Moans break the silence of the room, and as fingers tighten in her hair, Emily grins. “Enjoying yourself?” She says, biting down on the soft thigh next to her head before soothing it over with her tongue.
“Ah, you-” The voice stutters and fails when Emily moves a little closer to where it is hot and wet. “Oh, you’re such a brat, Emily,” the voice continues, breathless as Emily’s tongue finds its way home. The moan that rips out of the woman’s throat is throaty. She arches down, pressing harder into Emily’s mouth, but instead of letting her, Emily draws back, grinning wide.
“What do you say-” Her voice falters. Looking down at her, eyes hazy with arousal, is Sylvie.
Emily sits up in her bed, heart racing and so turned on she’s about to burst. “What the fuck?” She says aloud, and waits for the furious beating of her heart to stop.
It doesn’t, and neither does the arousal.
Emily watches the client get into the cab and sighs a breath of relief. “Thank you so much,” she says, turning to Sylvie, standing next to her. “You have no idea how badly I was going to mess that up.”
“Don’t be stupid,” Sylvie says, her head tilted to one side as her eyes examine Emily. “You were fine on your own.” She takes a long drag of her cigarette, and despite the ongoing turmoil in Emily’s head that hasn’t quieted down since everything has happened, Emily can’t help following the motion with her eyes. When she manages to drag them back up to eye-level, Sylvie is looking at her with something like amusement in her eyes. She exhales, and Emily tastes the sweet smell of nicotine on her lips. “Bonne soiree, Emily.”
Sylvie turns and walks down the street, and it takes everything in Emily not to watch as she leaves like some lovesick fool or teenage boy. She turns her eyes to the ground, but even the clacking of Sylvie’s heels on the cobblestone sidewalks of the streets of Paris is too much. She groans. She really needs to get laid if the sound of Sylvie’s heels is turning her own.
There are more pressing things to attend to. Gabriel’s stubborn insistence on following her to Rome, even though she, and Antoine, have told him over and over he shouldn’t do anything until the Michelin Star is firmly affixed to the restaurant’s storefront. Mindy’s fiasco with Nicolas and the entire absurdity of both her best friend and the situation. Camille and– Honestly, she’s never quite sure what’s going on with Camille anymore. Perhaps it’s the cloudy night, darker than usual, but Emily looks around her at one of the rare empty streets of Paris and realizes, suddenly desolate, that she can count no one as her own.
She did choose this for herself, she tries to tell herself, even as she can feel the tears building. She chose to stay in Paris. She chose to break up with Alfie, to chase the Parisian idea of a whirlwind love affair even as she knew Gabriel was never the person for her. She chose business over the budding romance with Marcello. She chose this, over a stable career at a large company in one of the biggest cities in the world that she actually knows and calls home. She chose this. The thoughts don’t help. If anything, the tears seem to have a mind of their own and they are racing to declare her feelings.
“What the fuck,” she says aloud, to the wall covered in some type of graffiti that she can’t read. “What the fuck am I doing.” A year in Paris, and she still can’t even read the fucking graffiti.
A woman walking a small dog walks past her, and Emily can’t even find a smile in her to give. Instead, she turns, finds the nearest and emptiest bar she can, prays no one she knows walks in, and orders three shots. At some point, at the sixth shot, she mumbles something about not even knowing why she stayed in Paris in the first place, and the bartender just gives her a blank look because, of course, it’s fucking Paris, of course he doesn’t speak English.
She shakes her head and turns back to her drink. “Putain.” Her jarringly American accent mocks her.
She startles at the sound of her phone ringing, jumping out of her skin. She fumbles for her phone, blearily, and opens it. “Hello?” She croaks, unable to think enough to cringe at her own voice.
“Emily?” It’s Sylvie’s voice, and despite the fantasies she’s been entertaining about her boss it is the last voice on Earth she wants to hear right now. It is only fear of unemployment that keeps her on the line. “You sound like shit.”
