The Seine’s scars had faded, but mine lingered. Albert’s grave fresh at Montmartre. I invited Fernand, his comrade, to the apartment—Charles-Henri’s gift from beyond. Overlooking the Eiffel Tower, now taller with its new antenna, a 330-meter sentinel. Velvet curtains frame the view. Crystal chandelier scatters light on mahogany. I uncork Veuve Clicquot, bubbles sharp on my tongue, golden fizz in Baccarat flutes. Fernand arrives, bouquet trembling in his callused hands. Roses, deep red, thorns pricking. His suit clings, war-worn but pressed. We dine: foie gras melting, oysters salty, bread crisp from Saint-Honoré. Candle flames dance. We speak of Albert’s coughs, trenches, the gas that stole his eyes, then breath. Fernand’s wife fled with another, a bastard child in their bed. Eyes meet. Mine plead. His hesitate. Dinner ends. He rises. ‘Stay,’ I whisper, hand on his. Lips brush his neck. He freezes. Then crushes me close. Leather armchair creaks as we sink.
His mouth claims mine, rough, hungry. Tongue invades, tasting champagne and grief. Fingers tear lace chemise—whisper-thin, inherited silk. Breasts spill free, nipples harden under his thumbs. I gasp. He growls. Skirt hikes, garters snap. No words. I shove him back, straddle. Unzip his trousers. Cock springs, thick, veined, pulsing. War-hardened. I grip, stroke. Pre-cum slicks my palm. He groans, paws my ass, spreads cheeks. Fingers probe wet folds. I drip. Soak his hand. Sink down. Impale. Stretch full. Ride hard. Hips grind, clit grinds pubic bone. Breasts bounce, he sucks one, bites. Pain sparks pleasure. Tower lights flicker outside, indifferent. Sweat beads on his chest, mixes with my perfume—jasmine heavy. Faster. Deeper. Balls slap ass. I claw shoulders. He thrusts up, brutal. Fills me. Owns me. Climax builds. Muscles clench. I shatter, scream muffled in his neck. He follows, floods hot, ropes deep. Collapse. Panting. Sticky. Entwined.
The Privilege
Dawn filters through heavy drapes. Tower silhouette sharp. We rise. Marble tub fills, steaming. Chamomile soap lathers skin. His hands gentle now, wash me. I wash him. No rush. Breakfast: croissants flaky, coffee bitter-black. He dresses. I slip into negligee, translucent. Kiss at door. ‘Secret,’ I murmur. Walls of glass and stone guard it. Paris buzzes below—inundations, wars, loves lost. Floods recede. Lovers renew. I smile. Alone again. But alive. Flesh sated. Heart mended, sliver by sliver. The elite know: luxury veils the raw. This penthouse holds my truths—Charles-Henri’s ghost, Albert’s shadow, Fernand’s seed. Door clicks shut. Silence. Champagne glass lingers, half-full. I sip. Ready for more.
