At twelve-thirteen, Sophie Martin cuts a stem and slides it into the floral cushion. Her hands move steadily, and her eyes burn with concentration. She adds deft touches of green with dashes of yellow, white, and pink.
Vivienne Chassé sits and watches, sipping coffee. She mourns the death of her lifelong friend, and the flower arrangement rouses a melancholic smile. Profound grief mingles with cherished memories of brighter days spent together.
At twelve-twenty, the bell rings, and Sophie’s nimble fingers remain undisturbed.
It is Claire Deschamps, the co-owner of this florist shop, who gasps first.
“Marc.”
The final stem trembles in Sophie’s hand and pierces the cushion. She looks up, and he stands at the threshold to the sun-drenched plaza. His creased linen flaps in the breeze, and this year, he arrives early... and alone. His tanned skin shines like polished sandstone, and his hair flows like the mane of a wild stallion. He stirs her body with a carnal flush across her freckled cheekbones. His emerald eyes ignite hers to smoulder. Her bee-stung lips curl, and her proud jaw tilts.
Every year, she dares him to conquer her again.
Their gaze holds, and his earnest expression stirs a memory - their first kiss. Her spine tingles like he whispered her pet name - Visage Sale.
Dirty Face.
“Back again, like nothing happened?” Claire mutters, eyes narrowing.
Vivienne’s eyes widen.
His jewel-bright gaze lingers on Sophie for a moment, and dulls like glass when he turns away. The door closes, and like a spectre, his shadow vanishes. Distracting herself, Sophie primps the floral arrangement, and the lavender scent from the plaza evokes memories of their illicit romance. Her sigh echoes softly, rousing Claire from her thoughts.
“Every year, Sophie,” she whispers, “every year, your reaction is always the same.”
Sophie turns to Vivienne, tilting her head with a gentle, understanding smile. In this small gesture, she lets her own sorrow reach out in silent empathy.
“My condolences, again.”
Setting down her coffee cup, Vivienne rises, her curiosity fading from her face.
“Thank you, and this is wonderful. Very fitting.”
Struggling in pain, she maintains her dignity and reaches for her purse.
“Please,” Sophie soothes, “no charge.”
At twelve-thirty, she folds her pinafore on the counter and flips the sign to ‘Closed.’ As a stray petal falls from her arm, a phantom spark of Marc’s caress warms her body.
Claire folds her pinafore and places it alongside Sophie’s. Her flinty eyes flash with concern.
“We need to talk.”
Sophie nods solemnly, “As we do every year.”
In Saint-Rémy-de-Provence, Yves Guertin expects them. Amongst the hibiscus and wisteria, their usual table awaits.
Sophie does not know, but the next two days will change her life forever.
-==-
Eating her lunch, Sophie’s gaze lingers on the salvia and peonies in the cobbled square. The breeze caresses them, like Marc’s hands upon her naked body.
Under an infinite starlit sky, Sophie advanced, eighteen and a novice to desire. She wore her sensuality as an invisible cloak, drawing Marc into her silent enchantment. She stood proud, caressing the wheat stalks, and burned for his touch. Statuesque, her soft curls licked her shoulders. Spine curled, with her breasts thrust forward, their nipples as ripe cherries. Long in the body, her enticing hips swayed, and long, lithe legs stalked her prey. Where they met, she dripped with need.
Sophie aroused Marc with her mouth, studiously learning how to make him beg. His mouth buried in her folds, he propelled her beyond the apex of ecstasy to a feverish climax. Under the waxing moon, they cavorted amongst the milky shadows. They writhed as one, and he inspired her daydreams. Stirred by an unknown emotion, offering her devout cries to the night, her little death claimed her.
That evening lit an eternal flame, an all-consuming love.
An illicit love that roused her mother’s scorn.
In the shade at Yves' café, the Soupe au Pistou fades on the palate.
Claire rolls her eyes. “You are thinking about him again.”
Vacantly, she nods with a wistful smile, “I am.”
Claire tuts, “Why do you keep torturing yourself?”
Sophie shrugs, “Because.”
They share a glance as old as their friendship. As teenagers, with crooked teeth in braces, they dreamed wistfully of pop stars and their first kiss.
Claire’s timid expression raises the perennial question. “Do you still love him?”
She ponders it, and her eyes sharpen. “I do. But, I will not beg him again.”
A handsome younger man catches Sophie’s attention. He lingers for that second too long, and she pouts just enough to reveal her sultry eyes. He looks away, chastened, and her lips curl in quiet amusement.
Claire bears witness, and her gaze returns.
Sophie flashes her eyes. “Neither am I here to make boys into men.”
Claire grins, “No, one is enough, and you are still infatuated with him.”
Laughter follows, coquettish as women, not as young girls.
“Marc was alone.” Claire muses, “Do you think he is still with Lisette?”
Sophie leans in conspiratorially. “Artists cannot be tamed. It is a mistake to try.”
She frowns, “And you have Julien.”