“Thanks, Sylvie,” she manages, the lingering taste of alcohol sour and dirty on her tongue. “Kind of you to call and tell me.” Maybe unemployment isn’t what motivated her, actually.
“Are you drunk?” Emily makes a noise, and somehow, Sylvie sounds more entertained than angry. “Where are you? Our meeting for the move to Rome is in half an hour, and you’re never late.”
Emily’s head is pounding. “Can I call in sick?”
“Is this because of Gabriel? Because, Emily, please. C’est indigne.”
“Nope. Je ne parle pas français. Nope. I’m sick.” Emily replies and hangs up.
Yeah, unemployment is looking really good. Especially after Sylvie did her a favor and pulled up to a client dinner last night. Way to go, Emily Cooper, she thinks, you’re a real trooper. Even that thought hurts, so she’s about to burrow back inside the blankets when another head pops up from the other side of the bed.
“Qui était-ce?” This girl says, her eyes dark and smudged with eyeliner. “Pourquoi ils appellent si tôt?” The girl sits up, rubbing at her eyes, the sheets falling down to pool at her waist, and Emily realizes that it is not the girl who fell asleep at the foot of the bed.
Emily looks at the girl, looks down, looks at the girl again, and looks down. There are bite marks on the girl, and despite the pounding Emily vividly remembers saying something along the lines of, “Please, please, please,” last night to someone. Unfortunately, not like the song. Also unfortunately, it would appear she’s not in her own bed.
“Je ne parle pas français.” Emily says, pulling up the sheets to cover her own nakedness. Her head feels like someone has taken a sledgehammer to it, but it is reeling with thoughts to be blurted. Emily Cooper has always been a good little girl, dreaming of a house in the suburbs with the white picket fence. Emily Cooper’s experimental phase in college included having one beer and kissing one guy friend. Emily Cooper is having an identity crisis. She settles for, “Have you seen my underwear?”
The girl rolls her eyes. “Maudits Américains.”
She tucks her shirt in, just a little tighter, as though if she tucks it in hard enough she can pretend that she didn’t just realize that maybe she wasn’t suffering from Stockholm Syndrome when she looked at Sylvie. “Emily, it’s really not that serious,” Mindy is trying to tell her. “A lot of people are gay. I mean, hell, it’s Paris! If you’re not gay, you’re weird.”
“Are you?”
Mindy shrugs, watching her struggle with the button on her high collar shirt. “I’ve had my fun.”
Emily spins around, eyes wide. “What do you mean?”
“What I mean is, Emily, you slept with one woman. It literally means nothing at all. I mean, you could be bi? That’s a thing, too, you know.”
The collar is starting to feel restricting. She can’t breathe. She rips at the collar, but gives up instead and sinks to the floor. “Hey, hey, hey, what’s wrong?” Mindy’s voice floats from somewhere above, before warm hands are on her shoulders. “Emily, what is going on?”
“I can’t be bi,” Emily whispers to her lap. “I can’t be bi.”
Mindy’s hands pause in their comforting ministrations. “Girl, now is a little late in our relationship for you to come out as homophobic to me.”
“I’m not!” The thought, and the horror of the idea, snaps her head back up. “I just can’t be bisexual! Not right now!”
Mindy’s eyes narrow. “Emily Cooper, there is something you’re not telling me about.”
For a second, it’s tempting. She’s never not told Mindy anything about her love life, especially since she knows everything about Mindy’s. It’s how they’ve always bared themselves to one another, bare and open. Mindy knows about all of the things that Emily is too scared to admit even to herself. But then Emily looks at the watch on her wrist. “Shit, shit, shit!” She pushes herself off the ground, rushing to grab her bag. “I have to go. I can’t be late again.” Mindy raises an eyebrow at her from the ground, and sheepishly, she adds, “And I’ll tell you when I get back, okay? Promise.”
