His mother was sick, and it was Antoine’s fault.
Waiting for his father, the harsh perfumes of antiseptic and detergent hung in the air. The noticeboards patronised him, and a restless energy gnawed at his tired body. Fidgeting to get comfortable, the chair was insufficiently padded.
In his abject state of mind, she was easy to forget.
Lucky.
Through the whimpered guidance of her caress, Antoine clamped his mouth to her sex. Lost in her scent and bittersweet taste, there were vocal instructions and ecstatic exclamations. Reduced to writhing through her animated hips and long, airy whimpers, Lucky bucked and hollered through a shuddering climax. No longer demure or mysterious, she demanded more, took his shaft and guided him inside.
As a sensation beyond his memory and lost to this silky addictive heat, Lucky pressed on his behind. Her eyes narrowed when he found that place. Together, they swooped and flexed in a dance of the senses. All night, he experienced a lexicon of ways to enjoy each other. He fizzed with its novelty when Lucky told him to sit up, and she straddled him.
“This is the lotus position,” she purred.
Her lithe legs wrapped around his waist, the sinews tight in his arms as she writhed at their pivot. Lip-locked, in the embrace of her blood-hot vice, they snorted for air in long, feverish kisses. Pawing her swaying breast, toying with its erect nipple, she plunged for him with a fresh urgency.
Braced by an outstretched arm as a dervish of wild hair, she plunged for it in a rising state of abandonment; Antoine struggled to contain her, fighting his exhaustion and Lucky’s forceful purpose. The friction around his shaft tightened. They reached this point three times, and she was too much for him. From his core, there was no tension as the portent to climax; it felt so distant and tenuous.
The air hot with her perfume and the musk of sex, Lucky whimpered faster as the fluidity of her hips seized. In broken words, she announced it, pleading to God as her strength drained away. Hauling her back and forth, her elegant features etched in ecstasy, and those helpless eyes seared into his. Crying out, she flung herself against him. Convulsing in a cacophony of yelps and rasped air, the powerful spasms rose in clenching waves. Pressed to his bulk, held tight in his arms, she lurched and smeared her hips, wringing out the final tremors.
It was the most beautiful experience of his life.
She pressed her forehead to his. “Antoine…” she gasped, “fuck… I needed that.”
Moving slowly, her hair lank; it swayed when she pitched up and down. One effortless embrace of her sex at a time, combined with the petition of this longing kiss, she charmed it from Antoine.
“Cum for me,” she whispered.
Her words exploded as bombs, and intoxicated by her determination; it rose from him. She pressed her hand to his torso, flicking his nipple. Her tilted gaze did not waver, fascinated by its ascent. Plunging faster, relentless with her powerful sexuality, she grinned as it swelled inside her.
“Oh God, I am going to...”
Untangling herself and pushing him onto the bed, she took him into her mouth. He wanted to object; he did not want to sully it. The spiralling grasp of her hand broke his resolve, and he bellowed, inundating her with the remnants of what he had.
“Mmm, Antoine. You taste so good.”
His dry mouth could not speak, “Uh-huh.”
Three hours ago, he would be incensed, rigid, and ready to go immediately. Now, his body glowed and ached. In the torpid air, Lucky lay against his chest, purring soft words of appreciation, and he reciprocated. He was sure this was unintentional; they fell asleep like this.
Startled by sunlight leeching through the blinds, she remained ensconced in his arms all night. Rousing her, a gentle kiss on her cheek signified his promise. Her fingers caressed his forearm, and when they departed, the spell was broken.
They showered separately, dressed, and drank coffee. They talked about anything except what happened. Antoine kept his word.
Standing at the front door, Lucky despatched him with a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you.”
Last night, she showed him the future; he had to believe in it.
Staring at the noticeboard, the burden of his despair never felt so substantial.
-=-
Footsteps interrupted Antoine’s train of thought. Louder, they echoed off the corridor walls. Dressed in jeans, a t-shirt and a hoodie top, it looked like her, but she was not dressed like her.
Recognising Antoine first, she tried to conceal her weariness with a muted smile. She expected another withering look with its dark tones of suspicion. No, he resembled how she felt. With a haunted expression, whatever he was doing here, it was not good. Struck down by a powerful empathy, deconstructed before him, she might as well be naked.
“Antoine.”
“Brigitte.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Visiting my mother,” he spoke plainly, too emotionally exhausted to pretend, “What about you?”
