Forbidden French

I have Lainey’s hand in my hand.

I’m tracing the contours of each finger, up to the tip of her nail and down again, along the ticklish skin between her knuckles. I hold it so gently. I’m surprised it’s real, the fragile hand of the woman I love. I find it intoxicatingly small—scarily small. Suddenly, the dam has broken. The worry of loving someone has filled my chest so that every breath comes a little harder. Nothing can happen to her, ever. It’s an uncomfortable feeling to love someone too much. It tightens your throat. It makes you wild in ways that seemed so easy to constrain before.

Already, I’m scared of tomorrow. What if she changes her mind about me?

“Are you okay?” she asks quietly.

How can I admit the truth?

I’m not okay; I’m in love.

The excruciating torture of having exactly what you want, knowing it could be lost at any moment…does it get easier?

Will I take her for granted one day? In five years? Ten? When I wake up and prepare to leave for work while she rocks our child, will it all just seem so normal? Will I still contemplate the sheer improbability of getting to live every day alongside Lainey?

All I can do now is grasp her hand tighter and look out the window. It’s only a ten-minute drive back to my house.

There’s no lightness. It’s like we’re both too weighted down with emotion to make small talk. When we arrive, I open her door and take her hand again. We walk up the stoop and I lead her inside.

“Beautiful,” she tells me, looking around the foyer as I continue tugging her deeper inside.

Tours will come. She’ll know every nook and cranny of this house eventually. She’ll know the back door sticks if you don’t lift up slightly as you open it. The kitchen sink takes forever to get hot water, but in the bathrooms, the water gets too hot too fast. She’ll notice the way the morning light streams in through the kitchen window. She’ll cover the walls with art she loves, line the shelves with our shared library. Her favorite coffee mugs will fill the cabinets and her favorite coffee grounds will fill the air.

We’ll argue about what to do with the spare bedrooms.

A nursery. We’ll need at least one.

An office for her if she wants it. Whatever she wants.

She’s happy to let me lead her down the hall, and if I’m moving too fast, she doesn’t complain. This isn’t about getting to the finish line; it’s about the excitement, the heady rush.

At the threshold of my bedroom, I flip on the light and let go of her hand. I walk in, just to the edge of my bed, and turn back.

She stands in the doorframe in her white gown, and I can see what she’ll look like on our wedding day. Impossibly beautiful. Impossibly mine.

She sweeps her gaze around the room, and I wish she’d tell me her thoughts.

It’s just a room. If she doesn’t like it, we’ll change it together.

The only thing I care about is the frame on my bedside table, the one with the white rose.

I watch her go still as she notices it, her expression slowly crumbling as she blinks back tears, her forehead crinkling as she comprehends what it is.

I told her I saved it.

I will always save it.

“It’s all right,” I reassure her.

We can’t save each other this pain. The tightness in my chest is in hers too. Love isn’t always a gift; it’s a burden, and right now, all I want to do is lighten her load. So, I hold my hand out, asking her to trust me.

She comes, and as soon as I have her, I wrap her up so tightly in a bear hug. Her scent fills my lungs, and I wonder if I’ll have to travel with a bottle of her perfume from now on.

The hug changes, a calm reassurance tightening into overwhelming need. Her breath hitches as she lifts her hands up and turns slowly in my arms. She bends her neck forward, and I understand what she wants as I start to tug her zipper down.

Sweet silence accompanies the slow peel of that zipper. My gaze roves over her slender neck, down to her shoulder blades and bare back. I trace my palm along the length of her spine, my pointer finger running along every ridge.

She shivers, and I lean in to kiss the nape of her neck.

I love you. I love every part of you.

Her dress slips off her shoulders, the sheer beaded neckline falling away. My hands work up underneath the material and I start to push it down further. Lainey helps, stepping out of the full skirt, and then it’s just her and the pink silk panties at her hips.

Oh Lainey.

She moves away from me, fearlessly turning back, all that raw emotion plain to see.

This is all I am, she seems to say, this skin and bones, and if you give me love, I’ll give it back to you tenfold.

There’s almost a smile on her lips, but I can’t return it.

I can’t seem to do anything but stare.

She reaches up to her hair, slipping the pins from her intricate up-do. They clink down on the wood floor, the only sound in the room as she lets her long hair loose. The rich dark strands are wavy and messy. I fist my hands, a way of placating myself for the time being. I’ll touch her soon. I’ll touch every fucking inch of her if it takes me a lifetime.

She arches a brow, almost taunting me.

“Well?” she asks.

The shy girl I once knew is more capable of speech in this moment than I am. Petite souris, who knew you were so brave?