“Fine,” Mindy whines, but smiles at her anyway. “Go conquer the world or whatever you do.”
But the world isn’t for Emily to conquer, it would appear. The moment she steps into the office, Luc is walking towards her, an urgency to his step. He takes her by the arm and guides her away from where she was trying to pretend she hadn’t seen him. “Where were you?” He whispers, almost hissy. “I had to take over your part of the presentation.”
Emily yanks her arm out of his hands, runs her hands down the front of her shirt to smooth out any invisible wrinkles, and says, petulant, “I’m allowed to be sick.”
Luc is looking at her like she’s lost her mind. “You? Emily Cooper? Sick? Bah. You don’t even know what the word means.”
“Well, I was. Now, can I go to my desk, please?”
Luc narrows his eyes at her. “I know what you’re up to.” Emily freezes, suddenly and irrationally terrified that maybe he does. Maybe her eyes have lingered too long, maybe she’s sitting and talking a certain way, maybe she’s just walking around with it painted on her forehead. She’s heard of the lesbian accent before. What if she has a ‘wants to bend boss over the desk or be bent’ accent? “You’re trying to come up with something for the Le Labo campaign, aren’t you?”
“What?” Emily says, so relieved she forgets to be indignant. “I would never.” Before Luc can answer, she’s pushing her way past him, praying that no one else talks to her so she can just sit at her desk and do something mind-numbing. Luc mumbles something behind her, but she ignores him, just as she ignores all of the other curious looks sent her way. Honestly, she’s not that much of a workaholic. She’s certain she’s taken a break before. They’re acting like she can’t possibly be sick–
“Emily?” Sylvie’s voice calls out from her office. Emily stiffles a groan, turns, and immediately wishes she had called in sick again.
Sylvie, always fashionable, has decided to turn it up a notch for a random Tuesday. She’s dressed in a wine-red blouse, high collared like Emily’s shirt, but with tasteful cutouts that leave much to the imagination on her ribs. Underneath, she wears a tight skirt with a slit so high Emily has to swallow, hard, to force herself to look up and meet Sylvie’s eyes.
Fuck this.
“Yes?” She replies, saccharine sweet.
Sylvie frowns. “I need to speak with you.”
“I just have to look over the budget proposal for the–”
“Now.” And there is no denying Sylvie, not when she looks like that or when she sounds like that. But Emily makes a show out of being dragged from her desk. She brushes past Sylvie,holding the door open, sits down in the chair across from Sylvie’s, and takes a deep breath. Wrong decision, of course, the combination of the smell of Sylvie’s perfume and the taint of smoke goes straight down to her core. Frustrated, she squeezes her eyes shut, and waits until Sylvie clicks closer to her before she opens them again.
Sylvie moves to stand behind her desk, but for a moment, she stands, simply looking at Emily. There is something contemplative in her glance, but also something Emily recognizes more readily, the gleam of an idea being formed.
“Where were you yesterday?” Sylvie begins, finally, sitting with a sweep of her hair behind her shoulder.
“Sick.”
Sylvie raises an eyebrow. “Emily Cooper, perfect attendance since elementary school, sick? Before a major work presentation?”
“I can still be sick.” Emily is getting tired of defending herself. “I have gotten sick before, Sylvie. In the year I’ve been working for you, I’ve missed not a single day’s work. In fact, if anything, I’ve worked double what you’ve asked of me. I think I deserve to be allowed to be sick for one day without everyone grilling me about it!”
There is a stunned silence. Emily, ire fading as fast as it was wrought, is already beginning to regret her words. The surprise on Sylvie’s face, though, is short-lived. “Are you feeling better now, then?”
Emily blinks at Sylvie’s even tone. “Yes, thank you.”
“Good.” Sylvie nods, once, firm. “Then you can begin on the next stage of the move.” Sylvie stands, something softer about the set of her mouth. “I need a plan on my desk by the end of the day, but,” Emily stands, too. “Luc and Julien have offered to help.”
