The Pairing(49)

A woman appears beside him, tall and graceful and smiling. She pushes her wild hair behind her ear with a paint-smudged hand.

“Caterina,” I say. I glance toward Kit and find him watching me. “Can I buy you a drink?”


Caterina is a painter. She smells like almond blossoms and turpentine and just broke up with a Dutch girl who captains sunset sails out of the main port. She lives in a skinny apartment building in the Gothic Quarter, one so old its door still has a bronze knocker shaped like a hand holding a persimmon. At the top of the stairs, as she unlocks her flat, I kiss her behind her silver earrings.

Her apartment is a magpie’s nest. Dried flowers hang from the chandelier, strings of translucent citrus slices in every window. Half-finished paintings lean against velvet armchairs and side tables heaving with books. It’s as hot here as it is outside, so she brings out a pitcher of cold water and pours two glasses.

When she presses one into my hand and guides me onto a kitchen chair, I think: I’m not even thinking about Kit right now.

I’m not seeing him and Santiago ahead of us on the walk from Bar Marsella, or the way he glanced at me when Santiago pulled him into the apartment building across from Caterina’s. I’m not even thinking of the way he looked last night on the edge of my bed, or the heat of his hand against my tattoo.

There’s so much to like about Caterina. I like how she floats around the apartment, emptying the rest of the pitcher into her houseplants. I like the paint stains on her hands.

She asks, “What do you want?”

I spread my legs wide, feet planted on either side of my chair. All my unsatisfied need rises to the surface, thick in the sweat on my skin. God, it’ll be good to finally get it out.

“Take off whatever’s under that dress, and come here.”

Caterina does as she’s told, straddles my lap, and kisses me. I kiss her back, hard, her tongue swiping into my mouth, her hands cradling my jaw. I guide her hips with both hands until I can feel her slick and needy against my thigh before I’ve even touched her, which is extremely fucking hot.

Everything is extremely fucking hot, actually. Suddenly, urgently, the heat between our bodies is nearly suffocating. My shirt sticks to my back. Sweat beads in the hollow of my throat. I break off to catch my breath.

“Okay?” Caterina asks, wiping my brow with the back of her wrist. “Do you need air?”

“Sorry, yeah.” The unsteadiness in my voice surprises me. “Could we open a window?”

“I have even better.”

She crosses to a tall, street-facing window and parts the gauzy curtains to reveal a set of narrow French doors.

“Come, look.”

When I join her, we’re on one of the Gothic balconies I admired yesterday. It barely fits us with all the flowers and plants crowded along the railings. Every building on the street has rows of tiny balconies like hers, pressed right up against one another like you could pass a cigarette to the person next door. The balcony across is so close, I can almost touch the curtains drifting from the open door.

As I pull Caterina’s body to mine, I hear it. A voice, close but slightly muted, shockingly familiar. A soft, open moan.

“Uh, does—does Santiago live in that apartment across from you?”

“Hm?” Caterina slips her hand up my shirt. “Oh, yes. Why?”

Another sound, a second voice saying something too low to decipher. Kits voice is rough when he answers, but this time I can make out “yes” and “please.”

Fuck.

Caterina laughs, her nose bumping my shoulder.

“Santiago does this all the time,” she says. “Estoy acostumbrado a eso. Is it bad for you?”

There are about one million reasons why it’s bad for me, but right now, all I can feel is thrumming need, and all I can see is the pitying look Juliette gave me on that beach.

“No,” I say, and I crush my mouth into Caterina’s.

I don’t waste any more time. I press her to the leafy railing and kiss her, my hand slipping under her dress to palm the wet heat between her thighs. She grinds against the heel of my hand.

Someone swears into the night, and I’m pleased with myself until I realize it’s not Caterina but Kit. His is the only voice behind the wafting curtains now, and I can imagine what’s happening. Kit, laid out on his back, lost in Santiago’s mouth.

“Fuck,” I murmur out loud this time, feeling insane. I drop to my knees.

This will work. Going down on an attractive woman always does it for me. Watching the pleasure dawn on her face, feeling her knees start to shake, burying myself in her taste. I shove Caterina’s dress up with one hand and push the other past my waistband.

I narrow my focus to my mouth on her, my own fingers, the hot blood rushing in my ears, her gasps and sighs, the roll of her hips. I give her everything I’ve got until she finishes, hands fisted in my hair, and I start her over again.

I want to—need to get off so fucking badly. Needed it for days, especially since last night, but I—can’t. Can’t get close enough. Can’t chase down the mind-numbing, maddening horizon, the touch of someone who’s not here.

I hear Kit again, whining through clenched teeth, and I know, I know what it fucking means when he sounds like that.

There’s not a sound inside of Kit that I haven’t worked loose. I know the low, imperious tone that means he wants control, the filthy mid-register drawl he uses when he’s feeling indulgent, the huffy swears when he’s pushed to the brink of his patience. When he sounds raw and wrecked like he does right now, it means he wants to take it.