“Celine was assaulted last night in Belleville. She was alone and mugged for her handbag. Her parents said she fought back.”
Celine might be his tormentor, but no one deserved that.
“In Belleville… at night? Alone?” He shook his head. “Is she okay?”
“A severe concussion. She… she asked for me when they admitted her,” her voice wavered, “I have to come back later because she is sedated.”
Her upset exposed, Brigitte crumbled before his eyes.
Antoine stood immediately, putting his arm around her. “You need to sit down.”
“I… I do not want…”
“Please. I insist.”
Sitting next to him, Antoine turned to face her. Sorrowful, a solitary tear fell down her cheek. He hated to see women cry, and he had no answers.
He looked for inspiration from his father. “I hate hospitals, too.”
Fighting back more tears, she nodded quickly.
“Sorry, I should not burden you with this.” Her head stooped. “It has been a shit weekend.”
“Nonsense,” pausing, he struggled for words and panicked. “Perhaps we should get that coffee?”
She spluttered and looked up, caught between tears and laughter.
“You change your mind, and I look like… this.”
“Maybe I can help?”
Pulling a tissue from her pocket, Brigitte dabbed her eyes.
“You are supposed to be visiting your mother.”
“My Dad is with her,” he mumbled, suddenly detached.
-=-
Eva opened her eyes, crusted with sleep and old tears. Rubbing them, the pungent scent of coffee roused her.
“Vincent?”
Sitting up, Eva studied him sitting on the dressing table pedestal, his face etched with contrition. She was too lethargic to admonish him. Choosing a silent fury, Vincent squirmed. He might find the truth an easier path to take than evasion and lies.
“You are back, then?”
“I… I did not go to see her.”
He was a proven liar, and her eyes burned into his. “Where did you go?”
“Bernand’s house, we had a few drinks. I slept on his sofa.”
“And you think you can come crawling back?”
Her question dripped with doubt, and its terse words hung in the uneasy atmosphere. Staring at the hot coffee on the nightstand, she could not stomach it.
“Well?”
“Eva, you want more than I do.”
She scoffed, “We spend two nights a week together and we fuck. I love you, that is all.”
He snorted, “No, that is everything. You love me, and…”
“And you want to be with her,” Eva retorted in a sing-song tone.
“I do not… I thought I did,” pausing, Vincent looked upon her with puppy-dog eyes, “I want you.”
She could not bear the sight of him and sprang out of bed. Naked, she cavorted towards the bathroom. He could look but not touch.
“I am going out, and you should leave. Put your key on the table. Goodbye, Vincent.”
-=-
Amongst the other patrons of the café, they chose a remote corner indoors. The sounds from the espresso machine and crockery mixed with subdued music and chatter. Anonymous, and just like everyone else, it comforted Brigitte.
Antoine let her talk. The questions he asked roused her curiosity. Where did he get the experience from? Reassured by his emotional investment, she shared her thoughts and feelings, relieving her burden one emotion at a time.
“Oh God, Brigitte, that is awful.”
Blank-faced, she nodded and leaned in. “And what is your story, Antoine?”
Slowly, he opened up. To think how close she came to defeat last night, yet the parallels with Antoine’s life ran alongside hers. Reassured she was not alone, their conversation galloped as a pair of untamed horses running for freedom.
“My mother has lucid months, and she has these episodes. When these happen, all the hostility is directed at me. I know it is not her fault, but still, she said some awful things to me this morning.”
“I wish my father was hostile,” Brigitte sighed, “it would show he cared.”
“I would rather have cold than that,” he paused. “It got so bad, I have to live above the shop. It helps to manage her condition. So… in a way, we have something in common.”
“What is that?”
“We are both alone.”
“Who said I am lonely?” retorted Brigitte.
Raising an eyebrow, he knew. She sighed in defeat, looking at his wounded expression.
“Oh, Antoine.”
He toyed with the sugar bowl. “It is not a nice thing to have in common, is it?”
“No. So what will you do? You could speak to your father.”
He looked reluctant. “He is not good with things like this.”
“Is there anyone else you trust? Friends, perhaps?”
He shook his head. “The shop… it takes up all my free time, and I find making friends difficult. Pathetic, right?”
Brigitte placed her coffee cup down, “No, I understand that.”
“You have friends.” Tersely spoken, without malice, but they embodied his hurt.
