Their bodies shifted, and Gabriel found himself underneath Anais as she pinned him down. He remained very still, brown eyes wandering leisurely at the glorious sight above him when Anais slowly rolled her hips before pausing. His gaze shot back up to her face, body tensing as he waited until the songstress moved again.
His breath hitched in his throat as Gabriel watched Anais, her lithe body moving on top of him like a snake, hypnotizing him; his fingers curled around hers and more than once Gabriel lightly attempted to escape her hold on him but the songstress pressed his arms harder against the pillows. She began to pick up the pace and through the mess of golden hair, he tried to reach up, mouth open as he craved her lips. But she kept him restrained, face hovering but not close enough for him to be able to kiss her.
Gabriel furrowed his brows, irritation bubbling as Anais denied him from touching her; he was still furious, it never left, but the songstress managed to twist his indignation into a hunger that bordered on desperation. His breathing was labored, he wanted her, and even more now as Anais writhed and rolled her hips, eyes closed her head thrown back, lost in her own indulgence before meeting his gaze again to watch him.
It felt as though his heart would give out as groans and cries of pleasure escaped him through his breathlessness; Gabriel’s stomach twisted into knots as he neared his release, and he broke out of the songstress grasp with such ease as he held on to her body, arms tense and hands latched roughly around her back.
His face was buried in her chest, hips meeting hers with powerful thrusts; Gabriel let himself be devoured whole, moving with such abandon and fingers digging into her back until he shuddered into his release. Gabriel’s movements finally became slow and erratic, his chest just about ready to explode with how hard his heart raced. He fell back into the bed, exhaustion washing over him as he slowly let go of his hold on Anais, her skin red from the way Gabriel anchored himself to her. For the first time in a long while, Gabriel’s mind was still, a calm silence punctuated only by his own breaths and the beating of his heart.
There was something about the illusion of control, the illusion that she could hold him beneath her as long as she so pleased watching the way pleasure manifested on his features, that made her blood run hot, and her breath come quickly. She moved her hips with abandon, riding the man beneath her as the pressure mounted at her core. Her skin felt hot, and her lips were parted as she cried out, high off the power of her every movement, and the groans that were ripped from his throat. She thought of the dancing, the near misses, the subtleness of fleeting touch, his mouth on hers from a stolen kiss among books, his mouth between her thighs in near darkness, the way he spoke to her with such brutality. It cumulated to that moment, her body above his, the obscene sounds reaching a crescendo.
The illusion of control was just that, and when Gabriel easily broke free from her hold, his fingers digging into the skin of her back, she held on desperately to the feeling building in her bones. Their movements had become desperate, and as he hardened inside her, shuddering into release, Anais tangled her fingers into his hair and held him against her. Her hips slowed, and as Gabriel spasmed beneath her, the woman finally let go to allow the ecstasy to roll through her, eyes falling closed as she rested her head against his.
Her breathing slowed, and her body felt weightless as she allowed herself to be supported by him. They stayed in place for awhile, heart rate’s beginning to calm, and Anais pressed her lips against his head before pulling away to look at him.
“Was that sufficient, Mr. Critic?” And a small smirk touched her lips, before she leaned in to capture his lips once more. She lingered there, until finally the songstress untangled herself from him, and rolled from the bed.
He left a hot, wet trail running slowly down her thigh as she slipped into the bathroom. She felt slightly shaky, and her legs trembled with the broken tension. Anais turned the water on in the bathtub, and as she waited for the it to warm, the woman called out.
Drake could see five operas in a week in Paris and yet he wouldn’t be able to tell you the difference in any of the shows. He didn’t attend the theatres for the music or the culture or the story. He went to simply be and be seen by the elite of Paris society.
That was, unless Anais was singing.
The human embodiment of Polyhymnia, Anais commanded the stage with a presence so irrefutable that even a man of his status had no choice but to pay rapt attention. Though he remained leaned casually leaned back in his seat in the lofty position of his private box, close observers would note that while his face remained neutral, his posture was straightened.