Sophie hides the flicker of doubt in her mind. “I do, and he is handsome, smart, and we are well matched. But that sharp tongue cuts deep. With him, life is not dull.”
Dwelling on his reputation, they pause.
Sophie sips their sparkling water. “How are things between you and Antoine?”
Claire sighs, dreamily, “Great... still waiting for him to ask me. Seeing your reaction to Marc, it makes me wonder if I am settling for him.”
“Love is the only passion that does not suffer a past or a future.”
“You and your books,” Claire chuckles, “are we talking about Marc, Julien, or my Antoine?”
Sophie takes her hand. “Listen. Antoine is a very special man. I am sure he will propose soon.”
“He makes my heart miss a beat,” she leans in, first looking left then right, “and he is incredible in bed.”
They laugh, and Sophie’s pride for her best friend sparkles in her eyes.
Claire is spared the ache of losing her first love, a burden that she must bear alone.
-==-
Sophie wanders towards Julien’s Château. The sun relents as it must every day, igniting the sky in reds and pinks. She sways in white peasant cotton, cinched at her waist, licking at her ankles. Her dress, tailored with a laced bodice, holds back her honey-tanned breasts, presenting their deep cleavage. Her wanton looks can ensnare the most steadfast of hearts, including men like Julien.
The irony stings, her mother would approve of him, and a curse escapes her lips.
For those two years with Marc, Sophie endured her mother’s hostility. Her father, a romantic soul, rejoiced that her daughter found true love. When her parents separated, with her father exiled, another ultimatum followed: stay at home or lose her mother too.
On a miserable spring day, she rejected Marc.
All saplings develop a strong bark. In the resulting bitterness, Sophie left home, estranged from her mother, and tethered to a peerless love. She wandered lost, ensnared in a world of unrequited love, settling for second best.
The cooler breeze dances through her long chestnut hair, and she ambles with a sensual stride. Cicadas in the trees serenade her preoccupied mind. She reaches out to a row of lavender, the silky petals deliver a haunting caress, and its scent clings like her craving for Marc. Sentimentality is for the lovesick, not the forsaken, and conjures that soul-crushing moment. Last year, at the threshold of her shop, Marc stood with Lisette, his girlfriend. Sophie’s heart froze, and her mind lurched into despair. Tortured for a week, she followed Marc until he was alone, and begged him to take her back.
His wounded expression still chills her fragile heart. Ashamed, Sophie clenches her hand into a fist, pressing her nails into tender flesh. She must escape this curse.
Julien stands at the vast oak doors, urbane, dressed in a navy linen shirt and white trousers. Smooth-skinned, his closed-lip smile prompts Sophie to do the same. He makes her feel wanted, so she makes him desire her. Sophie does not need Marc when Julien provokes her in this way.
Ascending the three steps, her arms entwine around his neck. His hands squeeze her waist, and their lips meet. She goads him with the tip of her tongue.
He does not take the bait.
“Sophie, you look ravishing. How was your little flower shop today?”
His playful words mask the ever-present disdain for her occupation.
“Very good, we took nine hundred. Although Audrey Dubois has passed away.”
“Vivienne told me, such a loss, and you were so kind with her flower arrangement.” He kisses her hand, “But these are too beautiful to toil all day.”
Sophie grins, “You will not complain when they are busy tonight.”
“Touché,” he murmurs, impressed and tamed for now. “Come, dinner tonight is Dourade, and my new Rosé is ready. I want you to try it for me.”
“Dourade? I am suspicious, Julien. Is this a special occasion?”
Delighted by her curiosity, he grins, “We shall see.”
-==-
With silver cutlery, Sophie picks at the fish, tasting its sweetness without an appetite. Across the long oak table, Julien’s gaze remains on her - watchful, never wavering. The chilled Rosé, crisp and cold, only sharpens her nerves. Debussy plays quietly, and it does not soothe.
Tonight is his choice, everything is.
Aloof, with tousled blond-hair and blue eyes, he embodies generations of good breeding. Steeped in the virtues of the Bourgeoisie, Julien is intelligent and enigmatic. Slightly older than her, he will age well like his wines. For those who live and love well, nothing is beyond them. That is her Julien, claiming he loves her.
They nurtured a slow romance through a series of chance encounters. He tempered his laconic wit with warm geniality. When he deigned to visit her shop, he made his intentions clear.
Tonight, the room feels smaller. The exposed oak beams above, the pale stucco walls close. She is aware of every line, every shadow. The new painting catches her eye, an acid-blue sky, the rows of lavender, and the old town’s mellow sandstone. Immediately, she recognises it, and her quivering hands cause the cutlery to glimmer. Sophie baulks at the ugly realisation of what comes next.
Julien pounces. “You like it?”
“Very much, as if Van Gogh painted it.”
His laughter feigns appreciation. “Well, perhaps his ghost still lives amongst us as he did long ago.” Darker clouds shadow his expression, “The artist is more recent.”
His long stare scrutinises her.
“Oh?” Heat rises on her cheeks.
Julien grins and strikes again. “He is a scruffy itinerant who travels through Provence. Marc Dufayel, do you know him?”
