Joy

Eighty-four steps are worth it.

For the view.

For the June breeze, after the last few weeks of rain and chilly nights.

And for this possibility.

A glass of white, burgundy lace panties, and a cushioned chaise lounge. Soft music floats from my phone, and the lights of the city give me the best art in the world to gaze at while I wait.

I don’t wait long.

I only asked for a few minutes.

The door is unlocked, and soon I hear the creak of wood, the groan of the door closing, then footsteps on the stairs leading to the roof. The little hairs on my arms stand on end before he even reaches me. My body hums, and thrills race over my skin.

He turns the corner at the top of the steps, and his eyes blaze with a desire I can read even in the dark, even from ten feet away.

I’m the stage, and he’s just turned on all the lights. They spotlight me, and tingling awareness and longing prickle across my skin. I’m the peach left on the table, and he’s going to take it, bring it to his lips, and bite into it.

A harsh, wild breath dares to escape my lips as he walks over to me. To complete the seduction, I bring the glass of wine to my lips as coolly as I can, steadying it and taking one more drink.

He reaches me, so much heat in his blue eyes. “How does it taste?”

He’s asking about the wine. But there are so many other meanings. “Try it.”

I offer him the glass and he takes it, drinking some down as he sits on the end of the chaise. He hands the glass back to me, and I set it on the table.

He curls a hand around my ankle.

My shoes are still on. Sling-back black heels.

He eyes them, running his fingers over the top of my foot. A pulse beats between my legs as heat pools in my center. Already, I’m wet and aching for him. I don’t know how I’ll go without this kind of sex, this kind of intimacy, this kind of expectation.

I’ll miss it savagely when he’s gone in a few weeks, and I fiercely want more of it already.

“Nice red soles,” he says, admiring the shoes.

“Nice everything,” I say to him, since he’s fully dressed.

Firmly, he presses down on my right ankle, forcing me to drop my leg, to open myself for him.

A growl sounds as if it’s ripped from his throat as he stares at me. His eyes zero in on my panties. “Look at you. So wet already.”

He grasps my other ankle and moves it, positioning the heels of my shoes at the edge of the chaise. My legs are parted for him.

“Take your clothes off,” I tell him, but it doesn’t sound like a command. More like a desperate plea.

He shakes his head at the same time he strips off his shirt in one fast move. I sigh greedily as I admire his skin in the moonlight. The hard planes of his pecs, the grooves of his abs. The six-pack. Thank the Lord for the six-pack. I bow down before its gloriously hard design and shape.

“Can’t wait anymore.” He bends to the chaise, crawls up it, and tugs off my panties in one swift move. He untangles them from my shoes and tosses them on the terrace. I groan his name like a woman possessed when his tongue flicks across my wetness.

I melt under his knowing touch. It’s not the first time he’s done this to me. I’ve enjoyed the sight of his face between my legs many nights. I’ve savored it, and come for him.

He knows what to do. He knows how to touch me. He licks a lingering line up my center then presses his hands to my thighs, spreading me open. He makes me vulnerable to him, to the moment, to the pleasure.

But that’s exactly how I want to be.

I want to let go. I want to give in. I’ve never known sex could be like this. I’ve never felt intimacy this intensely before.

In the past, I’ve been guarded, cautious, protected the pieces of myself as best as I can.

But with Griffin, he can’t seem to get enough. He wants so much, craves so deeply, and gives so freely of pleasure. It unlocks something inside me. The way he touches me, the way he talks to me, makes me want to let go. I reach for the lever on the side of the chaise, and I lower it, going flat.

He murmurs as he presses his whole mouth to me.

I cry out. I love when he consumes me. I love when it feels like he’s going to lose control from tasting me. I arch into him, rocking my hips as he kisses me so intensely, so passionately that I know he’s going to draw an orgasm out of me in mere seconds.

My hands find their way to his head, and my fingers thread through his dark hair. They curl around his skull, and he seems to mirror my moves. His hands scoop beneath me, cupping my ass, pulling me closer. It’s like he’s drinking me in. My eyes float closed, but somewhere in the back of my mind, I tell myself to open them.

To watch.

I want to remember not only what this feels like, but what it looks like.

Streaks of moonlight dance across my belly. The lights of the Eiffel Tower twinkle against the night, reflecting across his arms wrapped around me. Shadows shroud his face, buried between my legs as he licks and consumes.

His tongue is everywhere. Lapping me up, kissing me, flicking against the most sensitive spot.

