“You look beautiful,” said some guy in my peripheral vision.
Most of the time when this happens, I just keep looking ahead and walking, showing the men I have no interest in conversing with them. On this occasion, I’m feeling generous, so I briefly look at him, expressionless, and say, “Thanks.”
He’s smart enough to get the message, so he remains behind as I continue walking. I have no time for men. They are a distraction, an annoyance and several other things that come to mind.
My career comes first. It’s my entire life. Nothing gives me more satisfaction than walking into the waiting room and telling the family that their daughter, father or sister will survive. Seeing the jubilance on their faces makes the 15 years of studying to become a cardiothoracic surgeon worth it. Not to mention that it’s financially rewarding.
I knew from a young age that I didn’t want to get married and have children. It wasn’t for me, so I wasn’t apprehensive about dedicating numerous years to my field. I can’t even remember the last time I had a date. That’s mostly due to my hectic schedule but also because of my reluctance to give any man the time of day.
I finally managed to have a Sunday off, so I was keen to try out the scones at the new coffee shop, situated at the square close to my penthouse.
I butter it and then add jam on top. My eyes close as I chew a piece, indulging in the mixture of sweet and savoury taste nibbling on my taste buds. Only pastry can satisfy me so much.
“Excuse me,” I hear a man say.
My enjoyment is brought to a halt, and I’m dying to give him a piece of my mind.
I open my eyes, and my tongue swirls over my teeth to wipe away the crumbs before I’m about to open my mouth.
“Apologies for interrupting,” he says. “I can see that you’re enjoying yourself, but I had to show you something.”
I glare at him, and my lips are pressed tightly, suppressing the urge to tell him where to get off.
He flips a notepad around and shows it to me. My eyes lower to the drawing, and I feel the tension in my jaw ease. I can’t take my eyes off the drawing, but I can see him smiling.
“It’s amazing,” I say. “When…” I look up at him and continue, “When did you do that?”
“Now. Do you like it?”
“I love it.”
He extends his arm, and I grip the notepad. My lips curl, and my eyes briefly look over the notepad at him before lowering to the drawing.
My head slightly shakes in disbelief. Nobody has ever drawn a portrait of me. And if they had, I doubt it would look as magnificent as this one does.
“How much do you want for it?” I ask.
“It’s yours to keep.”
“Surely you want some kind of compensation?”
He looks at the barista. “I tell you what. Buy me a coffee and we’re even.”
I smile and gesture to the chair. He smiles and pulls the chair and then sits on it. He extends his arm and says, “Pierre. Nice to meet you.”
“I’m Maxine. You too. Pierre, that’s French?”
He nods. “Born there, but I’ve been living in New York since I was a teenager.”
“I detect a slight accent, but you have assimilated quite well to our culture.”
“I’m proud of my French roots.”
“So you should be. You certainly are a talented artist. No doubt your French lineage has something to do with that.”
The waiter places a cup of coffee in front of Pierre, and he pulls out his cigarettes and lights one up. I’m inclined to tell him that I don’t appreciate smoke in my company, but I tolerate it as I’m staying only for a few more minutes.
“By the way, how did you manage to draw that portrait so fast?”
“I saw you when you came in, and I started drawing. You have exquisite features, so every line just seemed to flow easily.”
I smile, looking into his hazel eyes. He knows exactly what to say. I’ll give him that. I’m not crazy about the stubble on his face, but that’s easy to get rid of.
After some time, I accidentally look at the clock on the wall and realise that an hour has flown past. The delightful conversation that Pierre provided kept me attentive. I’ve even forgotten that he lit up a cigarette in front of me when his coffee arrived. At least, he hasn’t smoked another one.
I don’t want to get too carried away, so I tell him that I have to get going.
As I grab my bag, he says, “I’d love to see you again. You’re such a fascinating person. I don’t doubt that we will enjoy each other’s company more the next time we meet.”
I’m grateful for the portrait and the conversation, but I’m not ready to explore feelings that could distract me. But I don’t want to be rude since he was nice to me, so I give him my number. That’s safe because I can always avoid his calls and messages.
