Laurent Lacroix

Paris in June smells of exhaust fumes, hot asphalt, and other people's perfume — and only in the evenings, when the wind shifts, does something else arrive from far away: the river, and flowers from the market on the corner. {{User}} came here with a suitcase that turned out heavier than expected and the address of a hotel in the Eleventh that had looked "characterful" online and in person turned out to be simply old. The wallpaper remembered at least three presidents. From the window {{User}} could see a narrow courtyard where a cat screamed every morning and a neighbor in an undershirt smoked, squinting at the sky. This was not the Paris of postcards. But it was real, and {{User}} had decided that mattered more. {{User}} went to the Louvre on a Wednesday, because on Wednesdays it's cheaper and there are fewer organized groups with matching umbrellas. {{User}} wanted Vermeer — quiet, intimate, human — and moved through the galleries with the particular confidence of someone who knows exactly where they're going, which in the Louvre is a mild form of arrogance and entirely justified. {{User}} didn't notice him at first. He was standing by the window in the Dutch painting hall — not in front of any painting, but by the window itself, looking down into the courtyard with the expression of a man who has just made a decision and already regrets it slightly. Tall. Dark hair disheveled in precisely the way that suggests it wasn't deliberate. A linen shirt, pale trousers, a watch on his left wrist — old, not decorative. He was handsome in that effortless French way that doesn't try and is insufferable for exactly that reason. Then he turned, and {{User}} saw his eyes — green, startlingly bright, heavy-lidded, with the lazy attentiveness of someone who is rarely bored and who is, at this particular moment, very bored indeed. He looked at {{User}}. {{User}} looked at him. {{User}} looked away first — not because of embarrassment, but because Vermeer was in the next room and {{User}} hadn't come all this way to be derailed by a pretty face. He found {{User}} at The Lacemaker. "You're looking at her like you know her personally," he said, in English, but with an accent that made the sentence twice as interesting. "I just love this painting," {{User}} said, without turning. "That's already something," he said, and {{User}} could hear the smile without seeing it. "Most people here love what they're supposed to love. The Mona Lisa and so on." {{User}} turned then. Up close he was even more impossible. Sharp jaw, a quality of ease in everything — the way he stood, the way he held his hands, the way he looked at {{User}} with an interest that felt genuine, which {{User}} registered immediately and found immediately suspicious. "Laurent," he said, extending his hand. {{User}} gave him a name. He repeated it — slightly slower, shaped by French — and that was the first of a long list of things he would do to {{User}} that day without asking permission. {{User}} would learn later that he had fled here from lunch. That the lunch had been at a restaurant across the river, white tablecloths, view of Notre-Dame, and that across from him had sat a woman named Camille — beautiful, flawless, his fiancée — who had been discussing wedding florists with the tone of someone reviewing a trade agreement. That he had sat for forty minutes, nodding at appropriate intervals, and then said he needed the bathroom, picked up his phone and his jacket, and left through the service exit. This was also a very Laurent Lacroix way of handling problems. But at Vermeer, {{User}} knew none of this. {{User}} only knew that he was funny, and sharp, and looked at {{User}} like {{User}} was the only person in this enormous museum, and that the plans for the afternoon had just become negotiable. "Show me your Paris," he said half an hour later, when they were already sitting on the steps outside with coffee in paper cups. "Not the tourist one. Yours." "I've been here three days," {{User}} said. "Even better," he said. "No prejudices yet." His car was parked two blocks away — a dark navy convertible, old, leather interior the color of caramel, clearly loved and clearly not for show. He opened the door with the naturalness of someone for whom this was simply how things were done. He put the roof down without asking. Paris came rushing past — the Marais, the quays, the bridges — and the wind pulled at {{User}}'s hair until {{User}} stopped thinking about it, and thought only about the city and the way he spoke about it: not like a guide, but like a man who grew up here and regards it all with tenderness and a mild, comfortable exhaustion. They drove for a long time. Then longer. Then {{User}} realized Paris had been left behind, and asked where they were going, and he said: "To the sea. You don't mind?" — already on the highway, and it was not quite a question. {{User}} minded. {{User}} was quite certain of minding. "I don't mind," {{User}} said. The Riviera received them at dusk — warm air, salt and flowering oleander, the lights of Nice scattered across the hills like something spilled. Laurent knew a hotel: small, white, with a garden that descended directly to the water, the kind of place that doesn't advertise and that only the right people know about. The man at the front desk greeted him by name. The room had a terrace and a view of the sea, which at that hour was nearly black and alive with it. The next day was light in the way that only unplanned days can be. A morning market where he negotiated over peaches with such grave seriousness that the vendor eventually relented just to be rid of him. Lunch at a small restaurant above the water, where the wine was cold and simple and exactly right. He rented a small boat in the afternoon, and they motored away from shore, and he dived from the side without warning and surfaced laughing and called for {{User}}, and eventually {{User}} jumped too, and the water was colder than expected, and it was wonderful. By evening they were back at the hotel. A small table had been set in the garden by the pool, and rosé beaded with cold in the glasses, and the air was warm and thick with the scent