I can’t hold back, and I don’t even try to. I rock up into his face, fucking him as he fucks me with his tongue, his lips, his mouth, with his desire.

Pleasure curls low in my belly, tight and pulsing. It pulls and tenses, and starts to radiate in my bones. Sounds fall from my lips with abandon. Incoherent noises and groans. Obscene cries of lust as I part my legs farther, grab him harder. The white-hot sensations build higher, coil tighter.

I’m on the edge for minutes, it seems, crying out, telling him I’m coming, I’m coming, I’m coming. Because it’s endless. Stars blaze before my eyelids. My mind is a hot blur. And the pleasure literally won’t stop. It crashes down on me, and finally pulls me under into its gorgeous, blissful embrace.

I surrender to it, and to him.

I’m breathing hard, panting, flushed from everything when I blink open my eyes to find him naked and standing next to me, his cock eager to join the festivities.

“Give that to me,” I say. “I want you in my mouth.”

I sit up, my head spinning as I kneel on the cushion, drawing him in. He groans when my tongue swirls across the head, then I suck him, and within seconds, he’s thrusting. I tell myself to relax, to take him deep. He grunts my name as I bring him in farther, wrapping a hand around the base and cupping his balls as I suck.

“Christ,” he groans. “I could come in your throat right now.”

I look up at him, a twinkle in my eyes, I’m sure. For a brief second, I let him go. “That’s the idea.”

He sighs and pushes me back down on the chaise. I move to kneel between his legs, but his hand hits my shoulder. “Wait. Let me eat you again.”

“You have an enormous appetite.”

“It’s not the only thing that’s enormous,” he says with a wink.

And then we move and shift so that he’s mostly on his back, and I’m mostly on my side, and I’m entirely in a filthy new plane of heaven as I take him deep in my mouth, while he spreads my legs open and licks me again.

He’s gentler this time, since I’ve already come. But it’s just as good at this slower pace. It’s good in its own decadent way. And it’s better because I can feel him pulsing in my mouth. Then, again, he shifts us. He’s flat on his back now, and I’m on top of him, my legs draped over his shoulders. He groans as he licks me more intensely, spreading my cheeks, his fingers kneading my ass as he works me over once more.

I’m on fire. I’m sizzling from head to toe. But I want his pleasure, too. I desperately want his release in my mouth, on my tongue, over my lips. Somehow, it turns into a wild, delirious race. We’re loud and greedy, sloppy and hungry. I suck him deep, not stopping, never stopping, even when I feel my body race to the edge. But he’s there first. His thighs tense under me. His cock thrusts deep in my mouth. His balls draw up in my hand.

And then I taste him, hot and salty. I swallow it down as he digs his fingers into my flesh and spears me with his tongue.

I cry out, and I’m lost once more in the sea of bliss, six stories above the ground as I come again, high above the city I love.

* * *

We don’t stop there.

A little later, we’re at the railing of the terrace, the neighbors across the river surely getting their peep show as I curl my hands tight around the iron posts. His hands wrap around my hips. I’m bent over for him, and he’s fucking me hard. Relentlessly. The way I like it. I love feeling all of him, deep in me, pounding in me. Bare.

We had the safety talk, and I love that there’s nothing between us now.

He grabs my hair, twisting it around his fist, and excitement bursts in me knowing he’s going to tug hard. It’s the thrill of what’s to come. He pulls, yanking my neck back, and I yelp in pleasure. He goes deeper in me, and I moan like an animal, feeling him, feeling everything.

A smack on my ass. A swat on my cheek. Another tug on my hair. His fingers on my clit. His cock hitting me in places I swear have never been touched, not like this, not so deeply.

It’s raw and powerful, and he fucks me ruthlessly, fucking my whole body, and soon I can barely take all these sensations. They soar and fly all over my body, until they curl inward and burst.

One more powerful climax, and he follows me there.

* * *

“I’m not sure I can move ever again,” I say, running my fingers down the fine hairs on his chest.

“I have nowhere to be, and I’m pretty sure I can call in for food. We don’t need to leave.”

I laugh lightly. “Good, because my legs are jelly.”

“I’ll order a few blankets, too. We’ll camp out here. We’ll wake up to croissants for breakfast, and we’ll do it all again tomorrow.” He dusts a kiss on my cheek. “And the next night, and the next.”

He makes it sound so possible, as if time is a river, flowing endlessly. We’ll dip our ladles in and drink it up, anytime, anywhere. We’ll swallow it all, and we’ll stay in this state of glittery bliss we both seem to want.

