Paris. What a place. So many books, poems and paintings have been inspired by this city. Think Henry Miller, Anais Nin and Ernest Hemingway. It’s wide boulevards, the narrow maze of the Marais, the languid Seine and Rive Gauche, busy cafes and bars, queues outside the boulangerie. What a city to fall in love in. Twice.
I first fell in love with my husband in Paris. Many years later, I fell in love with my original lover one hot and sunny August afternoon. We traveled to Paris for a meeting at the French office. Early morning Eurostar, a busy day of presentations and meetings. By about 3 o’clock we had achieved what we set out to and waved goodbye to our remaining colleagues as we set off for the hotel. Call it incredible luck, fate or just damn good planning, but somehow we had managed to arrange to an overnight stay in Paris. Our other colleagues were returning to London on the evening train and so we were alone. In Paris. In a hotel.
We showered and changed out of our suits, wanting to make the most of the hours we had together. My original lover had spent time in Paris as an 18 year old. He was a romantic and wanted to show me all the areas he knew. So we walked. Along the Seine, across the Pont Neuf bridge, past Notre Dame, popping into the Shakespeare and Company English bookstore on the banks of the river. We were in a foreign city, anonymous, lovers, holding hands, stopping every now and then to kiss, talking non-stop as we meandered through the streets. In the Marais district we found a secluded bar with a courtyard at the back. It was still the afternoon and so the North African inspired courtyard was empty. The heat was almost oppressive, but it didn’t seem to matter. We took a seat in the shade and ordered a cooling Mojito.
It was the first time that we were able to be freely and openly lovers. Until then, we had only met in the confines of my small London flat. There was a sense of liberation to be out in the open – both physical and emotional. I think that is when I first realised my true feelings for him. I knew that I would be leaving in a month, moving to a different country and so we lived that day, minute by minute as if it was our last. When I close my eyes now and think back, I am conscious of three things – my own heartbeat, the heat of that August afternoon and his bright blue eyes. As it got dark, we found a secluded little restaurant with a piano player and ate dinner together. I didn’t want that day to end. The thought of having to return to London in the morning and not be able to touch and kiss him whenever I wanted was traumatising. It is strange to feel both elated, yet tethered and afraid at the same time.
After dinner we took a taxi back to the hotel. Naturally we had two separate rooms, we were there on business. We took the lift to the 9th floor and he followed me to my room in silence. I opened the door. The lights were off, but the Paris skyline cast an iridescent glow, enough light to see his face, stroke it. We kissed, unbuttoning each other’s clothes. The distant sounds of other guests returning to their rooms, muffled footsteps on the carpeted corridor outside. Silence. We had all the time in the world. It was just the two of us. Every breath, every touch, every kiss was the last. He cupped my breasts in his hands and bent down to kiss them. I ran my fingers through his hair and down his back. He knelt kissing my stomach and hips as he lowered himself. When he reached my sex, he parted my lips with his fingers and tasted me with his tongue, licking slowly, tenderly. My knees felt weak and so I sank to the floor, kneeling opposite him. Our bodies melted together, and we embraced, pulling one another closer together. He was erect and I let him slide between my legs as we knelt on the floor. Such a wonderfully hot sensation.
I pushed him down, straddling him and hovered just above the tip of his cock. I love the feeling of his tip precariously placed just inside me and slowly, ever so slowly lowering my ass to draw him all the way in. The tip, the ridge and then the fullness of the shaft. Slowly, up and down. Conscious of every inch. Not a word was said. We had talked all afternoon and evening. This was the moment of silent communication. Feeling him inside me, I leant back, resting my hands by his knees and continuing the slow gyrations of my hips. He placed both his thumbs on my cunt, moving them one after the other up and down my clit as I moved. It was a mind blowing sensation – to feel him so deep inside me and a constant stroking of my clit. Being on top, I could control the rhythm and began to increase my movements until I could feel the beginning of the orgasm. It starts somewhere in my core, my womb and rises up my body until I feel I am blinded by the redness, the darkness. The only sound to break the silence of the that hotel room was my cry as I came.
He moved me to the bed and spread my legs, mounting me and thrusting his cock even deeper inside. The pace quickened and he held me head still, looking into my eyes as he moved. I could feel his heat, his weight on top of me and watched his face as he came, a gentle sigh of relief and the room returned to silence. We lay there for a long time, just holding one another, the unbearable burden of tomorrow’s separation keeping us from sleeping.
The next day, we sat through more meetings together, dashing to catch our Eurostar home, accompanied by some other colleagues. Our window of anonymity and openness closed. I felt a physical loss as I watched the Gare du Nord recede and Paris disappear from view. I had fallen in love. Both with Paris and with him.