Last night was a night full of promises. Unfortunately, Marcel fell asleep on me half an hour into Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. It appears that I did the same not long after because the movie menu is on and must have been all night. I'm surprised to be awake before Marcel. He is always the first up. I take this opportunity to caress his head on my lap and lay my head on the back of the couch. I take this time to have some introspection on my life, and how happy I am. I'm sending good thoughts in the universe, wishing for my love for Marcel to last and stay this passionate. I recognise my luck, and I cherish him and everything he does for me.
I remember our first encounter. Knowing what I do now, all of the comments I thought were disrespectful were not. It was his clumsy antisocial and introverted way to tell me how surprised he was. I wasn't what he thought I was. He was complimenting in a way. I was just under so much anxiety. I had so much riding on this book deal, I think I had a short fuse. I was looking too easily for an excuse to not get out of my comfort zone. It was the first time in my life that I stood up for myself. It felt great, in a way. Then, I never would have thought to be in this situation now. I never could have imagined how essential he would be, and how much he would mean to me.
I run my fingers in his caramel locks, caressing his scalp back and forth. I listen to him breathe. His head rests on my lap until his breaths get uneven and he opens his eyes. He moves a little, probably trying to get more comfortable until he realises where he is and sees me looking at him.
"Good morning, my love." I murmur as I comb back the hair on his forehead.
He moans quietly in response, a smile lifting the corners of his mouth. He stretches his legs over the armrest at the other end of the couch. I look at him intently, mentally noting his waking habits. When he's done, he finally looks at me with greater attention.
"Good morning." He straightens himself slowly and looks around us, my box of chocolate laying empty on the floor, the laptop still playing the Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban theme. "The last thing I remember is the divination class with the teacups."
"It's ok. We'll watch it again another time. How did you sleep?"
"I slept ok. I'm a bit stiff, but nothing to complain about." He smiles as he frees himself from the duvet. He looks back at me and takes my hand, pulling me his way. I crawl to him and swing a leg over him to straddle his lap. "How did you sleep? I didn't give you much room to get comfortable."
"It was ok. Don't worry about me. I'm tough."
"That, I know." He smirks widely and leans forward to press his lips on mine.
He holds me gently, until I feel the pressure with which he pulls my waist closer to his body. The way he moulds his lips to mine changes also. His tenderness turns into passion, which then turns to hungriness to become purely desperation. I get high on his desire. I'm melting onto him like his kiss is the only thing keeping me alive. He owns my mind and takes over my soul. I seem to stop thinking. It's an overflow of love my body tries to demonstrate but fails. And yet succeeds in bringing us an equivalent in pleasure.
"Marcel..." I pull away and murmur, catching my breath.
He leans forward to reconnect our lips, but I stop him with a hand on his chest. I cradle his cheeks and dive my eyes right into his.
"Remember when I said that I wanted to give you my virginity..."
"Mmh..."
"I want to give it to you now."
"I thought you wanted the moment to be special?"
"I did. And it is. Every moment with you is special. I've waited too long for this."
"Happy to know a week is too long for you."
"That was mutual masturbation. We haven't had sex in months. Not since.... Not since then."
"You're sure you want this?"
"I do."
"Then, let's do this the right way. In the bedroom."
-
"I have 76 unread emails, Marcel. I need to get some work done." I let out firmly since I have given him the last 52 hours of my time without once thinking about work. I'm knackered.
I don't tell him that most of my emails are junk. I don't tell him that I need a break from him a little. I don't tell him that my body has to recover from all the exhaustion it feels. I don't tell him that sex is the last thing on my mind right now. I don't tell him that I'm surprised that he still has the power to keep fucking me. I don't tell him that I don't even have the strength to focus on my emails. I don't tell him it's midday and I want to nap. I don't tell him anything. I hope he'll just collapse and fall asleep himself.
I leave him in the bedroom to get my laptop in my bag in the living room. I plug it to the wall to charge it, and open it to look like I'm being productive. My Scrivener is open with the story I started writing. I get tempted to read a few lines. It isn't structured yet, but the essence of it is there and it gets me excited to jump back into a world. I guess, now that I'm happier with my life, I don't feel the need to escape as much in my stories. Since I'm content with the support that I have, the love I feel and receive and too much sex I'm having, I'm not pulled to write. Writing my first novel must have been my way to be content with my life, to find a balance between what I had and what I subconsciously wanted. And my story gave me the balance I needed to continue. To survive.