In bed that night, I can’t stop looking at my portrait. The more I look at it, the more divine it becomes. Pierre really is talented, and I’m intrigued by his passion for art and life in general. He has plans to travel and display his art for the world to see. His eyes sparkle and his lips stretch when he talks about it. It’s like his whole face lights up, and he becomes even more handsome.
The following day after work, I check my messages. Pierre sent me a message to tell me that he’s been thinking about me and would like to see me again. I don’t respond.
Two days later, he calls. “You didn’t reply to my message. That’s rude.”
I smile, enjoying his cheekiness to call me out. No man has ever dared to do that. I remain silent. “Well, if that’s how you’re going to play it, then you owe me again,” he adds.
“Owe you? What for?”
“For ignoring me. I want another cup of coffee, and you have no choice but to buy it. Otherwise, I’ll come to your hospital and make a big scene.”
“Is that so?” I ask, smiling.
“Yes. And don’t think because I’m French that I can’t be loud. I’ll switch to my American side and be arrogant and obnoxious like you guys.”
“Oh, so we’re arrogant and obnoxious?”
“Except for you. You’re eloquent and poise.”
Ugh, he knows just the right words to say to get me to react and compliment me in a few sentences. I must admit that I crave that from him. He knows just the right buttons to push.
I agree to let him buy me dinner.
At the dinner, Pierre tells me about wanting to open his gallery. It will be used to display his art and organise exhibitions, where art lovers will enjoy wine and cheese while getting a tour of his collection. I find the idea to be enthralling. My elbow is pressed on the table, and my chin rests on my fist as I smile while gazing at Pierre.
He offers to walk me to my car after dinner. I appreciate his chivalry.
He opens my car door, and I insert the key into the ignition before turning to face him. “Thank you for tonight. It was lovely,” I say.
I lean in to give him a peck on the cheek, but Pierre puts his hand on my waist and tilts his face, so his nose brushes mine. I close my eyes, and his lips press against mine. His stubble scrapes my face, but his soft lips infuse with mine. He slides his tongue into my mouth, and my knees become weak. It feels amazing to have him pressed up against me. I want more.
Don’t ask me how I allowed him into my penthouse, but here we are. He unbuttons my blouse as we’re kissing and taking short steps towards the bed. My heels knock the bed, and Pierre presses his chest against mine, making me fall onto the bed.
I screech, and he falls on top of me, smiling before his lips crash into mine. While kissing me, he slides his hand under my back and unclips my bra. He pulls it off my chest and gropes my nipple, gently nibbling and licking it. I close my eyes and arch my back. He really knows how to provide me with oral satisfaction.
I run my fingers through his shaggy hair, which makes him look French.
He lowers his lips to my abdomen, then lifts up my skirt and then pulls off my g-string. I spread my legs wide open, and he licks my pussy. Oh God, it feels amazing. He’s talented not only with his hand but also with his tongue. I sway my head left and right on the pillow as he swipes his tongue in all directions on my pussy. It’s orgasmic.
I open my mouth and emit a guttural groan. It unleashes some of the lust that’s built up inside of me, but there’s still plenty in me.
After some time, he stands up and then unzips his pants. I watch him pull his jocks down and admire his penis. It’s lovely, and I can’t wait to have it inside of me.
Pierre grabs my thighs and pulls me towards the edge of the bed. He taps his penis on my clitoris and then inserts it inside my wet pussy. I close my eyes and grimace as he penetrates. It feels so good. He speeds up the penetration, and a vein protrudes from my forehead. I scream to release the lust inside of me and beg him not to stop.
He exerts himself even more to please me by being more aggressive with the penetration. My forehead wrinkles, and I shoot out several consecutive groans. Years have passed since a man has touched me and even longer since I’ve been pleasured this way.
I see his chest expanding and contracting rapidly, showing me that he’s fatigued. He stops penetrating me.
He lies on the bed, and I get on top of him. I press my hands on his chest and bounce on his penis, my eyes closed and mouth wide open. He grabs my waist, and I open my eyes and look down at him. He’s looking at me intensely, and I’m admiring his gorgeous face.
