Cadmus out of bed was even more intoxicating than he was in bed. She had memorized his scent after all of these years, sitting close beside him at the bar where he had picked her up.
Again.
Returning to the scene of the crime, even the jaded bartender was moved because it was obvious that something was between them. She touched his face as if she was fussing with him—but there was nothing to fuss with. He did the same to her, they could not stop fussing with their air, their auras.
He raised his glass of wine to her lips, and the graze of the glass against her lips was electric. But before she could sip, he pulled the glass away.
Mathilde smiled, but her smile was wan. It was hard to feel all of this again for him. And remember everything she had thought she had risen above.
There was no rising above any of it.
He placed his hand on her knee, and she fussed with nothing. Tugging at his tie, the skin of his throat warm and she was submerged in her thoughts of what was this?
He placed his glass to her lips again, and the electricity returned at her lips between her legs. Mathilde for the first time would not run, she was in Paris with this man and she was not going to run away.
A woman walked into the bar, and up to the both of them. Cadmus looked cautious.
Cleo, this was the woman he had told her about that was in New York.
New York was foreign to Mathilde now, the only thing she knew was Cadmus beside her and this woman who stood beside them.
More Masturbation Monday here:
Is there no rising above it because she is who she is, regardless of how she tries to reinvent herself? (These are the questions I ask myself!)