She takes a step toward me with a slight tremble, and suddenly I’m on her like I’ve just been let out of a cage. Tearing at my tuxedo jacket, my shirt, my bowtie—the seams are no match for my impatience, and Lainey helps. Her lips graze my chin as her fingers work on my pants, fumbling with the button. I feel her teeth and almost lose it. My groan sounds like a thousand years of yearning.

I kiss along the top of her shoulder, the shadowed space beneath her neck, the dip of her collarbone. Her breast fills my mouth and my hand covers the silk between her legs. She presses up onto her tiptoes as I tease her and I feel her nails at my neck, the sharp bite of them digging into my skin. She’s as crazed as I am. There’s no chance of a slow descent for us, a gentle discovery of each other’s body. I come to know her with a frenzy, like the opportunity might be stripped from me at any second.

Her skin burns my lips as I bend down further, my mouth passing over her taut stomach, kissing her navel. She quivers in a deliciously inviting way as my lips hit the top of her panties.

She rocks back on her heels, perhaps nervous, but then her hands are in my hair and she presses her body against me, granting me permission to take the silk in my teeth and tug them down. My fingers help loosen the material at her hips so that with one swift yank, they fall to her feet.

I’m adoring her on my knees, a beggar at her feet.

When I peer up, her big green eyes are rimmed with tears.

She doesn’t try to hide her emotion. We left pretense at the door. In this room, it’s all heart. I kiss her sensitive skin, just on the inside of her thigh.

Part your legs for me, Lainey.

Let me kiss you, here.

She isn’t shy about letting me know what she likes. She might not verbalize it, but her hands fist my hair when I run my tongue between her legs. She squirms and sighs and shakes. She rises onto her tiptoes and my hands grip her thighs and I hold her steady as my mouth stays on her, tasting and taking until I hear her start to whimper.

God, the sound.

I stare up at her as I continue, watching her eyes pinch shut and her mouth fall open. She jerks in my hands, but I don’t back off. I watch her come like I’m watching the sunrise over the ocean. A sight to behold. A sight I’ll chase forever.

When she opens her eyes again, there’s a fire burning in her gaze.

For the first time since we arrived at my house, I smile. It’s devious and wicked, and she responds by bending down and tearing at my dress shirt. It’s gaping since only half the buttons got undone earlier. She starts pushing it off my shoulders, impatiently undressing me. She wants me as naked as she is, the two of us on an even playing field. Or maybe she’s as curious as I am.

I’ve wondered about her body. In the shower, in my bed, at work—I’ve thought about these hidden parts of her, but my imagining didn’t do her justice. I wasn’t generous enough.

“Help,” she pleads.

I find her impatience cute, but she doesn’t.

I stand and work to undo the last few buttons, and then I fling my shirt onto the bench at the end of my bed. I push down my pants and manage to take one sock off before I pounce on her again, just a kiss, give me another kiss, please god.

She bites my lip in punishment.

“Finish,” she says, pushing my shoulders back.

Her skin is pink and marred. Her heavy breasts bear the evidence of my mouth.

I get distracted again and she groans and pushes me back, continuing until I hit the bench and then crawl back up and onto the bed.

It’s the opposite of that Italian pier, her up and on top of me, her body weighing me down. She yanks off my other sock and my boxer briefs.

Now she’s the one distracted. She’s the one with the gaping mouth.

Not so easy, is it, Lainey?

She can’t help but touch. Her small hand wraps around my length, and I tip my head back and close my eyes, savoring all that goodness.

It’s the hand I held in the car on the way home, the hand I worshipped, and now she’s returning the favor. She doesn’t understand how close I am to the edge. Her soft lips skating over my jaw is nearly too much. She works her hand up and down, and I give in to the pleasure of it for a few more strokes then I grip her hand and still her.

“Too much?” she asks with a crinkled brow.

How do I tell her I want her so badly it feels like my heart is splitting open?

Yeah, it’s too much, Lainey. Everything about you is too much.

She lets go of my length and drops both of her hands to my chest. Her position on top of me is such obscene innocence. She doesn’t mean to tempt me.

“Is now a good time to mention that I…” She pauses, clears her throat, starts again. “I’ve never.”

“Okay.”

I work to keep every trace of emotion out of my voice. She’s not telling me so I can pass judgment on her. I don’t give a damn what she’s done in the years we’ve been apart. I don’t want her because of some perceived purity.

My love for her hinges on absolutely nothing.

Her mere existence is enough.

“We can do whatever you’d like,” I tell her. “We can stop here.”

She nods and mulls that over, her eyes roving down my chest.

“And if I’d like to continue…?”

“Then I’d say we’re on the right track.”

She lets loose a gentle laugh, and I know it helps soothe some of her nerves.