I dunk my face, my chin brushing against my chest. He clutches a fist of my hair on top of my head and pulls back. I grimace and continue jumping on him. He smacks my right buttcheek and says, “Come on, faster.”
I straighten my back and jump on him more aggressively like he’s a wild horse that I’m riding. My hair drapes in front of my face, and I squeeze his pecks. I feel my pussy get wetter.
He grabs my waist with both hands, raises me slightly, then flings me off him to his side.
Pierre stands in front of the bed, and I get on all fours, backing my ass up to his penis. He inserts it inside of me and penetrates short, rapid thrusts. My face flushes, and I scream. He’s banging me hard from behind, and I’m loving it.
I hear him gasp, and he stops before his semen shoots inside of me.
I can’t believe that I let him spend the night. No man has ever had that privilege. And we also cuddled. What’s going on with me?
Pierre leaves in the morning and then doesn’t call me for the next three days. I can’t help but wonder what I’ve done wrong. On Friday, I can’t stand the agony of waiting for his call anymore, so I call him. I’ve never called a man before who I admire. It’s like I can’t recognise myself anymore.
“I was hoping you’d call,” he says.
Huh? The nerve of him. Who does he think I am? I don’t need him. “Excuse me?”
“Well, it’s about time you made some effort. I’m the one who drew your portrait, then approached you, asked you out, called you and bought you dinner.”
I’m silent for a few seconds. I can’t deny that he’s right. He did make a lot of effort. The least I can do is call him. I went from being livid with him to apologising to him. Oh God. Who am I anymore?
“I’d like to see you again,” he says. “At your home, and you have to be available for a few hours.”
The first thought that pops into my mind is a naughty one. I can’t help but smile. “Sure. I’m free Thursday.”
On Thursday, I scuttle to the door after hearing the bell. As I open it, Pierre enters with an easel. He places it in the lounge and then fetches a canvas and a box.
“Are you ready?” he asks.
“For what?”
“I’m going to paint you.”
“O-kay.”
“Please sit in that sofa.”
I sit in the sofa, cross my legs and then clasp my hands on them as my elbows rest on the armrests.
Two hours later, we take a break. I stand up and walk towards the painting, but Pierre stops me. He demands that I don’t look. The assertion in his voice stops me dead in my tracks.
A few minutes later, I return to the sofa, and he continues for the next two hours.
“Okay, I’m done. You can come take a look.”
I stand in front of the painting and stare at it for some time. It’s completely mesmerising. I can’t take my eyes off it. It looks exactly like me. I cannot believe how well he painted me. It’s beyond exquisite.
I look at him and then throw my arms around him, smothering his lips with mine. “You like it?” he manages to squeeze in between my incessant kisses.
I pull back and smile while looking at him. “It’s divine.”
“Just like you.”
Our lips crash into each other, and he scoops me into his arms and carries me to bed. After the lovemaking, I hang up the portrait in the lounge. It looks even better on the wall.
The more I have him, the more I want him.
In the next few weeks, it pains me to see him leave my place in the morning. I want him there all the time, so I ask him to move in. He’s thrilled at the offer, and I’m even happier that he obliged.
A month after living with me, Pierre says, “I need to know something from you.”
“Yes?”
“I’m serious about opening up a gallery. I think it’s going to do really well.” Judging by my portraits, I’m inclined to agree with him. “I was wondering if you’d like to join me in that venture,” he adds.
“What do you mean?”
“I need funds to open up the gallery. I’ve got the talent, and you have the funds. We can make a lot of money together. Plus, I’ll pay you back all the money you loan me with interest, and I’ll give you thirty percent of the business.”
I’ve always thought about owning a business, but I never had the time and the security of a paycheque made me apprehensive about taking that risk. But Pierre’s proposal is alluring. I get to keep my income and receive interest on the money I loan him and still have a share of his business while not doing any work.
“I’ll have to think about it.”