“Okay. I’ll get it to you.” She nods at Sylvie, tries to stuff away the sensation of losing something as she turns away from her boss, and leaves.
Someone is pulling her hair. They tug it hard as Emily arches back, desperate to find some friction or pressure. “Please,” rips out of her mouth, breathless and guttural.
The person behind her chuckles, voice deep. “There’s a good girl.” One hand slips down to cup her, and Emily moans, so loud she would be shocked at herself if she wasn’t a puddle under this person’s hands now. “You’re taking me so good, aren’t you?”
“Yes, yes, yes,” Emily chants, losing all semblance of coherent thought. The person yanks her hair up, making her cry out at the sharp stab of pain that quickly fades into pleasure, and kiss her. Emily moans into the kiss, wet and wanting, and when they break apart Sylvie grins at her, lipstick mussed and cheeks pink with her own arousal. “There’s a good girl,” Sylvie croons, and Emily’s eyes roll back in her head as Sylvie’s fingers finally, finally touch her where she needs it the most.
Emily wakes up in a puddle of sweat, and this time even the burning arousal isn’t enough to stop her from turning, burying her face into her pillow, and crying until she can barely breath.
Emily shakes her head, clearing her mind. She’s at French class, where she returned with a newfound fervor after the last meeting where an Italian firm had asked Luc whether or not there was a reason why they were all speaking in English when she was the only one who didn’t speak French or Italian. They hadn’t even bothered to ask it in Italian. They had asked him, point blank, in English, faces blankly polite. She wanted to melt in her seat. Luc had replied in Italian, saying something that made the faces lose their unreadable look, and they had left soon after. But Emily is still here in French class, desperate and angry.
She can’t speak Italian, but the least she could do is speak some French, right?
“Emily! Est-ce que tu écoutes?”
No, is the honest answer. She had not been listening. “Oui, madame.”
Her teacher’s look is unimpressed, but she turns and continues with the verb conjugations. Emily, despite her best efforts, zones out again. When she returns back to the class, they’ve already moved on to partner practice, and Emily’s head pounds at the thought of trying to articulate anything in French when she can barely articulate herself in English. She stands, moves to the front of the room, and asks, trying to sound as pitiful as possible, if she could leave.
The teacher gives her another unimpressed look, reminds her that this is the second time that she’s enrolled in the beginner’s class, and dismisses her.
She lights a cigarette as she walks out of the building. Running is desperate, and she is constantly running, but she’s decided that running is not nearly enough for her to hide from whatever it is that lurks inside of her. She blows out the smoke, watches it disappear into the gray sky, and takes one more drag before she puts it out.
“Smoking, Emily?” Comes a dry voice from behind her. She jumps, turns around, and who is standing in front of her if not the person who is the reason why Emily needs to run. Sylvie watches her with a curious glint in her eyes. “I didn’t know you picked up the habit.”
“It’s new.” Emily says, unable to pick herself up enough to be as perky as she normally is. Her headache pounds harder. “What are you doing here?’
“I live near here.” Sylvie raises an eyebrow. “What are you doing here?”
“French class.”
“Hm,” one corner of Sylvie’s mouth tilts up. “Say something.”
Emily’s voice is as dry as possible when she replies. “Non.”
“Impressive.” Sylvie takes out a pack of cigarettes of her own, offers Emily one which Emily declines, and lights one for herself. “You’ve been very… Non-Emily recently,”
Emily rolls her eyes, surprised at the nihilism that suddenly rises in her. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” Sylvie replies, lightly.
“Don’t try to pretend like you care. You hated it when I was ‘Emily’.” She makes sarcastic air quotes with her hands. “Well, congratulations. I might still be la plouc, but at least I’m no longer that.”
