Chapter Text
Luc was already on her the moment she walked through the doors of Savoir.
“Emily”, he said, “are you okay?”
“Yes, why wouldn’t I be?”
“You’re late.”
“I guess I’ve been learning from the masters, Luc.”
“Exactement! You’ve been learning! I don’t understand, has the language rubbed off on you?”
“Peut-être.”
“Lunch today, Emily?”
“You bet. But let me choose the place this time.”
“I can’t believe it! Our very own French American! Everyone”, Luc said, and he gestured around at the rooms where an army of fresh faces and interns were working on new marketing materials, all now turning their heads, “Emily wants to choose a restaurant for our lunch today!”
A single woman quietly tried to get an applause going before it died down, and the woman buried her face in her desk, too ashamed to look anyone in the eyes for the rest of the day. Her next-desktop colleague silently rubbed her back, promising that nobody would remember, but they would, and it would remain embarrassing for the rest of her working years.
Emily put her purse below her desk, looking at the empty spot left by Julien, an unused screen right by the window. The desk looked barren without his fashion magazines on it. Somehow, she felt it was her fault – maybe she should’ve kept her mouth shut a bit more often. But then again, her ideas were usually popular with the clients – perhaps it would’ve been better if they all just acted more as a team? Julien’s keen eye for style, her spitballing ideas, Luc adding the final touches? Emily opened her laptop. She looked at Julien’s spot again. It looked…
She couldn’t stop herself. With a swift motion, she pulled out her phone and took a picture, applied the Oslo filter to it and uploaded it to her stories after quickly adding “Amis perdus” to it. Maybe Julien would see it, maybe not. Nevertheless, even in his absence, his empty desk was the most instagrammable thing she had seen in a while.
“I thought I told you to come see me first thing, chérie”, she heard Sylvie say next to her. The woman was standing in the door frame, looking stunning in a dark navy romper, rosé gold chains and a watch adorning her arm. “So why are you waiting for me to get you?
“Je suis desolée, Sylvie, j’etais perdu dans mes pensées à Julien. »
“Sur Julien”, Sylvie said.
“Ah oui, pardon”, Emily responded.
« Alors, on va ? »
Emily nodded and followed Sylvie into her office. Sylvie motioned for her to close the door behind them, and as she did, she felt the same atmosphere descend upon them that that evening restaurant had conjured – intimacy, filtered through a lens of both voyeurism and trust between them, and an interest in what the other might do.
“So”, Sylvie began, “as you know, Savoir has made its name in representing brands that mean one thing to our customers: Luxury. Quality. Expense. The sort of life you might live if you were a young star in Saint Tropez, you can have if you only buy the new perfume by Maison Lavaux, or Pierre Cadaux. But those brands also have one thing in common – they are rigid, and responsible, and though they might be sexy, they are toothless.”
“Didn’t think you felt so bitter about your work, Sylvie.”
“Well, then you might decide it’s a good idea to let me finish, ouais? Non? Moving on, there has been a part of Savoir that I’ve been developing on my own ever since I thought my days in your great American conglomerate were numbered. As a sort of, as you might put it, side… thing.”
“Hustle. A side hustle.”
“Yes. Now, I want to bring you on board, but only if you have the stomach for it.”
With that, Sylvie moved a small black cardboard box on top of the table, with only the letters J K emblazoned on the front in matte grey.
“Go on”, she said then, “open it.”
“Is this a product? That you’re advertising for?”
“Yes”, Sylvie said, “it’s not on the market yet, but they’re already looking into events to launch it.”
Emily noticed her hands were trembling. This box felt like a part of her already, but like a part of the new her she had felt slowly cultivating within herself ever since the wedding went off the rails – ever since she had started dreaming freely, without holding back, of Alfie and Gabriel.
There was a black rabbit vibrator inside, with the part touching the clit in grey, the one going inside the vulva in black, with a couple of buttons in the front and one on the bottom.
“A vibrator?”, Emily said. She felt herself blushing despite her best wishes. Perhaps no amount of getting fingered in front of her door would ever help these moments pass more smoothly.
“A high-quality, eco-conscious, designer vibrator made in France”, Sylvie said. “That’s it.” Slowly, looking at Emily turning the device over in her hands, she cocked an eyebrow. “It’s for demonstration purposes. Not to use.”
“Ah, I see”, Emily said, putting it back into the box. She attempted to shut it closed, but it slipped off and fell to the floor. Luc stormed in.