It pains her eyes to remain neutral. “Yes, he visits my shop to buy flowers. Arrangements for his pictures, no doubt.”
His rictus smile hints at jealousy, unbecoming for a man who has everything - and her.
“Yes, he is a rare talent, and a former lover of yours?” His voice softens, betraying a flicker of fear. “Does his memory still quicken your pulse, Sophie, or is it me who sets you alight?
The walls suffocate, and the wine is bitter. “It was a long time ago, and this was not worth mentioning.”
“But, Sophie!” He feigns shock. “What were you thinking? You deserve so much more.”
“I was nineteen. It was ten years ago, Julien.”
He murmurs in agreement and resumes eating.
People speak the truest words under duress. An infatuation without closure is a landmark in many lives. She is not special or different. Her feelings, said aloud, are absurd.
“How is the Rosé?” His tone is regal without affectation.
Sophie rests her cutlery, dabs her lips with the napkin, and regains her composure.
“Excellent. Monsieur Dufayel is not the only one who is gifted.”
He accepts her compliment and subtle riposte.
“So, Julien, as delicious as the Dourade was, does Monsieur Dufayel’s art justify its reason?”
“No.”
His chair grates on the terracotta tiles. An unswerving smile matches his slow, deliberate footsteps. He kneels on one knee beside Sophie, and her mind spirals into chaos.
“Julien?”
He produces an engagement ring, and his humility surprises her.
“Sophie. I love you. I want to give you the life you deserve, and we will have many years of happiness together. Marry me.”
As the platinum ring and its solitaire glimmer, she glances at the picture. Sophie glances at the painting, the colours of her old dreams, and her former self. The weight of his expectation presses on her. All day, she dwelled on rose-tinted nostalgia. She shares an adult love with Julien, and reality is a grey-shaded compromise, never black and white. It is time to discard the restless tide of old daydreams and thwarted love.
“Yes, I will marry you.”
“Wonderful!” Julien beams. “You have made me so happy. This ring was my grandmother’s.”
He slides it onto her finger. “You are a Giraud now.”
Now, there is closure; the die is cast. She smiles at her fiancé, and her gaze drifts to the painting.
Her mind is still tethered to it.
-==-
She leads Julien upstairs, hand in hand, and endures his austere descendants, who line the walls. She is the new generation now. In his bedroom, watched by the scarlet jacquard relief on the walls, her dress puddles around her. His eyes feast upon her as dessert. Beneath clouds of lace adorning the four-poster bed, they move as seasoned lovers. His broad chest presses against her breasts, grazing her nipples. As the ebb and flow of caress and touch, the fire burns within her.
Squeezed tight inside, she rolls her hips and goads his reflexes. The frisson of this caress tightens the sinews in her arms, and she tries to mould him to her. Julien teases her breathless whimpers into distant moans. A solitary calf, smooth and tanned, slides over his to make them as one, and her engagement ring catches the light.
She loses their connection.
Twisting at the waist, she gropes to rediscover it, pleading for more. The painting downstairs haunts her, and she recalls its creation. A barn stood behind the artist’s eye. In its hayloft, she frolicked naked with Marc all afternoon. Their passion rose and sustained like the heat haze in the fields. It flowed as lyrics, so easy and carefree, instinctive and powerful. Sophie repeated her vow to the man who deserved that promise.
“I love you,” she whimpers.
Not Julien, but Marc, her raffish man, unpredictable but kind, intense yet fragile. A man with empathy, attentive, his heart open, with poetry as a pulse. Old emotions flood her mind, rousing her lust, awakening her true needs. Julien will notice the crisis in her gaze, and she clasps his head into the crook of her neck.
It is Marc inside her, and her body responds. Her imagination blazes, and she will not contain her reaction. She clamours more, finding his response. Their movements flow effortlessly as a carnal symphony. It lurches from the depths, rising fast. Clutching at him, her whimpers peak to the height of desperation. She vibrates as the cracked earth in a summer storm, and it shudders through her.
Sophie cries out in orgasm, and as a lament for the love of her life.
These emotions are not ridiculous or futile, and her appetite awakens. Sophie seethes for air as a woman possessed. With a lascivious snarl, she rolls Julien onto his back. Straddling him, she looks down upon her fiancé.
Her hair is wild, and it hangs to frame her licentious expression. Her passionate gaze scorches, and she will brand her future husband. For that acidic tongue, this is how she will assert herself.
“Sophie, I…”
She places his hand over her mouth and holds him primed to her sex. This is who they all fantasise about, the immoral and the flagrant. For his jealousy, this is his reward: her unbridled sexual prowess, and Julien must match it. Leaning to one side, she reveals how she consumes him. Burning, narrowed eyes reveal her hunger. She drops her hips to take him deep and rides him hard. Upright, clasping his thigh and chest, she will offer a glimpse of her true self, and her supple hips set the tempo she requires.
Their moans are the chorus, and her relentless fluidity escalates. Sophie pulls his hands to her swaying breasts. She pouts as the sensations consume her and bears down on his shaft.