“Celine?” she blew out her cheeks. “She is not a friend. I was astonished she asked for me. She had a bang on the head, though. Like you, I find making friends very difficult.”
Antoine frowned. “Really? What about Eva?”
“She is Celine’s friend and even more objectionable. Everyone knows I am a Deveraux, and my father is a patron of the University. Money gets in the way of happiness. Either they do not trust me, or I find it difficult to trust them.”
He mulled over her words, “I always knew they were using you.”
“Yes, and we have bigger problems.”
If only she had known this about Antoine earlier. Looking at him with a pained expression laced with regret, he reached for her hand.
“Brigitte, you are not alone.”
She took it. “Neither are you.”
In a moment of quiet reflection, he walked every step of a more difficult journey, yet offered his hand in consolation. Brigitte had no right to his generous spirit and had done nothing to earn it.
“Antoine, I am sorry I was mean to you.”
“I am sorry, too.” He squeezed her hand. “So… what are you going to do?”
“I am not living with my grandmother.”
“Yes, but you need to live somewhere.”
“I need a couple of days, and I am getting a place of my own.”
He nodded thoughtfully, “Anything you need, I am there. Do not think to ask.”
Brigitte gazed at his floppy hair and striking features, lingering on the wisdom in his eyes. She found her impossible answers in this spontaneous act of kindness. This most unexpected person, in the most unexpected of places, provided the light at the end of a very dark tunnel. It soared through her, an unfamiliar sensation… joy.
Leaning in, she kissed his cheek.
Taken aback, he frowned. “What was that for?”
“Thank you.”
He looked puzzled. “I have not done anything.”
“You have. Trust me.”
Twice in two days… women, they were still a mystery.
-=-
Nauseous, Eva rummaged through her bathroom cabinet and found it. Checking the date on the box, it might only be a scare like the last time. Stress affected her; Vincent was always responsible for that, and she was late again.
Waiting, she held it at an angle under the light. Squinting, she tilted the stick left and then right. As the line darkened, a cold fear leeched into her bones. No, not now, not ever. She was careful… no, she was not. These things did not lie, and the stark truth cleaved through her fearful mind.
Two lines – pregnant.
The cheating bastard had knocked her up.
-=-
Antoine woke with a jolt, cotton-mouthed, and struggled to place himself. He slept for over an hour at his parent’s house on the settee. After a heavy lunch, last night, the hospital visit, and baring his soul to Brigitte, his body, mind, and spirit needed to rest.
His father sat in his armchair, peering over his newspaper, “Ah, he is alive!”
“Sorry, Dad.”
“Late night, last night?”
“Something like that.”
“I put a coffee on the table. It might be cold now.”
“Huh,” Antoine clasped it. “No, it is still warm.”
“Brigitte is a nice girl.”
Antoine understood that look from his father too well, “Really, we are only friends. It was a coincidence she was at the hospital.”
“Well, it is good you find time for your friends whenever there is an opportunity.”
“True, but I like Sundays, our day off,” mused Antoine, stretching out.
“Yes, a time to rest.” His father looked contemplative and returned to his newspaper.
Antoine’s thoughts turned to Brigitte, and inspired by her courage, he heeded her advice.
“Dad?”
He looked up from his newspaper, “Yes?”
“Who is Vincent?”
With a flash of his eyebrows, he closed and folded it.
“Dad?”
“Antoine,” he sighed, “It is your mother’s illness. You know what it does to her.”
Every syllable was slow and laboured; his affable father was pained by each one.
“I know I should ignore what she says,” and he eased forward. “Dad, she always says I was an accident, but she never mentioned Vincent before. Today, she said that… that… you are not my father.”
“Antoine.” In his eyes were years of hurt.
“Dad. I moved out. Is this the reason why? Is it my fault she is ill? I think it is.”
He shook his head silently, “Not true,” he mumbled.
“Who is Vincent?”
“No one, he is a false memory, a ghost, a symptom of her schizophrenia.”
“Is he? Because he sounds very real to me.”
“Real?” it roused his father to the cusp of irritation, “Okay, wait here.”
Anxious, his hands damp, the tepid coffee did not help. His father returned, carrying a large book, its gilt-edged pages burnished by time.
He sat beside Antoine. “Let me show you something.”
Opening it on the first page, the photographs had lost some clarity, faded, perhaps like his father’s memory.