“Everything okay in h-“
She saw the vibrator in Emily’s hand, the box on the floor, and Sylvie Grateau’s wicked smile.
“Je, eu, je vais, um, I’ll get some air », he said, closing the door very firmly.
Emily covered her face with her hand.
“Sylvie, I’m not sure about this”, she said. “I mean, I don’t have any experience.”
“With this? Maybe you should take it home.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“So this is hi-tech for you, Emily?”, Sylvie asked, holding up the package with a surprised expression. “You know these have existed for a while.”
“Sylvie.”
“Bien, j’ecoute. Alors.” Go ahead, I’m listening.
“I have – I have two, but I – I mean with the marketing. The marketing, Sylvie. Good God, is it hot in here? Is it, like, really hot in here, could we open a window?”
“Hm, hm, maybe I misjudged you. I’ll just tell them we can’t.” Sylvie started sliding the box off the desk, but Emily put her hand on it, firmly.
“Send me the materials, the requests, everything we have”, Emily said. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Sylvie stretched out her hands in a broad gesture. “Alors, pourqoui pas? You can leave now, I’ll get it over to you.”
Just before closing the door, Emily had another thought. She wondered if her heart would finally catch a bit of a break these days, and not be spurned on to beat ever-faster by the thoughts that were racing through her mind – by the rock-hard abs that had taken residence there, truly, just below Alfie’s neck and his gorgeous face, those eyes that were looking at her as if they were both in on the joke.
“When’s the next meeting with Maison Lavaux?”
“Euh, I made sure to take you off of that account. You won’t have to see that British man again.”
“I – maybe I want to? Shouldn’t you ask me before you do things like that?”
“Shouldn’t you keep your vagina in check sometimes before you open your mouth?”
Emily really had no response to that, so she did the only sensible thing. She gasped. Sylvie closed a folder she had right in front of her, then rested a hand on the vibrator’s packaging. Why did she always look like anything fancy and well-designed simply belonged in her hands?
“Emily, one thing at a time. I can’t risk any of your American soap opera drama coming to wreck our plans for l’automne. We need the season to be one of their best in years, or – dieu – Monsieur Lavaux will have to sell his car. And we will all be very, very sad when that happens.”
Sylvie reached out the vibrator to Emily. “Take it”, she said, “and put your brain to work.”
Emily closed the door behind herself, package in her hand. As she walked to her desk, it felt like the world was shaking, but it was her really, her legs and feet and everything along those two long lines.
She still had Alfie’s number, didn’t she? She searched her phone for it and opened their WhatsApp chat – God, those Europeans – only to see his usual picture, which was him holding up a large lobster, Alfie’s eyes wide and shirt slightly open, replaced by a generic grey avatar. Blocked. She could send a message to make sure, see that one check mark appear and remain forever grey, but no. She couldn’t take any more today. That meant Alfie was moving on, or at least trying to, and her dreams were moving futher into the realm of “I’ll fantasize about it when I’m bored.” The metro tram’s doors opened and Emily shuffled out, a person in the stream in her recently more muted colours, wearing long, tight black pants with a grey satin shirt she had thrown a larger off-white shirt over. Was this a kind of person someone might press up against a wall? Would Gabriel do her again, or would he deny her, or maybe, just maybe, she would feel his cock inside of her again soon?
She shivered and heated up at once.
It was evening, and Le Panthéon was casting a long shadow on the square. A man with long dark hair was playing piano, a phone set up in front of him live-streaming. Emily made a mental note – could that work for an ad? When she got her phone to note the idea down, she noticed a message from Sylvie, no doubt sent during a moment in the metro when her connection had been less than stellar.
“There’s an event by the brand tonight. Wear black, and not too much.” Then she sent her, in full, a French e-mail by MainsCroisées, and Emily walked by Gabriel’s restaurant without looking up, puzzling herself through every sentence one word at a time.
Mindy was making dinner, and she gingerly placed a plate at the table for Emily.
“Em”, she said, “do you have any plans for Saturday?”
“Tomorrow, you mean?”
“Yeah.”
“Not that I know… yet. I see where this is going.”
“Well, Nicolas is throwing a small soirée and, well, I got him to invite you again.”
Even though the food smelled delicious and arrived at the perfect time, Emily felt her smile loosen. She took off her shoes and threw them in the vague direction of her room.
“He’s fine with me coming?”, she said.
Mindy nodded. “Though I think he’s hoping for some drama.”
“Why?”
“Alfie’s gonna be there.”