“I stopped you just then because your hand felt too good,” I say, trying to reassure her.

Her brows shoot up in surprise. “I have no idea what I’m doing.”

“Would it help you to know that this feels new to me too?”

She looks skeptical, so I continue.

“There’s a French quote by Molière. Vivre sans aimer n’est pas proprement vivre.”

“What does it mean?”

I trace a circle on her hip as I translate. “To live without loving is to not really live.” My eyes capture hers. “So you see why this is new for me too, faire l’amour…to make love.”

She falls quiet then, looking down on me. It’s not pity in her gaze, but sincerity.

She sits atop me, her legs spread across my stomach, and I want her so bad I shake with it. But I don’t rush her. I run my fingers up the length of her arms and back down, then I wrap my hands around her biceps and gently pull her until she’s lying flat on top of me, her hair tumbling down onto the side of my face. I’m enveloped in her scent, and it could be enough, just this. My arms wrap around her back, and we stay like that until I sense she’s comfortable enough to continue. Her hand works between our bodies, and her fingers skim the tip of my length again.

It feels important for her to at least initiate, but I’m not shy about taking over. I’ll lead her tonight as I know she wants me to. The ease of letting a lover guide you is a gift I want to give her.

Protection is at the forefront of my mind. I go to reach for a condom in my side table, but her hand captures my forearm and she shakes her head.

“Could we not?”

“Are you on birth control?”

“No.”

“And you’re aware of the implications…”

She smiles. “I’m aware.”

The gravity of that settles over me. Does it matter if we don’t use anything? Not if we’re both in agreement. Not if we both want the same thing.

I roll us so she’s lying flat against my bed and I don’t get sidetracked by the sight of her. Later tonight, tomorrow morning, the day after, I’ll have her lie here and I’ll beg her not to move so I can get my fill, but tonight my hands roam, toying with her breasts and working up her desire again until she’s a writhing needy mess. God, I love it.

I’d go down on her again, but I know she’d protest. Instead, I part her legs and slip my hand between them, ensuring she’s ready.

She nods and I press my fingers inside her, trying to ease some of what will come next. It won’t be comfortable at first, she knows. She reassures me as I line us up, and I press another kiss to her lips. I’m lying over her, resting my weight on my elbows, whispering in her ear.

“Ça va, petite souris. Relax.”

I feel her tense as I press inside her, thrusting until I’m completely seated.

Her entire body goes rigid with the pain.

I hate it. I would take it from her if I could.

“It’s done. It’s done,” I reassure her, brushing her hair back off her face and pressing featherlight kisses across her cheeks and chin and neck, soothing her as I hold perfectly still.

I taste her salty tears and our mouths collide, and she kisses me like I’m a pain reliever. That small ease of tension begins. Her body relaxes beneath me, her hands no longer gripping me for dear life.

“Okay,” she whispers against my lips, and I can feel her smile.

Tentatively, I roll my hips, and the sensation makes her arch off the bed.

My ego can’t handle how receptive she is. Every little movement elicits a delicious sound from her lips. She’s as passionate as I knew she would be, fiery and aggressive enough that I don’t feel as though I need to hold back once we find our rhythm. She grips my hips and my hand traces its way down, past the slight dip of her navel, the sharp edge of her hipbone, that tantalizing warmth back between her legs. She squeezes around me when I stroke her. I don’t register that I’m saying anything until a string of French curses have already slipped free from my mouth, forbidden French I can’t contain, and Lainey responds to every single word, her head tipping back, her mouth falling open. Her moan is guttural and oh so sweet as she comes. Her body wraps around me, tightening with every wave of pleasure. There’s no possible way I could hold back. I try, I try, I try, and then I see black stars dancing behind my closed eyelids as I squeeze them shut. The pleasure is almost too intense. It’s all baser senses. Her heated skin. Her salty taste. Her sweet scent. That tight squeeze. Her hand holds my neck as my head falls to that safe groove between her chin and chest. I come undone and my body racks against her, and I’m weighing her down, asking for too much, taking even more than I should.

When I feel like I can breathe again, I blink my eyes open to find Lainey staring up at me, wonderment evident in her eyes.

Then a teasing smile unfurls across her lips.

“That was quite a lot of French…”

“Should I translate some for you?”

Her eyes widen with alarm. “No!”

Embarrassment looks too cute on her.

“Okay, how about this?” I ask, toying with her. “Je suis amoureux de toi.”

She looks so serious as she listens then asks, “What does that mean?”

My touch is whisper soft as I press a finger to her furrowed brow, then I continue gliding it down along the bridge of her nose. I can’t resist the urge to touch her red lips. I’m staring at them as I tell her.

“I’m in love with you.”