"You're an angel, Mrs. Chen," I say, handing her the diaper bag while my neighbor coos at the twins in their carriers. "I'll only be gone for two hours, three at most."
"Take your time, dear," Mrs. Chen says with that knowing smile, the age wrinkles on her face are getting deeper. "These precious ones will be fine with me. You go have your coffee with your friend."
She emphasizes 'friend' in a way that makes me blush. I'm wearing my only dress that still fits properly, the emerald green one that brings out my eyes, and I've actually managed to style my hair.
The café on Fifth is one of those French places trying too hard to be Parisian, but when I see Henri through the window, already waiting at a corner table, my cynicism melts away.
He looks up as I enter, and the way his face transforms, from contemplative to absolutely radiant, makes my knees weak.
He stands immediately, moving toward me with that European grace that American men never quite master.
"Elena," he breathes my name like a prayer, then kisses both my cheeks, lingering on my lips for the last time with a deep kiss. His cologne wraps around me, and I have to resist the urge to lean into him even closer.
"You look exquisite," Henri murmurs, still close enough that I can feel his breath on my ear. "I've thought of nothing but this moment—seeing you again, touching you, even if just like this."
"Henri," I manage, my voice embarrassingly breathy. "People are staring."
"Let them stare," he says, pulling back just enough to look into my eyes. "Let them wonder what I did to deserve such a beautiful woman's attention. Come, I've ordered your favorite—vanilla latte with an extra shot, yes?"
The fact that he remembers makes my chest tighten. We sit, and his hand immediately finds mine across the table, his thumb tracing circles on my palm that send shivers up my arm.
"Tell me about your sister's babies," he says, and I tense before realizing he's just making conversation. "It must be exhausting. You look tired, ma chérie, though still breathtaking."
"They're a handful," I admit, sticking to vague truth. "But let's not talk about that. Tell me about Provence. You mentioned in your last letter about the harvest season."
His eyes light up, and he leans forward, our hands still entwined.
"Ah, you would love it this time of year. I keep imagining you there, walking through the vineyard rows with me." His voice drops lower. "I picture you on the terrace of my house, barefoot and wearing nothing..."
"Henri…"
"No, let me finish," he says, bringing my hand to his lips, kissing each knuckle slowly.
"I imagine teaching you French properly, mostly using my tongue. We start with the words I want to whisper in your ear when I finally have you in my bed."
My face burns. "We're in public."
"Then let's go somewhere private," he suggests, his eyes dark with promise. "My hotel is just around the corner. We could continue this conversation with fewer... restrictions."
"Just conversation?" I ask, trying to sound teasing but hearing my own nervousness.
"That depends entirely on you, ma chérie. I've made my desires quite clear. I want you, Elena. I've wanted you since that night in the hotel bar." He stands, still holding my hand. "Let me show you exactly how much."
We walk through the park toward his hotel, his arm around my waist now, his hand splayed possessively on my hip. I have to stop his hand every time he tries to lift my dress a little higher, exposing my skin.
I blush terribly, looking around, while Henri gets indescribable pleasure from my violent reaction, smiling even wider.
He deliberately makes me blush even more in front of everyone, whispering in my ear about the positions in which he would fuck me and for how long at every landmark we encounter along the way.
"I wouldn't let you out of bed," he murmurs, kissing me behind the ear. "Everything you've been denied, everything you deserve. I would be happy to show you how well I know the female body."
"Do you have a lot of experience?" I try to joke, while a knot tightens in my stomach. God, how I want this... And I'm ashamed of my own desires.
“Good at understanding what exactly you crave.”
His hotel room is elegant, understated luxury that makes my apartment feel even shabbier by comparison. The moment the door closes, Henri turns to me, cupping my face in his hands.
His lips find mine, immediately full of desire. When I don't pull away, he deepens the kiss, his hands tangling in my hair. I melt into him, letting myself forget everything—the twins, Adrian, the lies.
Henri’s tongue traces my lower lip, and I open for him, a moan escaping that seems to ignite something in him.
"God, Elena," he breathes against my mouth. "The sounds you make. I want to discover every single one."
His hands roam my body with reverent hunger, mapping every curve through my dress. When his fingers find the zipper at my back, reality crashes in.
My body is still soft from pregnancy, marked with stretch marks, my cesarean incision barely healed. If he sees, he'll know.
"Wait," I gasp, pulling back. "I want to, Henri, but... can we slow down? I want it to be special when we... when I finally..."
Henri's eyes are almost black with desire, but he smiles, pressing his forehead to mine.
"You're killing me, Elena. But perhaps that's what makes you irresistible. The chase, the anticipation—when you finally let me have you, it will be worth every moment of torture."
Henri traces my lips with his thumb, and I catch it between my teeth, making him groan. "You're playing with fire, ma chérie."
"Maybe I like the heat," I whisper, then step back before I lose all control. "But not today. Soon, I promise."
"I'm a patient man," Henri says, although the protruding fabric of his trousers says otherwise. "I'll earn you, Elena. Every kiss, every touch, every piece of yourself you're willing to give. I'll earn it all."
I float home on those words, my lips still tingling, my body alive with want. For two hours, I was just a woman desired by a man, not a mother, not an ex-wife, just Elena.
But the dream shatters when I open my apartment door.
Adrian is there, in my shabby living room, our daughter cradled against his chest while our son sleeps in the crook of his other arm.
He's removed his suit jacket, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and he looks more human than he has in years.
The twins, who were crying so hard when I left them with Mrs. Chen, are completely peaceful in their father's arms, and it's almost heartbreaking how natural he looks holding them.
"Where's Mrs. Chen?" I ask, my voice sharp with panic.
"I let her go," Adrian says quietly, not looking up from our daughter's face. "Don't you think it's a bit irresponsible to leave the twins with a stranger?"