But we don’t have next nights and next nights. Our time is closing in on itself.

I shift gears because right now I can’t bear more talk that seduces me, that tricks me into thinking we’re a river when we’re a moat. I raise my face and meet his eyes as I tap-dance my fingers across his belly. “What’s the story with the macarons from your list?”

He laughs and parks a hand under his head. “Ah, the macarons. By the way, kudos for not pronouncing it as if it rhymes with raccoons.”

“Since it doesn't.” I laugh. “And now, do tell.”

“Mum’s sister, Sophie, always bought me macarons for Christmas.”

“That’s rather sweet, and a little feminine, to be frank. Did she get you perfume, too?” I tease.

He pinches my nipple, and I pretend to yelp. “Speaking of perfume, you do know the way you smell is completely intoxicating, yeah?”

My heart dances a little flip-flop. Finally, a man who loves my perfume. “I’m not interested in living an unscented life,” I say. “And I’m so glad I can wear perfume again.”

He knits his brow. “You couldn’t before?”

I shake my head. “My ex hated it. He said anything scented gave him a headache. I didn’t want him to feel worse, so I stopped wearing it with him. I’m glad I don’t have to hold back who I am with you.”

“Did you have to hold back in other ways?”

I nod. “At times, yes. I was so consumed in his issues for the last year that I didn’t devote as much time and energy to work as I wanted to. I wanted to rise in my career, and even though there weren’t a ton of openings at my company at the time, I also didn’t pursue any. I was so concerned about him.”

“I don’t believe you should ever hold someone back, someone you care about.” There’s a faint note of worry in his voice. “I wouldn’t ever want to do that to you.”

“You don’t hold me back,” I say, since he seems to need the reassurance right now. “You’ve only helped me.”

“Good. It’s the same for me. Also, I think I’m addicted to your scented life. Every day, it’s like a discovery with you.” He drops his nose to my neck. “Some days you smell like candy. Sometimes like caramel. There are days when you’re a flower, or a garden. And sometimes you smell like sex.”

I crack up. “That’s probably just after you’ve fucked me.”

He grins wickedly. “Yes, but sometimes you smell like sex because I’m thinking about fucking you.” He taps his finger on his chin. “Maybe that’s all the time, then.”

“Oh, good. I want to walk around life smelling like a man’s dirty dream.”

He wraps his arms around my waist. “My dirty dream. And tonight, the way you smell has been driving me wild since I saw you in the garden.”

A thrill races through me. “Really?”

Burying his nose in my hair, he inhales deeply. “You smell like . . . jasmine.”

I freeze. “Shut up,” I whisper.

He pulls back. “No. I mean it.”

“That’s in my perfume.”

“So I was right.” His smile is electric.

“You are.” I tap his nose. “And you once said your sense of smell was wretched.”

“Maybe it’s come back because of you. Maybe you brought it back.”

My heart thumps a little harder. I try to tell myself it’s only the sense of smell. It’s the one deemed least important. It’s not as if he were blind or deaf and I magically returned those senses to him. But just as he’s taught me how to experience the world through new words, perhaps I’ve shown him how to savor what makes the world delicious.

“Maybe I did. By the way, the perfume I’m wearing tonight?” My pitch rises in excitement.

He meets my gaze, waits for me to say more.

“It’s a little something I cooked up myself.”

His smile widens. “You made it? You crafted your own perfume?”

“It’s something I’m playing around with,” I say, and I can’t mask a note of pride, not after the way he responded to it. “It’s not done yet, but I’m testing out some formulations.”

He growls sexily and kisses my neck. “My God, this has been my favorite. This can bring a man to his knees.”

“Well, you were pretty randy tonight,” I tease.

“I’ll be even randier in the middle of the night.”

I laugh and place a hand on his chest. “And you’re avoiding the macarons. I want the full story of Aunt Sophie and the macarons.”

He groans. “Sophie liked to give us things she thought we’d taken a liking to. Well, there was one time when she was babysitting us and she had her favorite lavender macarons with her, and since I have a sweet tooth, I gobbled them up. Ethan wouldn’t touch them. Too purple, he said. She had to rustle up some cheese and crackers for him. For Christmas that year, she gave me lavender macarons and he got a cheese board.”

“And he teased you about the macarons instead of you giving him a hard time about cheese?”

“Of course. He teased me relentlessly. Because they were girly. He thought lavender macarons was the height of having something on me.”