“Emily, I never meant to imply that-”
“Don’t.” Emily is just tired. “I’ll work my year for you, maybe do an extra year in Rome, and then I’ll go home. I’m tied,” she admits out loud for the first time, looking into Sylvie’s face, cocooned by a soft haze of smoke. “Just put up with me for the time we have left, okay? Then I’ll be gone. Just like you wanted.”
“Put up with you?” The soft incredulity in Sylvie’s voice is nearly hidden behind the bite. “Self pitying doesn't suit you, Emily.”
“I’m not. I’m just stating the facts.” Emily rubs at her temple. The headache thumps, and she turns. “I’ll see you at work tomorrow.”
Sylvie doesn't say anything as she walks away, and Emily walks home, doesn’t take off her clothes, and sleeps.
She nearly calls in sick again, but she doesn’t. Mindy wouldn’t let her, for starters. Mindy is holding onto some idea that all of this isn’t because of Sylvie, and if Emily looked deeper, she would probably agree. Sylvie is just a consequence of something festering inside of Emily. But looking too closely at that would mean Emily would have to look at Gabriel, look at Camille, look at Alfie and Luc and Julien and even Mindy and think, maybe I’m not a great person. Maybe I’m not always helpful. Maybe I’m not kind.
“Emily,” Julien says, dropping off a bagel at her desk. “You know heroin chic isn’t in anymore, right?”
“Yes, I know, Julien,” she says, grinning at her friend as she begrudgingly accepts the gift that he hands her. “As you keep reminding me.”
“Right. Don’t have cigarettes for lunch if you’re not going to follow the rest of the French diet,” he says, only half-jokingly. Emily feels something ugly and sentimental building inside of her at the comfort he offers her, and she manages to hide it with a half smile. “Thanks, Julien.”
“Are we still getting the museum tickets for today, Emily?” Luc sticks his head near her office archway. “Julien?”
“I can’t anymore,” Emily replies, already typing away at a rapid speed in response to some major emergency in Rome. “I have to go to a client meeting at the opera tonight.”
“What? Emily!” Both Luc and Julien start protesting. She gives them an apologetic smile, her attention still focused on the email in front of her. “I have to. I’m so sorry, it came up literally as you guys were standing here. Can we go some other time?”
“Ughhh, fine,” Luc says, whining the way he used to mockingly when he wanted to make fun of Emily. Somewhere along the way, he had started using it sincerely, and Emily has been waiting for the perfect time to point that out. “Work, then, you American.”
Emily shakes her head at the two of them, exiting and conversing in rapid French. Sometimes, she forgets that she’s in Paris. Then she remembers the last note that Camille had sent her, the one Sylvie had to translate for her, and she remembers, “I don't understand why you did what you did, just like I don't understand a fucking word in your letter. Leave me alone, you illiterate sociopath.”
She wants a fresh start so badly it is almost a physical ache. But then she checks the time, and it is time for another pitch meeting with another brand. Lise Charmel, this time, luxury and lingerie. She walks into the boardroom, holding herself as upright as she can manage, and sits down closest to the door. She is first in the room, as she usually is, and she takes the time to put her head in her hands and take a deep breath.
She collects herself when she hears the clicking of heels, signing Sylvie’s arrival before the woman herself appears, and she manages a bright smile at Sylvie despite the sight of her making her heart clench. “Good morning,” she says.
“Bonjour,” Sylvie replies, resplendent in a sharp brown leather suit that matches her eyes perfectly. “Are you ready?”
“Always.” She says, trying to inject confidence in her voice. If nothing else, she is good at her job, and if nothing else she clings to that.
When the clients walk in, Julien is sitting between Sylvie and Emily, and Emily clears her mind. The presentation goes by in a haze. A well-rehearsed, simple pitch, and Emily knows everything about the presentation like the back of her hand. None of the questions that the clients asked were surprising, and Sylvie dealt with all of them with ease. There was only one question where she turned to Emily, passing the metaphorical baton to her, and the clients left satisfied. Emily sits back in her chair, takes a deep breath, and allows herself to feel satisfaction at the idea that she is nothing if not at least good at her job.
