I wanted to stay with her last night.

I’ve never spent the night in a bed with a woman. I know it’s mad, but I’m thirty years old and well, it’s the truth. I have some neurotic notion that a woman will fall in love and dig her talons into me if I allow myself to drift to sleep for more than a few minutes in the same bed as her. It’s the most arrogant of possible notions, and I’m a pillock for even allowing myself to think that way.

The thing is, there’s hope for me yet. I wanted to sleep with Adriana. Craved the intimacy of her warm, naked body next to mine as I drifted off at two a.m., but particularly when I woke up a few minutes later. I wanted her talons in me.

Not that she has talons, mind you. All the better for when her fingers are wrapped about my erection.

God, her touch is incredible. I’ve had too many blowjobs to count over the years, and don’t get me wrong; it’s very, very hard to offer up what a man would say is a poor one. But from her, they’re fucking magic. She understands every nerve ending, every short breath I take. She knows what makes me go mad with pleasure, and we’ve only been together on two occasions. The woman is a goddess with her mouth as well as everything else. A goddess with lips of velvet, a tongue made for pleasure and a pussy that tastes like the nectar of the gods. I would eat her out for months on end, if it didn’t mean I couldn’t get my cock inside her.

And now I’m sitting in my office, staring into space like a starry-eyed dreamer, thinking about that sensation. Her arms around my neck, her breasts pressing into my pecs. Her moans of pleasure as we both get closer and closer to exploding.

I’ve known sexual pleasure. But I’ve never known intimacy like last night. The pure desire to give myself to another human is a new and wonderful feeling.

She hasn’t replied to my text. But that’s fine. I’ve thrown her so many mixed signals that I know perfectly well what she’s up to. She’s holding the cards close to her chest, not letting me know what she thinks or feels. Telling herself that this is all casual, it’s just a fling. I know this, because it’s exactly what my instincts told me to do as well.

Women think men can just fuck them and walk away without another thought, but the truth is that we males have too many thoughts. We’ve been socialized to conceal them, to pretend we have no feelings. From day one of our pathetic existences we’re taught not to let the world know that we hurt. “Suck it up,” my father used to tell me. “Never let them see you cry.” And it works. Our tears dry up, because we know that to cry is to prove ourselves less than human. Un-alpha. Weak.

What a load of bollocks.

I didn’t have time for crying, anyhow. I had a brother to look after. I had a father’s alcoholism to deny. And when I was older, I had money to make. Lots and lots of money. I wanted so much of it that it would shield me from obligation to any creature on the planet. Money makes a woman superficially interested in a man; just enough that she wants him, and perhaps wants his bank account. But not enough to make her love him, and that’s always been just fine with me. If I must use euros as a shield against affection, so be it.

But Adriana, she’s different. She seems immune to my bank account. She’s impressed with my brain, my accomplishments, rather than my riches. I respect her for it. It’s yet another reason to adore her.

She’s leaving soon. She’ll disappear off to an alternate universe where I don’t exist. I will aspire to forget her, and she me. We’ll chalk this up to a quick, intense romance of some sort. But here’s the thing: I’m not ready for it to end. Not yet. I want to make love to her every chance I get between now and the minute she steps on that plane back to New York. I want to steal her heart and hold onto it. I want to replace the pale, lifeless one in my chest with hers. She’s alive, beautiful, exciting, and she doesn’t even know it. And I’m quickly growing addicted to her.

I rise to my feet to head down to the labs. Too much time spent languishing in thought is exactly what I’ve railed against all my life. Time to get to work and to forget, for a little at least, that my cold, dead heart has sprung back to life.

* * *

Adriana

Seven pairs of panties and a teddy later, I’m waltzing down a cobblestone Parisian street with the cutest little pink and white striped bag in hand. Something about the curving road makes me want to twirl around and dance, except that I’d probably turn an ankle on the cobblestones. It’s so damn beautiful here. The street is narrow, the buildings’ old grey façades facing each other in an intimate conversation, like they’re old friends.

Back home on the streets of New York, everything is mayhem. Honking, yelling, rushing. Here, people are civilized. They don’t seem to give a shit about lateness or hurrying anywhere. I see Parisians stop each other on the street to have conversations. Men stand in doorways, smoking, arms crossed as they lean against the frame, watching the world happen around them.

This is the life.

The only thing that would make it better would be to have someone—no, not someone; Conlon—at my side so that I could turn to him and chat about how much I love it here. I want to share my thoughts with him. I want to tell him what this place is becoming to me. It’s a symbol of my happiness. And he’s part of it. He’s part of my heart now.

With a big stupid grin on my face I march towards the Louvre. Then I remember that I never replied to his text about orgasms, so I stop and lean against an iron lamp post to pull out my phone.

“I had a bunch of good times last night too,” I say. “Am having a different kind of good time today. Fewer orgasms, but more fancy undies.”

Almost immediately I see a reply. “Fancy undies? I don’t believe you. Send photos promptly of you posing in said knickers.”

I laugh and quickly snap a photo of an old man standing in a nearby doorway.

Send.

“Listen, woman. I know that I did a thing or two to that beautiful pussy of yours last night, but I’m fairly certain I didn’t age it to a strip of withered leather. You are a tease.”

“I am. What are you going to do about it?”

“I’m going to ask you if I could come by your place after my meeting tonight.”

“We’ll see,” I say.

“P.S. ‘We’ll see’ means ‘Yes.’”

I’ve just become painfully horny. I want to throw myself into his arms, but I also want him to fuck me so hard that I scream.

I woke up yesterday not knowing if I’d ever see him naked again.

Now I’m wondering if I’ll ever see him clothed again.