lighter.
“I can’t believe how deeply I slept,” I said, with my mouth full of dessert.
“Life is a deep sleep of which love is the dream.”
“Yours?” I asked, hoping.
“No, Musset.”
“One day, you will recite your own poetry to me.”
He took a bite of his tart, first chewing too hard and then swallowing too quickly. “Why can’t you let that go?” he asked.
“Because I know how painful it would be for me to stop painting. Like losing part of myself.”
“But I’m not you. And it’s not painful.”
Except I could see in his eyes that it was.
“Can’t you tell me what happened to make you quit?”
He put the plate down on the floor with such force the fork jumped off.
“No!” he shouted. “I can’t. That’s the problem. I don’t know what happened past a certain point. I can’t remember anything after the attack started. The day I was wounded. The day Max was killed.”
I took his hand and held it. For a while, we just sat on his bed, amid the rumpled sheets redolent of our sex.
“Why don’t I draw you?” I said, the idea suddenly occurring to me. “I can look into the shadows and see what happened. Fill in the blanks for you.”
“I don’t need you to do that. Your presence is already a source of healing. I don’t think it’s a wise use of your power. Your supernatural gifts should remain sacred, only to be used when absolutely necessary. Otherwise, they can be made vulnerable by others’ greed, lust, and selfishness.”
“You don’t have to worry about that. I don’t have a limited amount of insight.”
“You don’t understand, Delphine. Your power is as sacred as our love . . .” He hesitated. “You shouldn’t be using your gift to do portraits on commission.”
I told Mathieu I couldn’t give them up, that the portraits were how I helped people.
“But taking money cheapens your gift. I wish you wouldn’t let your brother talk you into doing it.”
I bristled. “No one is talking me into doing anything I don’t want to do. And until you let me draw you with my blindfold on, you won’t understand.”
“And any secrets the universe is keeping from me I can leave well enough alone. Some things are meant to remain hidden.”
I shook my head. Saddened for him. For his stubborn refusal. “Please, let me help you heal,” I said.
“But you do. You make me feel lighter than I have in so long. As if you’re pushing the bad memories away and making room for new ones.”
Chapter 33