He pointed at a picture. “Jacques Bernand and Eva Delacroix, Nineteen-Ninety-Eight. We met at a friend’s party. After that, she came to the shop often. It took me a month to summon up the courage. We went out to dinner.”
He turned a few pages. “This is our engagement party. That is your great-grandfather. You would have liked him, strong as an ox, brave, and a resistance fighter during the war.”
His father’s hand shook, browsing through more pages. “Our wedding. We had nearly a hundred guests, family, friends, and even some customers.” His voice cracked, “It was a wonderful day. Your mother looked so beautiful.”
He flicked through more pages and stopped. “And you, the day you were born. Two years later…”
As a tear fell on the page, Antoine looked at him with alarm.
His father composed himself. “She never left my side. We spent every day together. We were inseparable. She told me she loved me every day. I told her, too.”
Wiping away another tear, he swallowed back the emotion, “There is no Vincent, Antoine. I know all about him. Every time I visit your mother, she insists he is real. I cannot challenge this. It is bad for her treatment. I looked for him and spoke to her parents and closest friends. I checked and double-checked. He does not exist.”
“Oh, Dad.”
Hugging, Antoine matched the strength of his embrace. “I am so sorry.”
“You are my son. You were no accident, and I love you very much.”
“I love you too, Dad.”
-=-
The seasons changed from verdant greens and azure blues to the ochres and auburns of autumn. In winter’s stark, watery light and icy cobbles, the renewal of springtime led to balmy summer nights and the harvest of ripe fruits. These are the incidentals of a full life.
Talking to Madame Hinault, his father stood behind the counter, and their laughter permeated the bustle outside. Their assistant, Minette, rearranged punnets of strawberries. A pair of hands wrapped around Antoine’s waist, hugging him from behind. She always did this to surprise him, and he spun around.
Flicking her short hair, she tilted her elegant jawline. From her smoky eyeliner to the playful slant of her delicate nose, he lingered on her impish smile and inviting lips.
“Antoine,” her tuneful plea implored, “the shop is closing soon.”
Relenting to the temptation, she tasted of summer berries, “Okay.”
Looming in his peripheral vision, he almost collided with them. They were a couple and holding hands.
“Hello, Antoine.”
“Madame Bonheur and Fabien, you are lucky. We are about to close.”
“Lucky by name and in nature,” she tutted. “How often do I need to tell you?”
“This is very true,” added Fabien with a jovial smile, “She insists with everyone.”
“Okay,” Antoine sighed, raising his eyes to the heavens, “Lucky, you are lucky. The shop is about to close.”
Giggling, her eyes sparkled, “Better. How is your mother?”
His natural smile came easily. “Doing well. She has not had an episode for several months.”
“Wonderful. Send her my regards.”
With that, Lucky and Fabien walked into the shop.
“Who was that?” asked Brigitte.
“Oh, a regular customer,” he shrugged, “I used to deliver her order. Now she comes into the shop. Fabien appeared glued to her side last autumn.”
He kept his promise.
“Minette, let my dad know I will open up tomorrow.”
“Sure.”
Brigitte tugged his hand. “Do you know what today is?”
He grinned as they walked briskly, “Our first anniversary. I have a table booked at that bistro.”
“Aw, Antoine!”
-=-
“Do I smell of dirt and cabbages?”
Brigitte washed his hair under the cascade of warm water. “No, you smell of endives and artichokes.”
She giggled.
Tipping his head back, her gentle fingers rinsed it clean. Her mischievous hands slipped over his shoulders and arms to his waist. Taking her lead, Antoine turned to face her. He admired her natural beauty: fresh-faced, her chestnut hair wet and shiny. Holding her close, slotted against his mass, he kissed her forehead. Glancing at her pouting lips, they would not be neglected. The frothy water tried to rinse away this passionate kiss; it failed, and she took him in hand, slowly stroking his erection.
“Mademoiselle Deveraux.”
She purred, “Should I have a nickname like Lucky?”
His lips against hers made a statement. “Beautiful.”
Antoine stooped his head, kissing her neck and shoulders. “Angel.”
“Ooh,” she murmured, “keep going.”
Jutting out her broad, expansive breasts, she pulled him to one.
“Sexy,” he growled and nuzzled its hard nipple.
“Antoine,” she whispered breathlessly.
He knelt before her, kissing the delicate curve of her stomach.
“Lover.”
He ran the tip of his tongue along the line of her oblique.
“Soulmate.”
Opening her legs, he peered up into her eyes. “Temptress.”