His hands grip her flanks, “Sophie… my God!”
Julien groans like a virgin lover.
“This is what I am,” she gasps, “watch me.”
Grinding faster, she nears the summit, her eyes glaze over, and her body starts to cramp. The deep tension burns hot, and Julien swells. He begins to thrash beneath her, and Sophie nears the brink. His strength overwhelms her, and she cannot restrain him. His body pitches up, and she gathers him into her breasts. Clasping his neck, using him for leverage, she seizes at the brink. Twitching deep, he groans, defeated too easily. With her fingers on her clit, her hips race to the conclusion. Her features soften into his vacant eyes for a tepid climax.
The cicadas overpower her whimpers.
He slumps. That is her Julien, claiming he loves her.
Everything is his choice.
Sophie caresses his face in consolation, admiring his incredulous expression.
“If I had known,” he pauses for breath, “I would have proposed earlier.”
Her heart might cool, but it is not cruel. “You were magnificent, darling.”
They embrace, side by side, and she watches his drowsy eyes flicker.
The painting hangs downstairs, but its meaning dances through her mind. In the hayloft, Marc heaved for air with broken hay in his hair. Breathless, hot with the glow of her climax, she stirred with her hips, provoking him to respond.
He did, all afternoon, and bested her.
There is platonic and passionate love, and the truth is a pendulum that swings between them.
The clock stops, and it is time.
-==-
The sun limbers up to blaze, and the morning shadows shorten. Beyond the village, in the hinterland of parched long grass, Sophie follows the baked dirt path. A ramshackle outbuilding bears the scar of a broken roof, its slates speckled with lichen. She must call now or risk losing her phone signal.
“Hello, Claire?”
“Sophie, where are you?” she asks, vexed. “Did you oversleep?”
“No, and I know what time it is. Can you look after the shop until lunchtime?”
“You are going to see Marc... every damn year,” Claire mutters under her breath. “I know why, too. It is the talk of the village, Madame Giraud.”
Sophie’s heart sinks. “I...”
“Yes, you do need to explain. Okay, fine. I can manage.”
“Thank you, Claire... sincerely.” Her tremulous voice wavers.
“Hey... you okay?”
“I think so.” Her voice cracks.
“Good luck. And Sophie?”
“Yes?”
“Follow your heart. Promise me.”
It is a wavering sigh. “I promise.”
She awoke alone after a restless night’s sleep. A note of apology lay on Julien’s pillow. In the shower, Sophie rehearsed her lines for her sceptical audience.
Lopsided, sun-bleached fencing surrounds the olive grove, and she spots his grey Fourgonnette van. She halts at the weathered granite exterior, with its paint-cracked windows and door. Sophie pauses. The lyrical words that sounded perfect slip from her mind. Her heart thunders as loudly as the cicadas' chatter, and an uncertain hand knocks.
“One minute.”
Ponderous footsteps on bare floorboards dry her mouth, and the door hinges creak. He stands there in beige, crumpled linen, with its top buttons undone.
“Sophie,” he gasps, startled.
Butterflies flutter, and they threaten to steal her breath. “Hello, Marc.”
“Please, come in.”
A modest dwelling houses a humble man. Sunlight glitters on motile dust through the slatted blinds. Amongst the rudimentary furniture, canvases lean against the bare stone wall.
“Would you like some coffee?”
Sophie nods. In the kitchenette, the kettle splutters into life.
“So, Marc, how have you been?”
“Oh, you know, still scratching a living.”
He avoids her gaze as Sophie waits for his eyes to return. She is not convinced.
“Okay,” he sighs, “Life has been better.”
“No Lisette this year?”
A watery smile does not conceal his sullen eyes. “No Lisette at all.”
Sophie winces for him. “I am sorry to hear that.”
“Thanks. How is the shop?”
She smiles, “Business is good, like you, I scratch a living.”
In the awkward silence, the kettle boils. He appears world-weary and preoccupied by a burden he struggles to bear. She studies his features, and they conceal the wounds Lisette left behind. Hurt burnishes those sparkling eyes. Drawn, slightly haggard, but still handsome, he manages that mercurial smile she adores.
Her guts knot tight, and she debates her gambit. Claire’s words are sage advice.
“Did you love her?”
He is not shocked by her direct question, and mulls it over, “If you mean a love that can accept the love I lost, and is willing to invest what is left into someone else. Yes, I loved her.”
His sullen eyes return to her. “And you, Sophie? Are you lucky in love?”
She sighs, and her heart free-falls into the painful truth. “I accepted Julien Giraud’s proposal last night.”
“Oh.” He is taken aback. “So you must feel the same way as I did for Lisette.”
“Marc...” She stalls.
“Sophie?”
His kindly eyes pierce through her façade. She must follow her heart, and it aches in sorrow.
Her chin begins to tremble, “I cannot accept the love I lost.”