He applauded after every song – which wasn’t a typical courtesy for him.
The Lord knew how to bide his time. Though he wished to speak to her, he was patient. Scotch in hand, a little stronger than the champagne being swung elsewhere across the room, he clocked the statuesque blonde the second her movements angled in his direction. He took a slow drink, holding the taste in his mouth to compliment the vision of the woman draped in gold approaching him.
A wry smile on his face, he swallowed.
“Your voice may yet make me a patron of the arts,” he admitted, “Though I would have been far more satisfied if it had been only you on the stage.”
“You mustn’t grow greedy,” She chided, though a faint smile touched her lips as the woman took a sip from her champagne flute. Familiar faces spoke and laughed and drank with an abandon that was specific to those who held a place in Paris’ high society. It could be stifling at times, the eyes that were always watching, the mouths that were always whispering, the tedious balance between what was right and wrong. It was both addicting, and repelling, leaving Anais to walk a tightrope that sometimes left her with vertigo. It helped to be in Drake’s company, even if she’d rather it was just the two of them.
Blue eyes swung around the room before settling on the man beside her, and Anais took a moment to assess him; she didn’t hide her sliding gaze, and when she was satisfied, Anais sipped her champagne.
“How do you always manage to be the best dressed man in the room?”
She had managed to slip away easily enough, leaving the glittering and gilded rooms of the Palais Garnier for the dim, smoke filled filled jazz club on the other side of the Seine. Blue eye moved from the half filled glass in her hand to the stage as the next performer was announced. Her judgement was hardly welcome, but Anais watched the tall, slim young man enter the stage with a gaze that attempted to seek every detail about him. The room came alive, and the songstress watched the young man with both a renewed interest.
His voice reminded her of butter as it melted into hot break, seeping beneath her skin. Anais watched from the bar, knowing the darkness he looked out upon.
Despite the madness, despite the relentlessness of the past month, the show must go on. Maximillian Huber returned from Hungry, Anais returned from her trip to Vienna, and Tristan and Isolde finally pulled back the curtains to all of Paris. The set reached towards the sky, the chorus swept across the stage with practiced perfection, Antoine Duris’ deep voice reverberated throughout the theater, and Anais dazzled the crowd as an angelic heroine. After a lifetime in front of crowds, with eyes staring, the songstress knew when she held the audience in rapture, and opening night did just that.
But of course the night didn’t end there. No, for anyone who was anyone there was more to come. The salon of the Palais Garnier was as grand as the theater, and as magnificent as the foyer. Champagne flowed, and the intermingling of Paris’ elite filled the room with a lovely din.
Anais smiled modestly, out of her costume and adorned in a gold dress that matched the champagne and rivaled the fresco. The conversation continued around her, and, bored by talks of politics, the woman’s eyes scanned the room, before landing on a familiar face. Her lips twitched into a smile, and excusing herself, Anais crossed the room.
“Lord Cunningham,” Anais greeted with emphasis, as she came up beside him. She spoke in English, and her gaze slid to watch him. “Enjoy the show?”
The raging in his chest sounded like war drums, and their ragged breaths were quickly devoured by the cadence that filled his ears, urging him to jump. To give in. To fall.
Gabriel nodded and pressed his mouth against Anais’, capturing her gasps as he entered. A sigh escaped his lips at the warmth, and for a little while, the critic relished the way their bodies connected, brown eyes moving across the songstress’ features in quiet reverence; he watched the flutter of her lashes, the parting of her lips, and the way her blue eyes stared back at him with such clarity before he finally moved his hips to a steady rhythm.
It was a strange sensation, akin to being bewitched, how Gabriel could not recall anything else before that moment; Anais consumed his thoughts, her breath was his breath, and each sigh and exhale entwined them even more, just as their limbs coiled around each other like snakes. He needed to be closer, much closer, to bury himself under her skin just as she had done to him.