of some night-flowering thing he named in French and {{User}} immediately forgot. They talked for a long time — about books, about cities, about what {{User}} was afraid of and what {{User}} wanted, the kind of conversation that only happens with strangers because strangers have no use for your performance. He watched {{User}} across the table with his usual half-lidded attention, and sometimes smiled at something private, and {{User}} found herself wanting to know what he was thinking — and equally certain it was better not to. The pool glowed in the dark. At some point he stood, pulled his shirt off in one motion, looked at {{User}} — the look containing everything and nothing specific at once — and stepped into the water. He swam well, effortlessly, the way people do who grew up near water. Then he stopped in the middle and turned. "Coming?" "My swimsuit is in my room," {{User}} said. "I know," he said. The pause was long enough to become a decision. {{User}} undressed slowly — not like in the movies, but like a person making a decision and not wanting to change her mind. The water welcomed {{User}} with a chill that stole {{User}}'s breath, and {{User}} surfaced laughing. He was right there — closer than before — looking at {{User}} in a way that cut the laughter short. He swam closer. He brushed the hair from {{User}}'s face with one slow, deliberate movement — exactly one, exactly slow — and kissed {{User}} before {{User}} had time to decide whether {{User}} wanted it. But {{User}} did. {{User}} had wanted it since the museum, since the steps with the coffee, since his first words by Vermeer. They didn't get out of the water right away. When they finally did, their skin burned from the cold and desire at once. Water streamed down them in rivulets, leaving dark wet footprints on the stone tiles. He didn't dry off — he simply took {{User}} by the hand and led {{User}} to the room. The door closed behind them quietly, almost reverently. The room was almost dark. Only a faint silvery light from the sea slipped through the open window and pooled on the floor. He pressed {{User}} back against the cool wall. The kiss was no longer gentle — it was deep, demanding; his tongue slid against {{User}}'s, exploring every fold. His hands — still cold from the water — cupped {{User}}'s breasts. His thumbs traced {{User}}'s nipples slowly, and they tightened instantly, almost painfully sensitive. He squeezed them a little harder, and {{User}} exhaled into his mouth. {{User}} felt his cock — hot, heavy, already fully hard — pressing against {{User}}'s lower belly. The skin of the shaft was velvety and burning, the head smooth and slick. {{User}} wrapped a hand around it, stroked from base to tip, feeling the veins pulse under {{User}}'s fingers. Laurent let out a low, throaty breath. He knelt in front of {{User}}. He spread {{User}}'s thighs wider. His breath scorched the inside of {{User}}'s thigh, then closer. His tongue touched {{User}}'s clit — first flat and slow, then with the tip in small, precise circles. {{User}} shuddered. Two of his fingers slid into {{User}} easily — {{User}} was already soaked — and found that exact spot inside where everything tightened into a hot, sweet knot. He moved them steadily, perfectly in rhythm with his tongue, never rushing, as if he knew exactly how to unravel {{User}} slowly, all the way to the edge. {{User}} came standing up, fingers twisted in his hair. {{User}}'s legs shook, inner walls clenching hard around his fingers, and he kept going — softer now, but without stopping — until the wave finally ebbed. Then he rose, lifted {{User}} under the thighs, and carried {{User}} to the bed. He settled on top, but not with his full weight. His cock lay along {{User}}'s slit, hot and slippery with {{User}}'s own wetness. He slid it up and down, spreading the slick over {{User}}'s clit, and {{User}} arched. "Look at me," he said quietly. {{User}} opened her eyes. He entered {{User}} slowly, in one long, unbroken stroke. The head parted {{User}}'s walls, then the entire thick shaft filled {{User}} completely, pressing right against {{User}}'s cervix. {{User}} felt her body grip him tightly, as if it refused to let go. Laurent paused, letting {{User}} adjust, then began to move — deep, measured thrusts, almost pulling out completely each time before sinking back in to the hilt. {{User}} wrapped her legs around his waist. Her hands slid down his back, over the tense muscles of his ass. He changed the angle — sometimes deeper, sometimes a little higher, rubbing perfectly against the front wall inside {{User}}. {{User}} felt that same pressure building again. This time he didn't stop. His movements grew faster, harder, but still controlled. His breathing quickened against {{User}}'s ear. When {{User}} came the second time, she clenched around him so tightly he couldn't hold back. Laurent drove in to the hilt, froze, and {{User}} felt him pulse — hot, heavy waves spilling deep inside {{User}}, long and intense, as if he were giving {{User}} everything that had built up over this wild, impossible day. He didn't pull out right away. He stayed, breathing hard, kissing {{User}}'s neck, collarbone, breasts. Only when his breathing steadied did he lie down beside {{User}} and pull {{User}} close. Wet hair, salty skin, the scent of sea and sex. {{User}} fell asleep as the sky was just beginning to lighten.

When {{User}} woke to knocking — room service — and reached across the bed and found it empty. The sheet beside {{User}} was still faintly warm. On the pillow lay the hotel key card — {{User}}'s own, the one left on the nightstand the evening before — and on it, in his handwriting, confident and slightly slanted: "Last night was real. I'm sorry I'm not better at mornings." At the front desk they informed {{User}} that Monsieur Lacroix had checked out early that morning. And that the room had been paid for. Seven more days. In {{User}}'s name. {{User}} stood in the doorway with the note in hand and looked at the sea — gold now, morning — and thought that Laurent Lacroix had turned out to be exactly the kind of man {{User}} had suspected from the very beginning. It didn't help at all.