Cupping her sex with his mouth, he cleaved her open. Dissolving into whimpers, she leaned against the tiled wall and clasped his shoulder. Sucking on her swelling clit, her longing for him ignited.
Gripping his wet hair, she cried out, “Oh God! Antoine, I love you so much.”
He kissed her smooth mons. “Keep saying that, and I will keep doing this.”
“I love you, I love you,” she gasped suddenly. “Oh fuck…”
Her need flooded from her, and the rasp of his tongue incensed her voracious appetite.
Watching him in the shop was torture. He used his brawn to carry and his charisma with customers. To be there was to truly know him, a man, a kind, thoughtful, and resilient man. Antoine helped her move into the tiny studio apartment. He taught her self-reliance, cooked for her and taught her how. They went grocery shopping together, and he showed her how to keep to a budget. Antoine helped her realise this simple dream.
Gathered into his arms, she was light to his strength. Lifting her leg to his waist, he took charge, and she quivered with anticipation. Eye to eye, his delicate fingertips laid down a trail of fire that no water would quench.
Pressing her lips to his, he entered her by increments and lifted her against the tiles. Wrapping her arms and legs around him, he fulfilled her constant craving. The slow, patient thrusts made her pout; the delicate vacuum of each kiss rained upon her, the next more enflaming than the last. Stifling her whimpers, the variations from his hips made her gasp.
Romanced one rendezvous at a time, he gave and expected nothing, and she tried so hard to reciprocate. Growing in confidence together, they found something pure. She felt it when he placed it on her lips a year ago today.
Brigitte clasped him tighter, “Antoine… oh God! Just there… keep going.”
Caressing her breast, churning through her insides, to think she taunted him for being a virgin. That first day they held hands at University, she remembered the stir it caused. Jealousy is the fear of not being good enough. Appropriate for Celine, and Eva chose ridicule. So, they found new friends together.
Looking upon him in a state of wonder and ecstasy, she mouthed, ‘I love you.’
He bucked and adorned her features with bliss. Antoine took her as if he could read her mind. He could arouse her with a single look, yet he would never manipulate her love for him. Who felt threatened by the Grocer’s son? No one except her father. He flinched when Antoine showered him with pieces of torn-up cheque. A symbolic confetti rich with irony. Monique jilted her father at the altar. Antoine could not be bought to leave Brigitte. This was the nobility she chose.
She placed her lips onto his, trying to show him. Melting into his arms as she slid against the tiles, overwhelmed by these delicious sensations.
Antoine fed this addiction to honour Brigitte, placing his heart and soul into her hands. From her first time, with patience, through their nervousness, trial and error, to this. He circled his hips, fuelling Brigitte’s passion with tender diligence. He did not compare; it was gratitude - Lucky put him on this path.
Brigitte was the spring in his step and the smile in his eyes. He used to be so numb to the hurt inside. Now, the joy of her company provided the equilibrium to conquer it and triumph. They were young, their bodies so supple and beautiful. One day, the flesh would weaken, but these feelings, this love, would endure.
Clasping his back, she felt his bulk and power. Everything focused into a single point: the emotions he inspired, who he was, and this loving act. The friction folded on itself, over and over, tightening and rising in intensity. Blooming the heat within, and her uncontrollable need ignited.
“Antoine… oh God… yes, yes!”
She squeezed her lips to his, their mouths open, tongues dancing. He was there as Brigitte’s struggle revealed itself and the tipping point arrived. Delirium beckoned, and he seized her writhing body with his shovel hands.
The rasp of her hurried breaths quickened, and she held him tightly, “Antoine! Oh, God, Antoine!”
Until Brigitte could bear no more and cried out. The crashing waves seized on him, ricocheting within, profound and gratifying. His body tensed, veins bulging, so close to the precipice. She clung onto him, mashing her breasts against his struggling body, sucking on his earlobe.
“Please,” she pleaded, “please put it inside me.”
Glowing under the watery cascade, its echoes boomed off the walls. Each powerful spasm confirmed everything Brigitte held dear. She had her man, her beautiful man. Fulfilled, no longer alone, her dream realised and filled with hope for the future. He loved her unconditionally, and she loved him the same way too.
Hunting for air, a soulful kiss laid all his emotions bare.
“I love you, Brigitte Deveraux.”
Her spirit soared; they were complete.
“I love you, too, Antoine Bernand.”
-=- FIN -=-