Emily started choking in a particularly perfectly shaped piece of chicken, prompting Mindy to give her a couple of firm pats on the back. “He – Jesus Christ, I would’ve died if I was alone – does he know I’ll be there?”
“No.” There was glint of fire in Mindy’s eyes.
“So… ambush?”
“Ambush.”
“But what if he’s in pain? Or he storms out when he sees me? Or what if he – what if he brings a new girlfriend?”
“Alfie? Really? I think he has to know her social security number first – or whatever it is they have here – before he brings her along to a party. I think, all things considered, you’re fine. I’ve been stalking his Story. No girls there. Just a bunch of Whisky bottles. Which reminds me, I should get into alcohol, I do need another hobby.”
“Well… unless you count engineering chaos, Mindy.”
“I learned from the best, though you’re an accidental witch of chaos. You’ve never done a bad thing on purpose, you goodie two-shoes.”
Emily felt a sting in her heart. Mindy still hadn’t given her the okay to watch her and Benoît, yet Emily had done exactly that, fueling the movements of her own hand on her pussy by consuming the sound of her friend, wet and eager, riding the cock of a man who shouldn’t be there. Emily coughed.
“Well, maybe I have some parts of me yet unexplored.”
“Thanks for the info, girl, I was just enjoying my meal. What’s the plan for today?”
“I’ll be out. So, if you want a little unplanned visit from you-know-who, maybe plan it now?”
“Who are you out with? Luc, Silvie? Because it sure ain’t Camille or Gabriel. He left here like an hour ago, and I think she’d rather kill you than see you.”
Emily remembered Camille and Sofia, kissing on the roof. Meeting in secret. Maybe there was more to that story yet.
“I’m going to a secret event, hush-hush”, Emily said. With that, she wolfed down the rest of the food, gave Mindy a kiss on the forehead and a hug, and closed the door of her room behind her.
“You never tell me anything about those secret events you’re not supposed to tell anyone about!”, Mindy said. “That was a bit of a mouthful.”
“Can you help me pick an outfit?”, Emily asked. The mess of clothes in her drawer was looming over her – which parts of the old, new and intermediate me would make the journey to this secret event without breaking apart? She wanted to look the part of someone invited to these events, but ever since trying to join the all-black converse skater crowd at her school for – Clive – she knew that you had to let yourself grow into your wardrobe one accessory at a time.
“Is the President of France dating a woman he met in school and it’s a bit better than it sounds?”, Mindy asked back. She opened the door. “What’s the vibe?”
“The vibe is the kind of person who gets invited to secret parties.”
“Oh, sorry. Don’t know much about that. I have a friend, but she never wants to share.”
Emily pouted at Mindy, and Mindy touched her own heart, acting as if it were melting. Emily would remember this moment, she thought as Mindy started picking out clothes, because the light was just right and Mindy was her friend, truly.
“Come on.”
“You look smashing, Emily. So get smashed.”
“Mindy.”
“I mean it. A good fuck can solve some stuff, trust me.”
Like the one you had with Benoît?
Emily had never been this aware of her body before. She felt her skin all over, the way it touched her clothes, the way it folded at her waist when she sat down, how the skin of her fingers felt different from her shoulders, and neck, and so on. Of course, she realized she had a body even before others noticed it, even before somebody else touched it that way for the very first time. She remembered a girl in her gym class sometimes casting glances towards her in the locker that were meant to be hidden, were different from the way the other girls looked at each other. But her ex-boyfriend – her ex-fiancé, really – had touched her in ways she now realized were the worst things touches could be. Boring. He never made her light up from inside. But she was lit up, after the moment with Gabriel yesterday, after she had permitted her fantasies to truly fill her mind. She felt brightly lit by a dark light, because wasn’t it still dark? Wasn’t she still betraying Camille?
Stop Waiting, Cigarettes after Sex sang into her ear. Stop Waiting.
The cab stopped in front of a large building with multiple addresses. Rue something, 44. Emily got out. She had her ticket in her purse. It was a small, black thing – so much quieter than most of the things she used to wear, and darker, too. Yet she couldn’t say no to a spot of color: She was wearing bright violet tights beneath her black dress, and they disappeared into her dark, slightly high-heeled boots, her jacket a darker shade of violet draped over her shoulders. She had even chosen the darkest blue she could find for her eyelids. There was a name on the speaker that matched the one on the invitation, and Emily pressed it down. The door opened, and a young man, barely older than Sylvie’s young lover had been, looked out at Emily with kind eyes. He had the dark hair and olive skin of someone from the Middle East or a Mediterranean coast. He was dressed in all black.