I close my Scrivener, not in the mood to continue the story quite yet, and open my emails. Just like I had noticed on my cell phone, I have 76 emails unread. I start by deleting the spams, and move on to newsletters. I read them all and finish with the 'important' folder. Shelley Prinston has written to me. I get excited. Each time she wrote to me this summer was to send me on an exquisite adventure. I got to discover the culture in my own country like I have never before. I got to see The Rolling Stones live in Hyde Park with Sophie. It doesn't get any better than that. Of course, seeing La liberté guidant le peuple painted by Eugène Delacroix was very touching and one of the most significant moments of my life. Visiting new collections in museums is always my favourite thing to do. I can't wait to read where she is sending me this time, and what I'll have to write about.
***
From: shelley.prinston
To: gracyhemmy
Object: Masterclass
Good morning Grace,
I have just been made aware that Logan Kent, a prolific author very well known in Canada, is doing a Masterclass in London this week. Tickets are already on sale, but they are very limited. If you want to go, let me know as quickly as possible. I'll get you a ticket and I'll want a thousand-word article on it and some pictures if you can. If you have enough material for more articles, I would like that. Like I said, Logan Kent is a big deal here. The more you have to say about him the better. If you can get some quotes too, it could be amazing.
Let me know if you are interested.
Have a nice day,
Shelley
Monday, 9:36 EST
***
From: shelley.prinston
To: gracyhemmy
Object: Re: Masterclass
Hi Grace,
I know you are busy with your tour, but I need a simple response. There are only ten tickets left available.
Thank you.
Have a nice day,
Shelley
Tuesday, 17:43 EST
***
From: shelley.prinston
To: gracyhemmy
Object: Re: Re: Masterclass
Hi Grace,
I haven't heard anything from you. This isn't like you. Is everything all right?
Take care,
Shelley
Thursday, 8:03 EST
***
I can't believe I missed so many of her emails. I really don't want to disappoint her and this Masterclass sounds very nice, and exactly the kind of activity I'm drawn to. I would love to have some insight from a very well-known author. It could be a great advantage to get to know the market in Canada to market my own book across the pond.
I quickly click 'reply' and type my email, hoping there is some availability to this class. Marcel could come with me. I don't even know when it is. I start to panic slightly. What if I have missed it?
***
From: gracyhemmy
To: shelley.prinston
Object: Re: Re: Re: Masterclass
Greeting Shelley,
I'm so sorry for the late reply. I'm in the middle of my book tour and we've driven down to London for the next day or two. It's very good timing. It would be an absolute pleasure to go to this Masterclass. I don't know Logan Kent, but I'm curious about his journey and the Canadian market. Do you think you can get two tickets? My editor would love to join me if possible. When is it? Where is it?
I'm sorry again for missing your last two emails. Respond when you can.
How have you been?
Have a very nice day yourself,
Grace
Thursday, 13:51
***
I sent her the email and now consider this event with more thought. Logan Kent? I'll have to Google him later. For the moment, I really hope Marcel and I can get in. Maybe I should have precised to Shelley that my editor is Edith's son. I know they went to Cambridge together. I don't know the extent of their relationship. I never thought to inquire about it.
The more I think of this, the more I am really grateful for the opportunity to work for her. It's freelance, but she always gives me the best opportunities. I don't even know if my articles are liked in Canada. I know I always share my articles on Facebook and I get few comments here and there, but other than that I'm clueless. As long as Shelley is appreciating them and she keeps wanting to send me anywhere and everywhere I'm happy. I have maybe an event per month to cover. She usually does the trip herself to participate in grander events, but I'm happy to share a part of her job with her.