Anais was inescapable.
The recklessness of their act was still controlled chaos, and Gabriel was aware to not lose himself completely to her, but with each thrust, he felt himself let go little by little, and the feeling of skin to skin sent waves of pleasure unlike any other. It was evident on his face, the way his brows furrowed as he pressed his forehead against hers, and the way he gripped her flesh. He picked up the pace– he needed more, Gabriel desperately wanted to let himself go.
The vulgarity of the words in her birdsong voice came forth as a demand and a plea as Anais pulled Gabriel closer, pressing her fingers into space above his waist. He looked at her, brown eyes alight as she had never seen them, and Anais felt a current run through her veins, bringing her blood to a steady boil. He pressed into her, she clung to him, breathed into his lungs, the woman’s heart sprinting within her chest; it could almost be heard, the violent snap of tension reaching its breaking point.
For a moment neither moved, only savored the uncertainty of where one stopped and the other began. Gabriel’s eyes roamed her face as her own traversed the details of the critic’s features. Her gaze flickered from the twitch in his jaw, to the way his tongue swept out to wet his lip, before finally meeting his eyes to find that dilation had turned them dark, and the woman rolled her hips beneath him.
Like their nights of dancing, they moved with a rhythmic familiarity that quickly left Anais breathless, as she reached up to press her palm against the headboard, and the other wove her fingers into Gabriel’s hair. The hair across his jaw scratched the skin of her cheek, her neck, her lips and Anais arched into him. Gabriel thrusted, pressing deeper, and eliciting a cry from Anais, she dipped her head back, sinking into the pillows beneath.
The songstress could feel her body vibrating, as though her pulse had captured every muscle in its erratic tempo. She was losing herself with every movement of his hips, every intake and release of his breath, every time her mouth found his, tongue passing easily between his lips.
Her body moved with ease, and Anais tightened her thighs against him as her arms looped around Gabriel’s neck. Throwing her weight forward as he rocked his hips, Anais shifted their position; He didn’t attempt to keep her beneath him, and the woman now found herself straddling his hips as she looked down at him through a mess of blonde hair. A sigh escaped her, and finding his hand, Anais laced her fingers through his as she held him down. Blue eyes gazed at him, relentless in their determination to watch his every expression. She wanted to see the way he felt, the way she made him feel.
Slowly, and deliberately Anais rolled her hips, paused, then rocked back against him. She bit back a moan, pressed his hands into the pillows, and repeated the motion, riding him as waves of pleasure seemed to burn her from the inside out. Her skin was hot against his, and again, she rolled her hips, watching as his brows furrowed, eyes following the slope of her navel, and the curve of her breasts.
After the news of Anthony Holst’s death saturates the newspapers...
The bottle of whiskey was almost gone, and April in Paris could be heard from the phonograph as Anais stood on the balcony of her suite of the Hotel Montmartre. The cigarette poised between her fingers dwindled, unsmoked and the woman tipped her head back to finish the last of the amber liquid in her crystal glass. She didn’t know what to cling to, the sickness that threatened to bring bile up from her empty stomach, or the weightlessness of sweet relief, the tightness of her chest that made her eyes sting, or the smile that kept threatening to capture her features. And so they all raged with unrelenting turmoil within, impassioned by the weeks of strange intimacy and the night all those months ago, the night of so much red that she identified him with that color.
He had walked the streets of Paris for the last time. He sat behind his desk above heaven and hell for the last time. He sat at his table at La Gavroche for the last time. He touched her for the last time, however roughly it had been. He had smoked his last cigarette and then died alone in the street. And that was it. He would never see the shimmering lights of Paris reflected in the Sienne ever again. The bile rose again, and Anais brought the cigarette to her lips, sucking hard.
Turning suddenly to re-enter the room, Anais moved swiftly towards the telephone, before collapsing in the arm charm that sat beside it.