“Did you even like them?”

Dragging a hand through his hair, he laughs. “Actually, they were pretty tasty, and the cheese was quite bland. But in his mind, I was the poor sod who had to suffer through the pretty little lavender macarons. And so, he managed to take the piss out of me even on his deathbed,” Griffin says, and I tense for a second, thinking we’re heading into darker waters with that last word. But he’s smiling, and so I relax. He’s not sinking under. He’s laughing at the memory, and the sight of him like this feels like the sun warming my shoulders. He’s coming out on the other side of grief.

He takes my hand in his. “He always made me laugh. And you’re pretty funny, too, my gorgeous American beauty, who smells like sex and flowers and candy and everything I want in the world.”

Something inside my heart rattles loose, like a bird escaping its cage. Flying free.

He’s everything I want in the world, too.

I squeeze his fingers. “Hey, Archie.”

“Hi, Judy.”

With my free hand, I brush his hair away from his forehead. “I’m falling in love with you.”

It’s not hard to say. It doesn’t take a lot of courage. It’s just the truth, and I want him to know, no matter what comes next.

A smile crosses his lips, lighting him up like the night sky. “I’m madly in love with you.”

“Yeah?” I smile dopily, and this is the bliss I want to live in. This. This feeling in my heart. The way I can’t get close enough to him.

He nods and threads a hand in my hair. “I didn’t mean for it to happen, but I was pretty much gone for you the day I met you.”

My heart is glowing now, I’m sure, shining so brightly the airplanes above can spot me. “It was the accent, wasn’t it?”

He laughs and shakes his head. “Nope. It was your attitude. You were so bold, and I loved it. I still do. I love it more every day. You made it so insanely impossible not to fall in love with you.”

My smile can’t be contained. “You really should have made yourself more irresistible because it’s pretty much the same for me.”

But then my smile falters when I remember once more our inevitable ending. This can’t last. This crazy, giddy feeling is a splash of fireworks in the summer sky. Awesome and sparkly and then gone in a heartbeat.

“I’m going to miss you like crazy. You know that, right?” he says, rubbing a thumb over my cheek.

“I know,” I whisper.

“Like crazy,” he repeats, his voice lower this time, tinged with sadness. “We only have two weeks left.”

As if I’m not painfully aware of the days on the calendar scrolling by. “Fourteen days,” I say solemnly.

“Let’s make them amazing. It’s all we can do, yeah?”

A lump rises high in my throat and threatens to yank down all the waterworks from my eyes, like the rainstorm I once longed for but am now trying to avoid. I swallow them whole. “Let’s do it.”

And because I can’t take this anymore, I can’t take the aching in my chest, I cover it up with a fierce kiss. I hold his face and claim his lips, and I pour every ounce of my sadness into his mouth.

It’s needy and hungry, like a confirmation of what we both know. We’re in love, and we’re ending, and we’ll make the most of these last two weeks, and we’re going to be okay with all the oddities and curiosities in our love story. We’re the out-of-place elephant on the roof of the church. We’re a sundial that doesn’t work. We’re the clock that’s only right twice a day. We’re ice cream that tastes amazing, but we can’t have it for every meal. We can’t have it much longer at all.

When we break apart, he stretches out an arm, reaches for his jeans, and grabs something from his wallet. It’s a notecard. An illustration of a bouquet of lilacs adorns the front.

“Open it,” he tells me.

I do as I’m told and read his words out loud. “Spend next weekend in Giverny with me. I want to go someplace with you where I’ve never been. I want to experience a place with you for the very first time. I want to take you there and see it through your eyes, too. Will you go with me?”

My throat tightens, but I will myself to relax, speaking softly. “Obviously, the answer is yes.”

I slip away to the bathroom, and when I return he does the same, but he rejoins me on the roof with a blanket, and he brings me close on the chaise.

When we wake, he taps my shoulder, squinting as dawn tugs at the cool morning sky.

“Number eight.”

I furrow my brow.

“I get to cross it off. Sleep under the stars.”

“I thought ‘sleep under the stars’ was for traveling.”

He shrugs and smiles. “I’ve decided this counts. Because it’s for when we had to and when we wanted to. And this is a ‘wanted to’ situation.”

This should make me happy. That he’s bending. That he’s flexible. That he found a loophole of sorts and made this night under the stars count. That I count enough to be something deep and meaningful to his dreams.

But I also know it means he’s one step closer to packing his bags.