“There’s no need, Sophia,” I cut her off more curtly than I should.
At least, according to Murphy, who is adept at tactful language. Bullshit! Sophia bats her eyelashes.
“Okay…” she gives in. “I’m going back; the girls will take care of Océane, then we’ll get ready for dinner. You’re not going out again, are you?”
“Not if I have a reason to stay. I’m waiting for you to introduce me to her now that you are sober, and she is obviously staying.”
She hesitates for a few seconds, then nods.
“Okay. I’ll see you later, Ty.”
I continue on my way and greet Peter before going upstairs. I could have branched off to one of my “bachelor pads” in town, brought someone in with specific skills, and unleashed whatever I’ve been locking down for a few years. No longer needing to filter anything, just fucking in the only way that really gets me high. But no, I went “home.”
I undress, turn on the music and let the warm jets run over my skin. “Running Up That Hill” by Placebo at full blast, my eyelids shut under water. I’ve been exhausted and sexually frustrated for a little too long. And abstinence has never been my thing. That’s probably what generates those pesky, stubborn fantasies that seep into my pores with the fog.
Hot water. The lapping… Fresh petals… Moaning pink lips… The wet white silk plastered on the areolas… Delicious erect nipples… Immersed bodies… My fingers in the hollow of this moistness… This undulating pelvis… Fevered doe eyes, blond hair floating around, and…
Shit! The new one’s face and body are encrusted in the middle of the images. Masterful mess up filter… Cold shower, damn!
***
Océane
The girls are packing up their gear. I’m still a little puzzled by the result. Looking at the whole thing, I feel like I’m discovering another version of myself. But Sophia was so excited and happy to share her little beauty secrets that I don’t really regret it. We had fun. And I tried out some different skincare products than I’m used to.
Sophia comes back into the room, all dolled up.
“Are you done, girls?”
“Yes, we are.”
“Perfect! Océane? Tiger is back; we’ll have dinner together,” she says.
Damn it!
I nervously tighten the flaps of the silk kimono around my body. She is delighted with the return of her husband: normal. But personally, I would have preferred not to meet him anytime soon. Okay, that’s downright selfish of me. I should be happy for her and smile. The absence of “sir” only suited me well because I couldn’t fill in the countless blanks of my first morning here, of my probable exchanges with him. It disturbs me.
“Happy for you, beautiful. But you know what? I’m going to slip away and spend the evening with Louane; let you get back together,” I say, trying to escape.
Sophia stares at me with a little pout.
“Don’t even think about it! Come on, let’s meet for an aperitif on the south terrace in half an hour,” she decrees before crossing the threshold again and disappearing.
Did I already say, “damn?”
I watch the beauticians leave, trying to still look as zen as five minutes ago.
But he’s back! How am I supposed to behave?
The question goes round and round in my head for the next twenty-seven minutes. No clothes seem adequate enough to make me blend in, to make me look tiny. A special outfit for “let’s forget the first rotten meeting and start from scratch.” Unfortunately, I can’t find that one. Twenty-nine minutes. Damn, I’m going to be late too! This guy is surely the super-punctual type.
Be natural.
But precisely… The part of me that hadn’t come to light for four years should be completely on the back burner this time around. I’ll learn to be myself again later, far from the big boss. Here, I’m just going to do my job, keep Sophia company, and be a great au pair.
So, what am I going to wear to keep a low profile?
Tried and removed clothes litter the bed, and I was still in my underwear. Thirty-two minutes gone, shit! Caught up in time, I end up putting on a little flowery dress. Simple, ordinary. Then, I arm myself with the courage to leave the room.
The second one will be the right one. It’s gonna be okay, whatever you did that day.
He may have forgotten all about it, and his head is filled with numbers and financial strategies.
I motivate myself as I walk outside. Yes. He is a robot dedicated to business and the omnipotence of TS Naval. Me, I’m just another insignificant domestic employee. So, I’m nobody, and Mr. Sexton has better to—
Damn, I wasn’t ready!
His gaze freezes on me as soon as I appear in his field of vision. What was I saying again? That I did not screw up and that, at worst, he will have forgotten everything? I swallow and move forward, believing in it less and less.
I don’t detect any expression on his closed face. Just an impassive hottie in jeans and a white T-shirt, hair styled in an obvious post-shower style. His facial hair, sealed lips, and mysterious blue eyes give him an intimidating air despite his casual attire. The pathetic thing is that, unlike the rest, I remember his fucking eyes a little too well. They’re more striking than in the photos.
Damn, I can’t think straight. He looks briefly at his watch and manages to notify me of my delay without saying a word. I swallow my saliva and keep walking.
“Ah, finally! Ty, this is our guest. Come here, Océane,” Sophia tells me in English as she gets up with panache from the rattan sofa.
At least one person here is warm. In her powder pink dress that hugs her figure to perfection and with a beautiful smile, Sophia is welcoming. Quite the opposite of the other one. Stage fright swells in my stomach as I walk towards her, relaxing as much as possible. The husband lowers his glass and puts it down without deviating for a moment. His irises lock on me.
Breathe, big girl. The tiger won’t tear you apart.
“Océane, let me introduce you to Tiger,” continues Sophia.
I awkwardly hold out my hand, my mouth dry, and spout in their language:
“Good evening, Mr. Sexton. I… I’m delighted to meet you.”
A slight raise of his eyebrow; his blue eyes fork over my outstretched hand, then slowly move up to root in mine. Is he going to ignore me? He finally shakes my hand, and his grip envelops me. Firm, big, soft, manly, and…fuck, he squeezes my fingers a little too hard.
“Océane, Lilia Rousseau, originally from Paris, right?” he asks without releasing me.