« Peux-je vous aider?”, he asked. Can I help you?
« Oui, j’ai reçu cette invitation pour l’event… ici… aujourd-hui. »
« Ah, bien. Vous êtes de Savoir, non ? »
« Ah, oui. »
It was about as much French as Emily could speak very comfortably. Really, there was more she could say in the back of her mind – questions, mostly – but the French language was still a way to master situations, not one to create even more of them by asking too much. Would the entire evening be in French? She was so excited during her drive here that she simply forgot about how many of these events she always had to miss because she wouldn’t have understood them.
“Come in”, he said, “it’s the flat further down there.”
As Emily walked through, he stopped her.
“Wait a second. I have to ask, uhm – I have to – are you ready to see something today?”
“I’m here to see something, that’s why I came.”
“I mean… something. Sexual.”
“Are – are people gonna be…” Emily took a breath. “Are they gonna be fucking here?”
“No, no. Much more – plus erotique que pornographique. ”
« Ah, alors. C’est pas mal.”
Emily entered a large building that immediately echoed her steps. Past a couple of stairs and down a hallway, a couple of candles stood before a slightly opened door, a black-taped X on it as if to mark it as forbidden, or to mark it as even more interesting.
Inside, there was a small table set up with sparkling wine – no, it had to be champagne here, she was in France, after all – and small bites that, upon first look, appeared to be mostly vegan. Women – mostly women, anyway, with one or two exceptions – stood in small circles and whispered. It was lit as if by candle light, all the lights dimmed, with barely any furniture. A large flat – three rooms – with high ceilings that nobody seemed to live in. It smelled good – like cedar wood and vanilla, a strangely gentle scent that wrapped itself around Emily. She found its source in the scented candles spread around the rooms. There was something akin to a chaise-lunge in one of the rooms, with rests for legs on either side, almost like a gynecologist’s chair.
Finally, Emily allowed herself to look at the people.
Young people, once again mostly women, engaged in quiet conversation, either casually holding their glasses or clutching them, as if to make a point, as if there was nothing else to do in this world than talk with wine in your hand. Emily envied the French sometimes for this sort of understanding of themselves. Looking at young people talking, arms moving, eyes darting around, it seemed to easy to casually slip in and be French. It was impossible to be an American gracefully anywhere except for either large cities or small farms, but you could be French anywhere, stick out like a sore thumb with your frenchness – but still.
They were dressed provocatively, some of them, baring plenty of skin despite the cold air in the room, black fabric on white skin or dark brown skin-color fabric on dark skin, blurring the line between skin and clothing, looking almost nude. The lamps spread the light of dark candles. Emily imagined parties when aristocrats invited prostitutes to their home to look almost like this – in a compilation of important movies she’d seen a scene from Barry Lyndon, filmed entirely by candlelight, where two gazes met in a way so erotic it had made her heart flutter and sink at the thought of her fiancée at the time. So many signs.
There was a couch in the middle of the room, though it looked more like a very fine chaise-longue, and a woman of about Emily’s age and build lay on it, their only difference being her muscular legs while Emily had always stayed small, no matter how much she worked out. The woman was staring at the visitors from behind a mask that obscured her entire face except for her lips, cheeks and jawline, the lower third of her face.
Emily got some sparkling wine from a silver tray behind which stood a short man with the body of a professional gymnast. Behind him, a tall, lanky woman was counting bottles in a dark refrigerator. “Vous êtes aussi venu boire ici, non?” an older woman asked her, her dress silky and long, its many layers thin and see-through. Her long dark hair was slowly graying, and it looked to Emily as if she were Persian or Turkish.
“Ah non”, Emily answered, hoping that this would be the time they’d think she was actually French, “je suis venu pour faire une interview pour mon agence.”
“Ah, for your agency. Inteview. Watch. You’re for the press. American?”
Damn it.
“I’m – Hi, I’m Emily, first of all.” Emily stretched out her hand.
The woman took it. “I won’t say my name”, she said. “But I know who you are. It’s obvious now. Une amie que j'aime beaucoup m'a dit qu'il y avait une femme qui connaissait bien son métier, qui s'appelle Emily, et qui est américaine. »
A friend she likes a lot, Emily thought when putting the words together, told her I, an American Emily, know my stuff. Sylvie? But Emily knew better than to ask – if the woman across from her didn’t even tell her her own name, then she surely would keep other names to herself.