“Emily?” Sylvie says, passing by the office. Emily looks up, a little bit wary but mostly just calm, and Sylvie nods at her once, firm. “Good job with them.”
“Merci.” Emily pauses for a moment, before continuing. “When do you want me to hand in my notice?”
Sylvie pauses. “What?”
“When do you want me to hand in my notice?” Emily looks down at her hands. “I wasn’t kidding when I said that I was going back to Chicago. I’ve already been applying to roles and I’m getting interviews. I’ll work out a two-week notice and begin wrapping up my projects, but I want to know if you need it in advance or if you want me to help look for my replacement.”
Sylvie is staring at her like she’s lost her mind. The quiet is beginning to get to Emily, before Sylvie swallows and says, “Two weeks will be enough. But you will need to help me find your replacement.”
“Okay.”
“And Emily?” Sylvie sounds like something is choking her. “Let me know if you want a recommendation. You’ve… You’ve done good work here.”
Emily stands, allowing Luc to give her one last tear-y hug. “I’m not dying, Luc,” she says, laughing but holding back her own tears. “I’ll still be here.”
“Pah!” Luc exclaims, sobbing into her shoulder. “You’re going to be in Chicago.”
Emily just shakes her head. She hasn’t said anything to any of them, but she had applied to a few roles in Europe, too, just to see if it was possible that she might be able to continue. A clean slate is all she wants, and she isn’t sure if Chicago is what she wants or considers home anymore. “I’m not dying,” she repeats, a little softer, and gives her friend a smile. “I’ll be nearby.”
Luc just sobs.
At the end of the night, Emily is standing, thanking people and pressing kisses on cheeks, until there is only one person left. Well, two. Mindy had taken one look at the situation and left, winking and making an all too suggestive gesture. Luckily, Sylvie didn’t see.
Sylvie lights a cigarette. “So.” She takes a long drag out of the cigarette, and instead of offering Emily a different one, she holds the one that she lit out to her. “Where will you be going next?”
“Still waiting on a few places.” Emily accepts the cigarette, desperate and pathetic as she is, and places her lips over the lipstick stain that Sylvie’s left on the filter. Sylvie’s eyes flicker down to it, and then they come back up, watching Emily. Her eyes are dark, and Emily’s suddenly a little lightheaded.
Sylvie takes the cigarette from her and inhales deeply. “Why are you running away, Emily?” Her tone is light. It could even be taken as a joke, if it wasn’t for the tenseness that makes Sylvie appear too upright in the dim lights. “You’re in Paris-”
“Exactly.” Emily replies. “Paris isn’t for me. I thought it was, but I don’t think I am.”
“That’s bullshit!” Sylvie exclaims, suddenly. “What do you mean, Paris isn’t for you? You took to this place like fish to water.”
Emily shakes her head. “Sylvie, I… Thank you. I don’t think I would have been so willing to take the risks that I took while I was here if it wasn’t for you.”
“But?”
“But I can’t work for you anymore.”
Sylvie’s eyes are dark as she hands the cigarette back to Emily. “Why?”
Emily takes a long, deep breath, inhales and exhales, blowing the cigarette smoke lightly towards Sylvie. The smoke touches her lips, caressing and gentle, and Emily wants. “Because,” Emily says simply, “I want you.”
Emily moans into the kiss, the rough texture of the stairwell wall biting into her back. Hands are everywhere: in her hair, on her neck, over her clothing, under her clothing. She’s nearly overwhelmed with the sensations of it all. Sylvie’s hair is silky under her hands, and she grabs a handful just to hear the sharp intake in Sylvie’s breath. “You’re beautiful,” Emily manages to moan, Sylvie’s mouth hot on her neck. “You’re perfect.”
Sylbie growls in response. They take too long to get back into Emily’s apartment, but standing in front of Emily’s bed, Emily is suddenly unable to move.