It's not the job that pays the most. I'm paid by the number of articles I write. I wrote three different articles for the Rolling Stones show last summer. Each of my articles figured in different issues. For the Eugène Delacroix exhibition, I wrote an article about the exhibition, another about the National Museum and the multiple exhibitions they do. I wrote another article on the painter himself. I wrote another one on the paintings, and finally on the importance of the La liberté guidant le peuple painting held for the French after the French Revolution. It was a fascinating subject. The painting was an homage to all those French citizens that fought in the streets of Paris behind home-made barricades to fight for their freedom in July 1830. I could write an essay about Les Trois Glorieuses. It was hard to refrain myself and only write a thousand words or so.
Marcel joins me to the couch and collapses loudly next to me. He is eating an apple and looks intricately at me. It takes my attention away from my computer.
"I can't believe you are not tired." I tell him as I slide on the couch to get closer to him. I lean my back against his chest and rest my head on his shoulder. "If I didn't have all this work to do, I'd take a nap."
"I'm alright. Does this mean you don't want to go out tonight?" Marcel asks in between bites of his fruit.
"It depends. I honestly don't want to, but Shelley Prinston, your mum's friend, asked me to participate in an event, but I don't know when it is."
"That's pretty last minute."
"It wouldn't have been if I had looked at my emails sooner."
"I didn't tell you not to look at them."
"You forbid me to leave the bed."
"I wanted to make up for lost times."
"You've drained me."
"Only because you gave it your all."
"I did."
"See? It was like a good workout."
"A three-day long work out."
"It was heaven."
"It really was." I smile seductively back at him. I'm knackered, entirely, but damn I love this man. I tilt my head up for my lips to meet his. He tastes sweet. I can't help but to kiss him again before settling my attention back on my computer. "Oh! She answered me."
***
From: shelley.prinston
To: gracyhemmy
Object: Re: Re: Re: Re: Masterclass
Hi Grace,
Unfortunately, there were no tickets still available. I pulled some strings. I was already in talks with Mr Kent. I've interviewed him quite a few times. He has personally invited the both of you. He will allow you some personal time to question him afterwards. Take advantage of the situation to gather material for many articles. I will ask that you don't share your credentials with anyone in attendance. It's an event organised by his English publishing company. And since you are both from another publishing house located in the same city, it can be problematic.
Who will be accompanying you? Edith or her son? I know you told me you had worked close together, but he isn't officially registered anywhere.
The event is tomorrow, Friday the 1st of October, at 20:00. Have your recorder ready. You'll see, he is very charming and very charismatic. It's always a pleasure interviewing him.
I've been good. Stressed, but good. Many events to cover locally. How are you?
Let's talk soon.
Shelley
Thursday, 9:02 EST
***
"Want to go to an event with me tomorrow?" I ask Marcel as I am pretty sure he was able to read over my shoulder.
"I told mum I would go see her sometime this week, and I haven't..."
"Is that a no or a yes?"
"It's a yes, but I'll have to find some time to go see her." He answers and leans in to get his apple heart on the table in front of us.
"We can go tomorrow. We can go out for breakfast and head to the office afterwards. I'd love to spend some time with Sophie while you talk about work with your mum."
"Good. We could give her the drawing as well."
"Oh yes, I had forgotten about that. Good idea." I send a quick email to Shelley asking her about the address of the event and close my laptop.
As soon as I put it on the coffee table, Marcel circles my waist with an arm and lays me down on the couch. He hovers his body over mine and holds himself with both arms on each side of my face.
"Here is what I understand: tomorrow, we have to go back into the real world, but we still have today free?"
He has that lingering smile that hints at a dimple. He knows how to charm me. His eyes are soft yet seductive that makes him so horribly irresistible.
"Yes... What is on your mind?"
"What if I could rent the donjon for the night, what would you say?" He asks with a serious tone, which means he has thought about it thoroughly. It makes me consider his proposition seriously.
I'm torn. I want to, because I really would like the opportunity to try different things with him alone before trying them in public. But I'm so knackered. I don't have enough fingers to count how many times we've had sex in the last two days. I don't have any stamina left at all, for the little I do have.
"Would you be mad if I told you 'raincheck'?"
"A bit, yeah. But we're in no rush. We'll plan something next time we drive down to London."
"That's a good idea. I'd like that very much. But maybe there is something we could do in the bedroom that would be fun and exciting at the same time."
"You've got my attention."
"How about I draw you naked? And whatever happens next happens..."