“It’s starting, I think”, she said. The woman finished her glass and grabbed another. “Come”, she told Emily. “It’s impolite to stand alone. It makes it seem as intime as the planner wanted, and we can’t have that.”
Emily followed the woman to a small group of other women. There were a couple of men present, but they did keep to themselves in some other corner of the room, sometimes absent-mindedly touching each other’s shoulders and occasionally sneaking a kiss if they were a couple.
A woman in black and gold robe entered the room. Her face was sharp and long, her nose big, her eyes a light shade of amber, reflecting the candles as if from within. The conversation fell silent.
At home, Emily went through her notes. It was early in the morning now, but she couldn’t sleep either way. She had made notes in French and English both, but now, to actually work through them, she made sure to translate them all, especially after getting help from the woman at the presentation who had spoken to her first. She had been – graciously so – kind enough to take Emily’s notebook and write down what was said with quick writing that betrayed a habit of journaling.
‘I’m glad you’re all here. I would also like to welcome those who are with me for the first time. This is a bit different from what I usually do.’
Emily had found out – by listening intently and asking the right question when needed – that this woman worked for one of the largest erotic shop chains in Europe, one that had its online store in almost every country, but was now looking to start her own business with high-end premium products that could provide something unique. Emily didn’t have to ask what that was. The gold-robed woman showed them.
‘I know that, today, there is an American among you, so if you can’t understand what I’m saying, my dear, that’s tough luck.’
A bit of laughter at Emily’s expense. Nothing she wasn’t used to in Paris.
‘But now, there’s a reason I invited all of you here. You are people I trust, artists I love, investors who I’ve met and who I know recognize a good thing when they see it – even if it’s, like here, in a dark room. I want to ask you – what is it you want the most?’
Lets question linger.
Continues:
‘It’s what you can’t have. The thing someone denies. Especially – yes, excruciatingly – if you were just about to grasp it. In my youth, I met the first – and, sorry, only – man who ever managed to teach me something about love. I was nineteen, going to study at Sorbonne, some of you know me from that time. He was working as a waiter not too far from the University, in a restaurant that is now closed. He stopped me on the street and asked me if I could ever imagine spending another minute with him at some point in the future when I’d have it. He didn’t look too great, normal, but there was something about him. We met twice before I took him to the flat I shared with my friend.
There, he taught me the power of denial.
This man, this average man, brought me to the brink before getting his clothes on, planting a kiss on my forehead and leaving. “Next time”, he told me, “I’ll finish you off.”
“Next time?”
“Tomorrow evening. You know where to find me. My hands are always clean.”
I went insane. I wanted to touch, myself, anyone, all night and all through the day, and I did, but I always waited just before I finished, stopped myself short just a few meters before. I found him when he was still working in the restaurant.
“Here?”, he asked. But I needed it. And I needed it to be him.
We went to the bathroom, he sat me down on the sink, spread my legs and pressed his forehead against mine.
“If you need it badly”, he said, “keep asking.”
I need not tell you that was a formative experience. But there was one part of the equation that I wasn’t sure about – him. He really was an average man in all but lovemaking, but nobody could give me quite this feeling after we broke up for another entirely stupid and petty reason. I wanted that same feeling, but I couldn’t really give it to myself – part of what made the experience so exciting was the uncontrollable aspect of it. Not a lack of consent, but a lack of power in a way I needed. Not fear, but excitement and nervosity.’
She waits.
Emily remembered the way she felt, with a distinct flush to her cheeks she hoped nobody could see in the dark.
‘What if something I could control, hold in the palm of my hand even, could still give me this feeling of wild unpredictability, the power of another person?’
She lifted her robe – revealing herself to be wearing a tight jumpsuit underneath – to show a small object in her hand that looked much like a satisfier. Emily recognized the vibrator Sylvie had given her, although this version looked different – was the one she had a prototype, or just some previous design by the same person? Whatever it was, the device in the woman’s hand looked high end, black with a matte finish.
‘The teaser.’
Emily’s note: Name is still a work in progress.
The woman in gold continued then. With a slow and sensual movement, the masked woman on the chaise-longue spread her legs ever so slightly apart. Moving her robe up, Emily could see a patch of skin showing between her legs, a pussy with its pubic hair shaved into a V-shape.
‘I assume most of you have seen enough vibrators to fill a lifetime, but what’s special about this one?’
Hands vibrator to masked. Continues.
