nip.
She shudders.
I take my time, running my nose along her neck, then I whisper, “I’ve thought about you all day, pictured you in your office, wondered what you’d wear to the train station. And now, here you are.” I pull back.
Her eyes are glassy. She’s in a daze. “Now here I am.”
So’s the train though.
As it rumbles into the station, we separate, but I don’t want to. Do we have to draw a line between fantasy and reality? Or for one glorious week, can we exist in this blurred world?
My eyes stray to her left hand and a shiny red stone in a platinum band. She’s such a planner—always thinking.
“Your wedding ring is even more gorgeous in person,” I say, running my thumb over it.
I show her the band I picked up at a jewelry store.
She runs her finger across the metal. “I love it. It says you’re mine,” she whispers.
I reach for our bags and take her hand in my other, threading my fingers through hers like I would if she were my wife.
The sleek silver bullet rattles to a stop, doors sliding open, and we step on.
I feel like I’m stepping into another world.
We settle into our seats in the first-class cabin. The train ride is only an hour. She’s distracted, checking her luggage, checking her phone, checking her tablet. She takes out a book from her purse. Sets the purse down at her feet. Opens the book.
I watch her, more emotions than I’m accustomed to rising in my chest. Desire? Passion?
But there’s more.
There’s longing.
Affection too.
But lust seems to win out, like the solo instrument in a Beethoven concerto.
Or perhaps I’m simply feeling the way that only music has made me feel before. Music and women.
Everything seems possible, beautiful, sensual.
I don’t want to stop the charade with Scarlett.
So I don’t, but I slow the pace, steer the moment around the corner, sensing that’s what she needs. As the train pulls out of the station, I don’t return to Daniel and Scarlett.
I stay as Mr. and Mrs. “Did you have a busy day, love?”
That seems to ease her mind. She sets down the book. “I did,” she says, and then we pretend as newlyweds.
We play these parts. She tells me about the book she’s been reading, an adventure tale, and where it’s taking her. She talks about how much she loves the story and the escape it gives her.
I begin to understand her a little more. The way she reads so ravenously, the way stories both seem to help her leave her own head and drive her to think more deeply.
“It’s the same for me,” I tell her, showing her the fantasy novel on my phone I’ve been enmeshed in. The story of another world, another realm, where anything is possible, and where heroes with tragic flaws overcome their Achilles’ heels.
Soon, we’re farther away from Paris, closer to Giverny, but not quite there.
We’re in between.
It only seems fitting to turn the corner once again. Move closer to where I want to be, where she wants to be.
I set my hand on her thigh. “We’re almost there. Did you think about our trip all day?”
Her gaze drifts down to my hand, like she’s assessing the placement. Confirming that she likes it with the hint of a smile, a bob of her head. A yes. “I did. I kept myself wildly entertained all throughout Paris wondering when we would finally be able to get away for our weeklong . . . tryst,” she says, lingering on that very last word.
Tryst.
So this is how it goes.
We’ll be spinning a fable. Playing pretend. Indulging in a tryst.
We are giving ourselves permission to be these other selves.
“I thought about you too. Wondered if you’d wear a dress on the train.” I regard the line of her hem, how it shows off her creamy thighs, her bare skin. “Imagined having my hands in those gorgeous red locks of yours. Have I told you how stunning your hair is?”
She trembles, flicking some of the strands. “Do you like it?”
“It turns me on. The way it falls down your shoulders. The way I think about gathering it in my hands.” I pause, taking a beat, locking my gaze with hers before I add roughly, “Tugging on it.”
“You could do that,” she whispers, her voice all feathery.
The train rumbles along the tracks.
The lights are dim. The car is quiet. Barely anyone is in this carriage. Twilight falls outside. Paris is well and truly behind us, falling away as