For the next few days, I do just that. I analyse the risk and weigh up the reward. I’d be lying if I said that the strong feelings I’ve developed for Pierre hadn’t influenced me to accept his proposal.
“I’ll take you up on your offer,” I tell him.
He grabs me, picks me up and spins me around while we smile at each other. When my feet land on the floor, he says, “I can’t believe this. I’m going to have a gallery, and it’s all because of you, Maxine.” He stares at me for a few seconds and then says, “I love you.”
“I love you too, Pierre.” I close my eyes, and he kisses me.
I’m unable to attend his opening night because I have an operation to perform. He told me that it was a great success, and a few clients already ordered portraits.
Three weeks later, Pierre asks me for another $50,000. I find it strange that he needs the money because he’s got clients lined up. Surely he can use that money to stay afloat?
He tells me that he needs money for rent, equipment and other overheads to get him through to the next month when the portraits will be complete. Then, he should be fine.
I transfer the money into his account.
The following month, I ask him about the progress he made with the portraits.
“Um, some of the clients cancelled their orders, and the ones I did, didn’t pay that well. I gave them a big discount to establish a client base.”
“Oh, I see.”
“Would you mind giving me another $30,000? This is the last loan, I promise. I’ll pay everything back with interest. I’ve already got orders lined up.”
“I don’t know. I mean, this isn’t how I thought it would work out.”
“Maxine, you have to trust me. This is how most businesses are in the beginning. They struggle but then take off when the owners persist. Just this last loan and everything will work out. I promise.”
I scratch my head, contemplating the repercussions of not giving him the money. The business will fold, and then I won’t get any of my money back.
“Promise me that you’re going to use it wisely.”
He smiles. “I promise.”
The following morning, instead of going to work, I follow Pierre. Twenty minutes later, he pulls up in front of a casino. I follow him inside and see him at a VIP blackjack table.
He leaves the table an hour later with no chips. I approach the table and ask the dealer for the minimum bet.
“$1000,” he says.
So this is what my money has funded—his gambling addiction. I shake my head, disappointed more in myself for letting a man get the best of me.
I arrive home before him. He sees me in my sofa and frowns, then says, “Maxine, you’re home early.”
I stand up. “Where have you been?”
“At work, painting.”
“Where were you in the morning?”
He frowns again. “What do you mean?”
“Don’t lie to me, Pierre. I know you were at the casino.”
“What?”
“Is that how you’ve spent my money? Gambling?”
“Baby, I was there for an hour. That’s it. I invested your money into the business. And it’s going to pay off. I promise.”
“I want my money back.”
“You’re going to get it. Why are you so upset?”
“Because you’ve wasted my money on your addiction.”
He smiles cunningly. “What addiction? Gambling? I’m not addicted to that. It’s just a way to take the load off sometimes. Look..” He pulls out two envelopes.
“What are those?”
“Flight tickets to Paris. I want you to come with me.”
“Pierre, you’re spending my money on travel.”
He grabs my shoulders. “No, baby. This is a business trip. I’ve been invited by a French connoisseur for a meeting to discuss my paintings. This could be big. Please, come with me.”
My forehead is crunched up as I contemplate saying no. “On one condition.”
“Anything.”
“I want you to return the remaining funds to me. How much is left?”
“Baby, I’ve got almost all of the $30k you gave me. Don’t worry.”
“Give me the money back, and I’ll go with you.”
“Fine, I’ll go do the transfer now.”
He goes into the study and then returns. “I’ve done it. Since it’s after five, the money will probably reflect in your account tomorrow.”
“Okay,” I smile and then hug him.
In the morning when I wake up, Pierre is not next to me. I leap out of bed and look in the open cupboard to discover that his clothes are missing. His luggage bag is not there either.
I rush into the lounge, then the kitchen and even outside. He’s not there. I go back into the lounge and drop to the floor. The tears gush out of my eyes, and my shoulders tremble. My hands cover my flushed face.
By nighttime, the funds still haven’t reflected in my account. I turn on the news and see a report of a plane crash. It was headed to Paris, and there were no survivors.
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