Marc’s eyes flicker with hope, as if her presence might unravel years of guarded solitude. He walks away, and the ambiguity is unbearable. He retrieves a faded sketchbook. Its corners are curled, and the wire binding is crooked. Marc places it on the dining table.
“Lisette found this, and she did not understand.” He chuckles, ironically, “Just as well.”
Her trembling fingers brush the worn cover. Opening it, Sophie sees a face from the past - hers. Evocative in pastels, ethereal and fleeting.
She looks at Marc in a turmoil of emotions.
He smiles and gestures to the sketchbook. “Keep going.”
Each year, there are pictures of her as a story of the places they met. Marc reaches for it, and his fingers brush hers. As a jolt of electricity, it challenges her resolve.
He turns the page. “I painted you in that field, Sophie, the day you laughed so hard you fell into the lavender. That was the moment I knew that I loved you.”
It hurts to rush them, each one a vignette of his state of mind, and she was his muse. Sophie lingers on the dramatic image in stormy slashes of grey pencil, the evening she begged him to take her back. She sees it from his perspective, and it stabs a dagger into her heart.
Sophie looks up with weeping eyes.
“I am so sorry,” she offers.
“No,” he soothes. “I admired your courage.”
She stares at the scene in the shop yesterday, drawn in fine detail. He captured her spirit and the wonder on her face.
“I finished it last night.” His voice caresses as a whisper. “You are always an inspiration to me.”
The pages are almost depleted, and the sands of time are down to their last grains. His hand rests on her shoulder, and a hot rush of desire ignites her body. These emotions are real, not ridiculous. Yes, it is an infatuation. It is an untameable desire, and lust, and hope.
It is love, and it shines so brightly, she cannot contain herself.
“It is not Julien I want. I want you.” Sophie begins to tremble, tears welling in her eyes. “No one understands me except you. It is absurd, but I feel it. I feel it every day, and I try to ignore it. But it is so powerful. I cannot lie any longer.”
Spellbound by his solemn eyes, he reaches out. Caressing her cheek, he wipes her tears away. She heaves, breathless, under his spell. Tidying a lock of hair, he places it around her ear.
Sophie blazes with emotion. “I will not beg again. You deserve more than that.”
Her fingers tremble, and the bow on her dress slips quietly. Naked to the slatted sunlight and shadow, her vulnerable eyes carry the weight of each day apart. Tentatively, she steps closer. Her fingers brush against his linen shirt, feeling the warmth of his chest and the strong pulse of his heart. Marc’s hands hover at her waist, hesitant, as if afraid to trust this moment. His gaze searches hers, looking for the same need to heal.
Sophie cannot bear to see him like this, and her throat tightens. More tears slip free as she traces his rugged jawline.
“This is all I am, Marc. Just flesh, bones... and afraid like you. I have a simple heart, and it yearns for your love.”
The distance between them narrows. Her apprehensive lips meet his as estranged friends. They part uncertain, and Marc reciprocates. Treasured memories bloom, and their kiss deepens. Rediscovering their rhythm, she acquiesces and whimpers. His hand presses against her breast, and the table complains as she leans against it. The sketchbook slaps onto the floor. It reveals a page of her in charcoal as a striking woman, drawn in the fallow years of her absence.
Sophie’s breath catches when she sees herself through his eyes, loved despite her mistakes. Her confidence surges. She pulls his shirt open, its buttons scattering, and her hands scour his chest. Marc’s lips find her neck, tracing her pulse, each kiss as a stitch to mend their wounded hearts.
Lust surges through her veins, blood hot like the red hibiscus in full bloom. Ten years of longing smash through her restraint. Sophie is fierce and unstoppable. She dives into his kiss, desperate and starving, as if he might leave with this next breath.
“I never stopped loving you,” he rasps, thick with need.
She clings to him, gasping. “I never stopped loving you, either.”
Skin against skin, they share a carnal promise, and her hungry gaze locks onto his. Her hand slips beneath his waistband, fingers seizing him, already hard and pulsing. Their mouths collide, all hesitation burned away by the demand of her lips. Urgency makes their frenzied hands clumsy. He lifts her onto the table, and Sophie spreads her legs, guiding him to where she aches.
“Please,” she implores him with suffering eyes.
Sophie exhales sharply, capturing him, pulling him deep. They entwine in a frenzied tangle, and her whimpers rise with the tempo of frantic thrusts. They kiss and claw at each other, greedy as those teenage lovers of old. They move together, hips grinding, limbs locked, chasing the memories, deleting the years apart.
“Oh God, Marc! Don’t stop…”
He steals her next breath, his lips devouring hers with urgency.
“No one else inspires me like this, Sophie.”
The table shudders as her breathless moans shift to desperate cries. Their stare holds firm, searching for what they lost, and they find it.
“Marc,” her voice trembles, “make me yours again.”
“You always belonged to me.”
He drives forward, relentless, reclaiming every stolen second. The hot tension coils tighter, and she kisses him ferociously, almost biting. Her tongue in his mouth dares him on, and Marc surges. Livid, she clamps on his girth. Her legs lock around his waist, heels digging in, demanding more. She sucks on his neck, marking him, and writhes in wild abandon. Sophie bites his shoulder, tasting salt, staking her claim. His thrusts build, and the heat boils within her. She is close, and the searing tension tightens. He groans and thrusts harder, eager to give her what she craves.
