I don’t want this to ever end.
For a few moments, I wondered if there was a wife experience, before shaking that thought out of my head completely.
At night, we explored art in the Louvre. Originally a royal palace, the world’s most famous art museum had been in the top five for my bucket list. It displayed celebrated works such as “The Mona Lisa” and the “Venus de Milo”; “The Nike of Samothrace,” and Michelangelo’s “Dying Slave”.
Holding hands, we strolled the museum’s long marbled halls.
No one else existed in there but us. The place held a lovely silence that was only interrupted by our footsteps and conversation.
I was in awe of Jean-Pierre’s control in Paris.
How much money and power did one have to possess to rent out the Louvre for the evening?
The whole place was massive.
We ventured to the Sully Wing—the oldest part of the Louvre. The lower ground floor of the Sully had remnants of the Louvre’s medieval castle. On the ground floor stood the statue of Aphrodite better known as “Venus de Milo”. The first floors had thirty rooms with artifacts and sculptures from Ancient Egypt. We kissed by the famous Seated Scribe.
Later, Jean-Pierre took a picture of us together as we stood in front of a colossal statue of Pharaoh Ramesses II.
And it felt like a real date.
No.
A real couple’s trip.
Maybe even a honeymoon.
But the problem was… it all felt so real.
Like this was my life.
All real.
No pretending.
No faking.
No girlfriend experience.
No payments.
When he touched my hand, my body warmed.
When he kissed me, my toes curled.
When he fucked me, my heart sang.
Sinking.
I was sinking.
Falling.
Down.
Down.
I was drowning in him.
“What’s wrong?” he asked as we stepped onto the second floor. “Is everything okay?”
I forced a smile. “Yes.”
Stop overthinking all of this. Enjoy Jean-Pierre while you have him.
He paused and turned me to him. “Tell me.”
“I’m overthinking.”
“Overthinking what?”
This is not what he’s paying for. Relax.
“Eden?”
“Sorry. I’m just. . .enjoying myself so much. . .I—”
He whispered. “And you don’t want it to end?”
“Yes.”
He squeezed my hand and guided us forward. “Then, that’s a conversation we should have.”
What? It is?
He smiled. “You look shocked.”
“You wanted a girlfriend experience with no emotion or—”
“No, I wanted you.” He stopped us and hit me with an intense gaze. “I wanted your full attention without anyone around. No interruptions. I wanted you all to myself to give us time to see if this could work.”
I swallowed, unable to grasp the magnitude of what he was saying. His words made sense, but they lay heavy with things that had been left unsaid.
I took a chance and ended my idea of what a pleasing prostitute would give him. Instead, I continued to be myself and asked the hard questions that had popped to my mind. “When did you decide that you wanted my full attention? Was it the first time I played for you at your party?”
“The first time?” He let out a long breath, surprising me. Again, some emotion lingered beyond those words. But I had no idea what it was.
He raised my hand and kissed my fingers. “The first time is another conversation that we’ll need to have.”
“Why?”
His face shifted to a neutral expression. “Because the first time I saw you. . .was not the first time you saw me.”
My heartbeat increased. I tensed. More from how carefully he was wording everything. A hint of fear edged his eyes. Whatever he had to say, he knew I wouldn’t like it.
What could he be afraid to say to me? He’s the man that rented out the Louvre for the night. I’m just the small town violinist that’s happy to be here.
Still, there was no doubt to what I was feeling. Tension thickened between us. Jean-Pierre turned away and guided us forward again.
I let go of his hand. “What do you mean?”
“Let’s discuss it at dinner.”
I didn’t know how long he had the Louvre or what he’d planned later. In any other situation, I would’ve pushed the topic further. Had we been at the movies or standing in some mall, there would’ve been no excuses.
I followed him but didn’t give him my hand.
Granted, he hadn’t grabbed it either.
Whatever he had to say, it had somehow divided us. A visible line passed between us as we headed to the end of the floor.
Dishes clanked further in the distance.
When we rounded the corner, a small staff greeted us as they set up our table.
Jean-Pierre gestured to the lovely decorated table near the wall and the large painting that hung next to it. “We’ll eat here by Ingres’s Turkish Bath.”
“Wow.” Stunned, I stared at the image. “I studied this in college. I had to do a report on it. Ingres painted it in the late eighteenth century.”
“I know.”
“You love this work?”
“No, I know that you did a report on Ingres.”
I widened my eyes in shock. “What?”