In this moment of suspension, we look at each other fixedly without a word. If eyes are the window to the soul, then ours unfold a picture of wild meteors, smoldering lava and frenzy. Adrian drops the knife and nests me against him so fiercely it hurts. He claims my mouth in a furious kiss, and I find myself reciprocating with ardor. His possessive tongue rolls around mine and invades each corner of my mouth mercilessly. He grazes his teeth across my lips, his experienced hands taking in my breasts, trailing to my waist and further down to my sex. I grope for him too, pressing my fingers to his cock, fondling the hard length, longing for it to be inside me. I want to know all of him, kiss his chest, lick his belly, toy with his navel...

I undo one button of his shirt.

"Don't," he growls seizing my wrist.

"What?"

I'm disconcerted. His harsh tone hits me with the unsettling feeling of falling from a rooftop. I'm left sprawled on the asphalt facing a pair of eyes as unyielding and cold as steel. They reflect a wall.

"I don't like to be touched."

"What do you mean? How can you make love if—"

"I don't make love, Annabelle. I fuck."

A never-ending pause ensues. There's no longer desire between us. It has been replaced with strain. Palpable strain.

I gesture toward the bottle on the coffee table. "You see that? It's a complex wine made of selected grapes and aged to expand in flavor, texture and aroma. It gratifies the senses and ultimately the soul. And you, despite your expensive taste in wine, settle for a cheap bottle in bed. I've had my fair share of second-rate wine, Adrian. I prefer the other kind."

As he listens, his eyes become inscrutable. They soften and at the same time translate a renewed intensity.

I don't care what he thinks. I start to pull away to get my cape.

"I'd like to go home."

But he holds my hand.

"Stay."

"What for?" I hesitate for a split second. "We're not making love and we're definitely not fucking."

"We could do something else."

I frown. I frown and admire his face, for there's a different quality to it surfacing in this instant. What is it? I can't explain in words. Maybe, after all the pent-up tension has been dropped, Adrian is allowing himself to lower his guard.

He flashes a smile that throws my resolve off balance and makes me want to stay, contract or no contract, fuck or no fuck.

"What else could we do, Adrian?"

"Finish that bottle of wine together, Annabelle."

The hours trickled, lazy hours by the fire as we sat on the thick rug, our backs against the coffee table, nipping at a bowl of strawberries stolen from the kitchen, emptying one bottle of Conti to open yet another. I told him about my summers at the beach in Pornichet when I was a girl, taking swimming lessons with my uncle and daydreaming I was a mermaid. He told me about his passion for flying, how he felt one with his plane and exhilaratingly free riding the clouds, alone in the infinite where no one could judge him.

Now we watch the flames in silence while a dreamy song plays. It talks of not being afraid to speak out. Listen to what your soul is singing and let it be heard...

Adrian sips his wine and studies me, intrigued.

"You really thought I was a serial killer?"

"Potentially, yes."

"So why are you here?"

It's my turn to study him. His bare feet and long legs stretching out, the solid torso I wasn't allowed to touch, the hands that could instantly change hurt into a caress. The harmony in his features and the invitation in his mouth. His eyes and what lies beyond them.

"I liked you, Adrian. I wanted to see past the gloss."

"But now you deem me a pervert."

"Absolutely."

"Just because of the contract."

I sigh and clasp the cape to my body, folding my legs under my hips.

"The word just and that contract don't belong in the same sentence, Adrian. The whole thing is too... weird."

He shrugs, his gaze once more on the dancing flames.

"It can be pleasurable, you know. For both of us."

"How exactly?" I also keep my eyes on the fire. The uneasiness sneaks back between us. "My body is not a doormat for your boots and your crops. It's soft and meant to be a haven. And don't even get me started on the food clause. I'm French. I like hearty meals."

He's no longer facing the fireplace. He's facing me, one hand carelessly landing on the table, the other under my chin.

"I know. And right now I want to fuck you hard. And make love to you. Make you ache. Kiss you senseless until you forget who you are. Until you forget all about your damn croissants."

I can't help a smile that's soon replaced with seriousness.

"Why me, Adrian?"

"Because you're real. As real as I'd thought you would be."

He nuzzles my neck. With a quiver, I half-close my eyes as he sucks the base of my throat and lingers there. The pressure stings slightly.

"What are you doing?"

"Marking you, Annabelle."

"Oh for Christ's sake. That's so passé."

"Shhh."

Adrian rises to his feet, picks up a cushion from the chaise lounge and drops it in front of the fireplace.

"Lay down on your stomach with your hips on top of the cushion," he commands.

Something in Adrian's quiet tone tells me this is not the time to argue. I do as instructed. He grabs the napkins on the table and kneels before me.

"Do you trust me, Annabelle?"

I look into his fervent eyes. They're transparent.

"Yes."

"Give me your wrists."