Her breath comes in jagged gasps, his name as a prayer on her lips. “Marc.”
Sophie cries out, arching as ecstasy crashes over her. The convulsions shake her frame, her nails dig into flesh. She holds him as her nightmares end, and she can dream again.
“Please… cum inside me… please.”
Aftershocks pummel her as she flails to provoke him, kissing everywhere she can reach. Their eyes meet as he grunts, harsh and guttural, sending in deep. His passion ebbs, and she clings to him, breathless.
“Sophie,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead to hers.
She threads her fingers through his hair, still quivering in the thick, humid air.
“I know, Marc. God, I know.”
She grins at him, still fierce and wild, watching the storm clouds clear in his eyes.
He grins back, and there is the man she always loved.
-==-
Showered and in a red summer dress, her confident steps strike the cobblestones. She navigates the street, dodging tourists, passing window boxes of peonies and violets. She wears a contented smile, and they can wonder who put it there. An admirer grins back, and his annoyed wife shoves him. Rounding the corner, she passes the pastel-coloured houses and turns to open the door.
The bell chimes and the window panels rattle when it closes. Claire glares at her in a state of trepidation and fear.
There is Julien. He approaches Sophie with measured footsteps that match his hostility.
He seizes her arm, “You went back to him! Now, I know why you did not answer my question last night!”
His snarled words startle Sophie, “Have you gone mad? How dare you!”
“Answer my question!”
She tries to shake herself free and fails. “Let go of me!”
The bell chimes for a customer. It is Madame Valois, a loyal patron, one of the many village gossips, and her eyes widen. Claire shepherds her out the door.
Sophie prises her arm from his grip. “Well done, Julien. Everyone in the village will know by this evening.”
He snarls, “And about your tryst with Marc.”
She glances at Claire, shaking her head rapidly behind his back.
There is a quiet fury in Sophie’s eyes. “You want my answer from last night, Julien?”
She takes a step back and pries his engagement ring from her finger. Approaching him, she takes his hand, puts the ring into it, and folds his fingers into a fist. Sophie clenches them tight until his eyes wince with pain.
“That is what it felt like being engaged to you.” Sophie releases his hand. “Now leave.”
Madame Valois peers in through the window. Julien hesitates, his jaw tight as if he might explode, but Sophie’s furious stare silences him. He clutches the ring, his pride crumbling. Seeing her strength for the first time, his eyes flicker with regret. He walks to the door, the bell chimes, and he looks at them both.
Sophie stands in front of Claire, protecting her.
“Just go,” she barks. “Never set foot in our little flower shop again.”
When the door closes, Sophie sighs heavily, running her fingers through her hair.
Claire is incredulous. “What just happened? You are engaged, and now you are not? You have just turned down Julien Giraud!”
Sophie leans against the counter, “I went to see Marc.”
“On a whim! You left me to take the deliveries, run the shop all morning, and then that... maniac... showed up! I always had my doubts about him, but my God!”
Glancing at the clock, Sophie walks behind the counter. “What happened?”
“Julien came in here, saying something about how he had to leave early to go to Avignon, and wanted to see you. Then, he wanted to know where you were.”
Sophie lifts her pinafore off the peg. “He is a difficult man to say no to.”
Claire’s eyes narrow. “Like last night?”
Sophie agrees. “Like just now when you told him where I was?”
“Ah... about that.” She looks apprehensive.
Sophie sighs heavily, “I would have told him myself anyway.” She points at Claire, “You are a lot braver than you look.”
Her compliment defuses the tension. “So... how was it with Marc?”
The world stops for a moment, and Sophie grins, “We resolved things on the kitchen table.”
“You mean at the kitchen table?” Claire is confused.
Sophie ties her pinafore around her waist, “No. I got it right the first time.”
Claire grins. “No!”
Sophie flashes her eyes, “Yes!”
“And?”
“I cried when I told the truth, and there is… passion.” Sophie smiles wistfully, “He accepted my invite for dinner tonight. We have more talking to do.”
“So, you followed your heart?”
She nods. “I did, and I do not deserve you.”
Sophie approaches and opens her arms. They embrace.
“Sorry for leaving you this morning. You are my best friend, and the only friend I need. Now it is your turn. Go and get your man.”
Claire holds her tight, "I will."
Returning to the counter, Sophie peers down at an order and picks up her secateurs.
-==-
The aroma of a simmering Bouillabaisse wafts through the air. A present rests on the dining table - a new linen shirt for Marc. Glancing at the clock, she paces the lounge of her apartment. He is thirty minutes late, and old fears creep from the shadows. They prey on her need to be decisive. Should she wait or go and find him? Does she trust him with his promises, or not?
The phone rings, and she scampers to it.
“Hello, Sophie Martin.”