“What’s wrong?” Sylvie asks, her hand still under Emily’s shirt, not really withdrawing but not really pushing, either.
Emily looks at her. Her hair is a mess from Emily’s hands, her lipstick is smeared, and her eyes are hazy with arousal. It is everything like she dreamed, and yet there are small things that Emily’s imagination hadn’t been able to supply. The way that Sylvie’s hands are rough on her. The way that Sylvie’s perfume is darker, deeper, than it smells in the office. The way that Sylvie’s eyes are nearly black, and they follow her every move.
Emily walks Sylvie closer to the bed. She presses against Sylvie’s shoulder, a solid, continuous pressure, not demanding but not to be ignored, and Sylvie lets herself be pushed down onto the bed. Emily stands, towering over her, and the sight is so much that she doesn’t know where to start. “Can I?” She asks, her hands hovering over Sylvie’s dress’ zipper.
“Yes,” Sylvie breathes out.
Little by little, Sylvie’s skin is revealed in front of her. There is nothing about Sylvie that Emily’s eyes do not devour, nothing that does not absolutely demolish and rebuild her again. Sylvie has stretch marks on her stomach, she has a small tattoo on her left hip, she has a scar right next to her belly button. Emily memorizes it all, and she lets her lips follow her eyes down.
Sylvie’s hands are in her hair now, and Sylvie is quiet in bed, much more quiet than Emily expected, but sometimes there will be a hitch in her breath or a small moan, and Emily chases after it like a woman addicted. She presses a kiss to the small tattoo, allows her hands to reach up and touch Sylvie’s breasts, feeling her nipple pebble. She sucks, hard, on the tattoo, hears Sylvie’s little cry, and allows her fingers to trail down, too.
“For the love of all that is good,” Sylvie says, intimidating if not for the fact that she’s breathless. “Will you hurry up with it?”
Emily grins, wide. “What do you say?”
“I’m not saying please.”
Emily nods, and then lets her fingers travel up again, her mouth tracing the shapes that her fingers draw. “Then I guess we do have all night.”
“Emily, I swear,” Sylvie growls, and suddenly, and Emily has no idea how this happens, Sylvie flips them both over. Emily is so stunned that for a moment she forgets to be offended, but then she sees Sylvie’s hungry looks down her body and she forgets what she meant to say, too. “If you’re not going to help me, I’ll do it myself.”
Slowly, languidly, Sylvie lowers herself down on Emily’s bare thigh. She never breaks her stare as she begins to rub herself against Emily, and Emily is so turned on she can’t think straight at all. Unable to resist, she moves a hand down, grabbing at Sylvie’s flank before she moves down, cupping Sylvie. She gasps. Here, there is tangible proof of Sylvie’s arousal, wet and hot.
Suddenly, Emily is ravenous. She arches up, brings Sylvie’s mouth to her own, and in the same instance, pushes two fingers into Sylvie. Sylvie gasps into the kiss, and that is all the encouragement Emily needs. She pumps her fingers in and out, with all the ferocity she can manage, and before long she can feel Sylvie starting to lose rhythm.
“Emily,” Sylvie says, breathless, “Emily.”
“Come for me,” Emily almost begs, completely in awe.
Sylvie clenches down hard on her fingers, and she presses her lips against Emily desperately as she comes. Emily holds on tight, feeling like she’s drowning in the feeling of everything that’s happening. When it’s over, Sylvie falls, completely boneless, on top of Emily, a comforting weight on top.
“God, Emily.” Sylvie says, finally, her voice a whisper.
Emily pauses in her ministrations across Sylvie’s skin and brings Sylvie’s face up to hers again for a kiss. They part, unwilling and longing, and Sylvie’s eyes are still dark.
“I am going to ruin you,” she promises, “Je t'adore.”
Emily allows Sylvie to press kisses all over her, and breathes out, when she remembers how to speak again. “I adore you too.”