Emily felt herself get flushed while going through her notes. She leaned against the cold wall, her back and body hot in a t-shirt, then kept reading and writing, copying, thinking of ways to present all of this to Sylvie.
‘With the aid of an AI chip exclusively designed by Anatoliy Krimko, thank you for coming, this vibrator won’t seem much unlike most you’ll find at first. The first weeks of regular use, it will learn your habits, know when you turn it on and off, when you come.’
A sound. The vibrator turns on. Woman with mask puts it on clit. Woman in robe continues.
‘Like many lovers, it needs time to learn your body. Learn your habits. Once it does – it will know when you approach your breaking point, when the waves crash over, when you come. And it will turn off right before. Randomly.’
Somebody whistles through their teeth. Woman in mask moans.
Did the older woman have to write this down? Emily looks over the writing. It’s slower now, less hectic, curvier.
‘Yes. Loraine here does not know what to expect.’
Woman breathes in deeply. Her legs move. Her lips purse, her mouth hangs open.
Emily got her vibrator from her closet. She would not end the night without it, but she had to get through the rest of the notes first. There was no reason to do anything after a good orgasm, at least for half an hour, after which you might as well come again before doing any work. And that’s not the type of girl Emily is. Right?
Woman moans louder.
‘I’m gonna cum’, she says.
Woman in gold spreads her arms.
‘Let’s see about that.’
Sound off. Loud moan. Exhasparated. Woman in mask is about to throw vibrator away. Sighs deeply. ‘P-poutain’. Was very close.
We were all watching her, Emily thought. I watched her. I really liked watching her. I want to be watched like that. No, I don’t. But I want to think about being watched like that when I come. I want to come so badly. Later.
‘Let’s give Loraine here a small round of quiet applause.’
People applaud quietly.
‘Next time, she might be more lucky.’
Woman in gold slowly takes back vibrator.
‘It might deny her two times, three times. You can set a maximum amount, a minimum amount using our app, which you will be able to download through an exclusive QR code in your packaging. But I say not to limit its possibilities too much – let it surprise you. Because when it does, you will feel it. All of it.’
Emily remembered the rest of the evening without the notes. Four masked people dressed in black walked out carrying small packages of the vibrator on a silver tray, as proof-of-concept. They were to be looked at and made notes on, not taken home.
The woman in gold took long hard looks at Emily in particular. Emily felt so small under her gaze. The fact she’d gotten aroused at the show almost felt wrong, even though Emily was perfectly sure that had been the point, come on. She felt like mom had caught her masturbating.
The older woman handed the book back to her. “Thank you so much”, Emily said, keeping her voice down so as not to break the air of mystery in the room.
“Thank you”, she answered. “Writing this down for you – it felt good.”
Emily looked at her, and she looked back, unafraid.
“Felt good – like how?”
“You know how.”
With that, the older woman gave a hug to the woman in gold, whispered something in her ear and left.
When Emily approached the woman in gold, she felt the cold air many French people had at first. Instead of greeting her or talking to her, the woman in gold reached into a pocket and pulled out not the vibrator, as Emily had foolishly hoped she would, but a business card.
Lys. Lys de la nuit. The lilly of the night.
“Is this your name?”
“You could say that. Reach out to me if you’re interested. Don’t come without a concept. Thank you for coming.”
That was it. Emily had questions, things she wanted to say or know more about, but it felt like this sort of interaction was part of a test, another way to see if she knew her stuff, if she was up to the task, a prude American who’s always weird about sex versus a French sort of liberté, erotic and still dangerous.
At home, Emily sighed. She had too many ideas and none, and if she wanted to sleep, she needed to do it now.
She lay back, covered herself with a blanket and turned the vibrator on. But something was missing – there was something she wanted to do. She removed the blanket, took off all her clothes and lay there, naked in her room, slightly cold from the air, spreading her legs at – Gabriel. And Alfie. And some people maybe, nondescript, detached, watching her merely to be entertained.
“Fuck”, she muttered under her breath. The thought of Gabriel touching her in the hallway, making her cum. She tried to keep her mind focused on him, but it went back to the way Alfie’s abs tensed when he came, the way he’d grabbed her hair. They had had more sex than Emily and Gabriel, so there was more to tune into, more thoughts to have. With a shuddered breath, her mind fixed on Gabriel choking her, Alfie spanking her bare ass in that candle-lit room on the chaise-longue, the older woman writing her notes while looking up at them, she came.
Little did she know that, on her desk at work, there was already a knew invitation to the next Maison Lavaux launch event.