“You need to hurry.” It is Claire, and she is out of breath.
Sophie is alarmed. “Marc?”
“Yes, we saw him at the petrol station filling up his van.” Claire pauses for breath. “He has a cut lip and grazes on his cheek.”
“What?” She panics, “Is he alright?”
“Other than that, I think so.”
“Julien, the bastard.”
“Probably. I know he should be with you.” Claire has to stop. “So we did not speak to him... but followed him instead. He is at his gîte... You must hurry.”
“Thanks, Claire.”
“Sorry, there was no phone signal... this was ten minutes ago.”
The stove is off, and Sophie grabs her keys. She slams the door and rattles down the stairs. Her heart booms, fearing he will vanish again. Trying to run, she casts off her sandals and picks up speed barefoot. The low sun should help her to see, but blackened clouds cloak the failing light.
The humid air is a hot, thick soup, and she struggles to catch her breath. In the distance, a sudden flash illuminates the end of the street. Seconds later, the sky cleaves open with a long, discontented rumble. She hates thunderstorms, but tonight she faces all her fears.
Through the tall grass, she ignores her tiring legs. Fierce raindrops fall, stinging her nostrils with ozone. A crack of lightning shows his gîte in the distance, and the sky-cracking explosion makes her yelp.
Panting for air, a brazier burns in the distance, fighting the galloping rain. She sees the silhouette of the Fourgonnette, and its headlights illuminate. Another flash comes, and a long, rippling thunderclap sends a shiver up her spine.
Inside the olive grove, the van reverses, its front wheels turning. Tentatively, it moves forward, and its plucky engine revs up.
She slams her hands on the bonnet. “Marc!”
Sophie stands tall, hair matted, breasts heaving, with a stare as intense as the storm. The engine stops, and the lights extinguish.
Orange flames cast long shadows as he steps out of the car.
“Your fiancé returned his picture.” He gestures to the brazier, “And, he tried to kill me!”
She is struggling to breathe. “I know, my love... I know.”
“You have dangerous friends! What happened to you, Sophie?”
“What happened to me?” She summons a deep breath, “What do you see?”
“I see trouble!”
The sky ignites, and thunder rips through the sky. She does not flinch.
“Do you know what my greatest mistake is?” She gasps for air, “Listening to other people, like my own mother… that I should use my looks and find a rich husband...”
He interrupts, “You did!”
“I was lonely, Marc! I wanted a relationship… I was so desperate… so desperate to feel loved. I settled for him!” Sophie pauses. “Is that what happened… with you and Lisette?”
He hesitates, “Yes.”
“I had a faintest chance of being with you, and I ended it.” She fights for air, “All my life, I have yearned for someone to love me…. They say you turn into your parents. My mother is a bitch… and my father is the sweetest, kindest person I know. When he left, I lost my way.”
Seizing another breath, she thumps at her heart. “I inherited her looks, but I take after him! Is it my fault that I look like this? That men think I am easy, or women do not trust me… that I only have one friend?
Lifting her arms to the malcontent sky, she shakes her fists. “Dirty Face!”
She dismisses him and turns her back. Another flash lights the sky, and a long crackling sound tears through it.
Sophie returns, strides up to him, and prods him in the chest. “When we fell in love, we were nineteen! What did we know about love? And, I love you so much. I have nothing more to give you than a lifetime together. I am yours, Marc! All yours.”
He wipes his matted hair away from his face. “Sophie, you scare me, okay? You scare me because you can hurt me. You scare me because I would do anything for you. You are so strong-willed, and should I tame you, or be meek? I could stare at you and paint you every day. You scare me because one day I might lose myself entirely. You have so much of me already!”
Sophie’s features soften, and she traces her fingers along his wet cheek. “You tamed me when I was nineteen. I want you as you are, nothing more. Stay, Marc, please.”
Seizing her waist, she throws her arms around him, and their intense kiss tastes of raindrops and love.
He squeezes her tight. “Okay…okay.”
The night encroaches, the embers in the brazier flicker. Their past rests in its ashes.
“Come on,” she whispers, taking his hand.
She leads him to his gîte.
-==-
The air is heavy with the scent of damp fabric. Without electricity, candlelight throws haunting shadows through the lounge. From its amber veil, Sophie stands by a window enveloped in a blanket, waiting for Marc. Her soul brims with heightened emotion and broods like the clouds flickering with a distant light. Her eyes churn with the hunger of ten lost years, her wild pulse heightened by new hope and the distant storm.
The door opens.
“Is that everything?”
He nods, “The electricity company will reconnect the power tomorrow.”
The blanket drops, and her coy eyes meet his, “So, this is it… just us?”
Marc admires her svelte body. “Yes.”
Picking up a towel, Sophie approaches with a slow, hypnotic gait.
Unbuttoning his soaked shirt, she grins. “I can be patient, and I bought you a new one.”
“Oh, thanks.”
“See, I can be domesticated, and you are wet through.”
She peels it from his torso and dries him. Next, she kneels and unbuttons his linen trousers. He pries them from his muscular thighs, and the towel is a teasing caress.