I obey. He fastens them together with one rolled napkin and two firm knots, tying me then to the leg of the heavy table. The second napkin is used to blindfold me. I enter a world of darkness and vulnerability. I sense Adrian moving to my side. His body heat. The crinkle of the fire that warms my feet. The song in the album and its fading lyrics: You see a man's face, his heart still a mystery.

Adrian sweeps my hair to the side and stamps a velvet kiss on my nape. His hand runs along my back and lifts the cape, pulling down my panties. It presses my clitoris, outlines my labia with gentle tugs, plays at my entrance, testing me. There's nothing to test, actually. I'm so wet. He's kindling me with alternated soft and incisive motions while the other hand caresses my buttocks. I sigh for more.

For a brief lapse there's nothing. No movement, no caress. Then in a heartbeat he spanks me once, twice, three times in succession, with increasing force at each strike.

"What the hell..." I gasp.

"Relax," Adrian murmurs in my ear. "Deep underneath the tissues, this area concentrates a multitude of nerve endings. The spanking stimulates them so you become more sensitive to pleasure."

Adrian massages my reddened skin; it scorches and tingles deliciously. Next, he applies light, very light strokes. It's just—heaven.

"Do you feel helpless and exposed?" he breathes through my hair, giving me yet another quiver. When I nod, he asks: "Does it feel good?" And when I nod the second time, I sense his smile.

Another smack comes out of the blue. I squirm, which triggers friction between my clitoris and the cushion.

Ohhh...

"Spread your legs."

He positions himself between them, anchoring his palms to my inner thighs and parting me further to receive his tongue. It flicks and laps and taunts, inside me, around me. One hand lashes a snap at my sex. I almost jump, then it's like that rich Conti wine is coursing through my veins in a current of giddiness and euphoria.

I can't believe what this man is doing to me.

"I'll be right back," he says, and the heat of his heaving skims across my shoulders.

I'm left with the fire and the melody. Trembling.

A minute later I hear Adrian's steps dampened by the rugs. He's kneeling again and fingering me to make sure I'm ready. Something round and cool slides on my buttocks. A string of metal beads. He lubricates my behind with cold gel and inserts them one by one while massaging my clitoris. Contradicting reactions—I'm somehow uneasy yet I experience intense pleasure. Intense. He's rubbing himself on me, and I'm about to collapse with frustrated desire. His erection is silky, hot, rock hard. I need him. Inside.

A tearing sound. Condom wrap. Seconds pass. Fire, melody, his presence so close. At last I feel him. Adrian in me. Slowly, slowly. One single, smooth motion up to my core, merging into rough thrusts, harder thrusts. Faster, faster. In my darkness I see his face and I call his name as I spiral in a vertigo. He grips my hair, retrieving the beads the same way he had inserted them, one by one. At each sphere he withdraws, I die a little as if I were dissolving in a stormy sea. The climax enraptures me so powerfully it borders the unbearable. Shaken by spasms, I scream my release.

I rest my face against the rug, panting. Adrian stills for a moment and pulls out of me. He leans over, brushing his chest on my back, brushing off some errant tresses from my cheek to give it a downy kiss. I'm untied and the blindfold is removed. His whisper lingers in my ear: "Lay down on your back so I can see your eyes." He pauses. "I want to come with you now. In my haven."

We stare into each other. We fuse into each other. And he does.

I wake up to the grey morning, and the vivid scenes from last night flood my memory. The final image imprinted in my mind is that of our sated bodies cuddled up together by the fire, skin with skin, under a spread grabbed from an armchair in the study. We were too wasted to make it to the bedroom.

I blink a couple of times to adjust my sight and look around. I inhale sharply in surprise and sit up, still disoriented at the familiar surroundings. The bookcase heavy with second-hand and new copies. The red desk. The antique wardrobe with mirrored doors. Of course. I'm in my own bedroom. It's all been a dream. I sigh. It's Saturday, I have the whole day to myself. I look forward to spending time at the gym and meeting up later with friends for lunch and perhaps a trip to the museum. Life is good.

Nonetheless, I can't deny I'm a bit disappointed. What a dream.

I close my eyes for a moment, remembering his scent. Fresh like spring water. I stretch my arms and lay one hand on the pillow. It brushes against something, so I glance at it. It's a small white box with an envelope tucked in the side. I draw it out, open it and read the card.

Good morning, beautiful.

I hope you slept well. I'll send my driver to fetch you tonight at 8 pm so we can further discuss our arrangement over dinner.

A.

I open the box. Inside it, I find my favorite thing in the world.

A croissant au chocolat.

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Thanks for reading! If you liked this story, you can check out my novel RED: A Love Story on my profile, which got over 2 million reads and was released by Something Or Other Publishing. You can also check out Red 2: A Trick of Mirrors here on Wattpad, guaranteed to leave you on the edge of your seat :)  xoxo

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Music credits for Mr. Million Meets His Match:

1. Ravel's Bolero -- London Symphony Orchestra/Valery Gergiev

2. What your soul sings -- Massive Attack

3. Exchange -- Massive Attack