Doe-eyed, Sophie meets his gaze. “You would really do anything for me?”
“Uh huh.” He grins back.
“Good,” she purrs. “Because I would do anything for you.”
His underwear slides down to his ankles. Her freckles dance, fleshing out her cheeks. Her lips curl, revealing the silent ache of her desires. She strokes it slowly, mesmerised as it stiffens, and presses it to her cheek, hot and rigid. Sophie’s eyes are on him, and their own storm brews within. Sophie licks along its length, her lavish tongue circling its corpulent head. She slides it into her mouth, wrapping her lips around it, and Marc's head snaps back with a groan. A tender spiral grip feeds it between those bee-stung lips, and a delinquent hand caresses his smooth balls.
This is who she is for him - anything and everything.
His hand rests on her damp hair. Patient, beguiling, she escalates his moans, bringing him back down to gruff whimpers. Sophie clasps the back of his thighs, consuming him with sunken cheeks and a challenge in her eyes. She is the provocateur. The tip of her nose presses into sleek abdomen, and she takes him whole. He hollers, and Sophie’s eyes stream. She hackles with a cough.
Marc helps her onto her feet and eases his hand between her thighs.
“Sucking cock still makes you soaking wet, huh?”
Her eyes burn for him, and he penetrates her with two fingers.
“Only yours,” she gasps.
The proud arc of her jaw rises, and she challenges him to conquer her. His thumb finds her swelling clit. Her body enflames, and she grips his arm.
“Why are you so meek, Marc? Tame me.”
She pouts with a carnal leer, and his fingers quicken. Her eyes ignite, her lips seek his, and she pushes her tongue into his mouth. He captures her moans with a dance of their tongues.
Her knees buckle, she breaks, as passion immolates her.
“You like to be tamed?” he growls.
“Do it,” she purrs.
Marc pushes her body to the table and, by her hips, spins her around. Pressing on her shoulder, she braces against it. His foot taps each ankle, spreading her legs.
She shivers with need, “Fuck me.”
He swats her behind, and white heat throbs in her loins. Sophie groans at her impalement, eyes narrowing as his rampant girth squeezes into her sex. Bunched in his hands, he tugs at her hair, lifting her head.
In the dark window, she sees an opaque reflection of her posture.
Bent over, her arms braced, she pleads for more. This is their bond, their game, their love. The slow and measured pace sways her breasts as he circles his hips, keeping her guessing. Marc pushes in deep, pulls on her hair, and a reflected molten gaze greets her. He clatters her behind, making her eyes flicker, and she dissolves into moans.
Shallowing out, he finds that place, sawing slowly with variations, and she fizzes with its pleasure.
“Fuck me…” she groans.
A tart slap follows, his loins clap her behind. Her threadbare restraint snaps, and she offers her arm. He takes it, and then the other one. Lofted into position, Marc clatters harder as sharp whip cracks, transforming her angst into ecstasy. Sophie’s cries soar, stiffening into wretched yelps.
There is a disturbance beyond the window.
His tigress becomes his kitten, yielding to his urges, hurtling towards her first climax. He groans in acknowledgement, and undaunted, her body shakes with his reply.
She notices someone looming in a windowpane. With tousled blond hair, a face peers in, waxy in moonlight shadows. Their eyes meet, her wanton soul is exposed, flickering with flames of lust. Sophie pouts at the precipice of orgasm. Carnal bliss defines her features, and the memories of them will linger in her neutral expression.
Dirty Face. This is who she is, and only Marc makes her feel this way.
“Marc,” she croaks, buffetted by his thrusts, “I... love... you.”
“I love you, too.”
Sophie combusts and seethes with its potency. Exclaiming its power, she bucks at her restraints, eyes closed, shuddering as the inferno burns her to the ground. She shakes, still convulsing, as Marc’s shaft swells. She presses back to meet it. They fight together until he shoves with plosive grunts and puts it deep inside.
Her eyes open, breathing hard, and the window is a black mirror again.
On shaking legs, Marc gathers her into his embrace. Strong against her weakened body, she is safe, she is loved.
-==-
At eleven thirty-two, Claire Deschamps embraces Antoine in bed. He is drowsy and spent, ecstatic that she accepted his proposal. Peering at her finger, a single solitaire catches the lamplight, and she kisses the top of his head.
It is eleven-forty, and a contented Sophie Martin walks through Marc’s gîte, extinguishing candles. He languishes in bed, exhausted, and waiting for her. She pauses at the last one, watching its flame dance. Marc loves her. She inspires him as his muse. Sophie snuffs out the candle, hoping she can live up to her promises. She walks into the darkness towards the love of her life.
At midnight, a dejected Julien Giraud pores over photographs and memories of the times he shared with Sophie. He knows he is difficult to love, and he followed Sophie from her apartment. She answered his question. Her feelings for Marc were always stronger, and she looked so beautiful tonight.
This is Saint-Rémy-de-Provence, and as one obsession ends, another stirs.
Its victim remains unknown.