“Bonjour. Can you put me through to…” She said hesitated, and drew smoke into her lungs once again. “Gabriel de Silva, s’il vous plait.” She waited, eyes unfocused as she stared ahead. There was a pause, and she could imagine the sound ringing through his apartment, then—
“Hello?”
She was quiet for a moment, and just before he should ask again or hang up, she spoke.
“Gabriel.”
Anthony Holst was dead and Paris was in a standstill. The business mogul's grasp reached far and it showed with many of the other establishments paying their respects. Gabriel didn't particularly liked the man, not with his ties to Alicia and not with proposition he offered to the critic. Still, Anthony had his respect, the man had become something of a myth and singlehandedly built an empire-- he was larger than life. But that was the extent of it, Paris may be in mourning but Gabriel had his mind on other things.
Alicia bid him goodbye and with her she took his heart. It was strange, to have to say goodbye to her a second time, though he supposed this was better than to wake up one morning and find her gone. Gabriel floated aimlessly in the days that followed, and only until the news broke out with the monster's death was the critic shaken back to reality. He had work to do.
The phone rang and Gabriel lifted the handset, a distracted 'hello' uttered as he sat in front of his typewriter. On his desk were papers and pictures or Anthony Holst, his research the paper.
The voice on the other line caught the critic off guard and Gabriel sat up to focus on the conversation.
Anais.
She had never called before. Not even when he was under her employ. Stubbing the cigarette on the crystal dish to his right, Gabriel took a quick breath before speaking again.
"Is everything alright?"
His voice came through, though softened and slightly warped by the telephone and the distance that stretched between their residences. He asked a question, and she deduced his surprise at her call from the words. Why was she calling?
Anais swallowed, and tapped the ash from her cigarette into the silver tray next to the telephone hook. "What a silly question. Is everything alright? When have you known *everything* to be alright?" She knew her words sounded unnatural to her usual demeanor and she smoked again, wishing for another glass of whiskey. Wishing for company. Irritated with herself, and irritated with him, and irritated with a ghost, Anais hung up the phone.
She stayed in the chair for awhile, listening the the crackling saxophone as it rose a melancholy melody accompanied by the keys of a piano. She listened, and she smoked and she closed her eyes for only a moment before visions she did not want began to dance across the back of her lids. Standing abruptly, she retrieved another glass and poured liquor into both.
It was strange to hear the songstress through the telephone, nothing but a disembodied voice, Anais sounded distant and Gabriel was reminded of the haziness of his last few days. Her response to his question was equally alarming and before the critic could answer, the line was cut off and he was left furrowing his brows in confusion.
What was that about?
Putting the receiver back down, Gabriel tried to return to his work but the curious phone call left him with an unsettling feeling. Anais would never call him, not for anything. Restlessness began to seep through his bones and the critic emptied his glass of liquor as he soothed his nerves with another cigarette; something was wrong, and with a sigh of resignation, Gabriel got up and grabbed his coat.
She thought for a moment that she'd get in the bath but the idea was fleeting, and the songstress returned to the balcony, but the gusts of wind whipped at her loose hair, and the woman was soon bothered by the cool April night and returned to glow of indoors. Drinking her whiskey, and moving from place to place, Anais could not find anywhere that lent comfort.
She was standing in front of the double doors that led out, eyes on a lit window in the building across where a man had just returned home. The curtains were not drawn and the songstress watched his routine. Removing his coat, tossing his hat onto the sofa, loosening his tie, turning his wrist to unfasten a watch that was too small for her to see. She watched and sipped until the clock struck midnight, and its announcement caused her jump.
It was only a few minutes after when a knock was heard from the door, and as the man moved out of her line of sight, Anais turned to answer it. She did not wonder who it was, and on her way the woman retrieved the glass she had poured upon hanging up the telephone. The door swept open, and the slight jump in her pulse offered the songstress more proof than her gaze as Gabriel stood on the other side.
Her face was scrubbed free of all beauty enhancements, and her blonde hair hung past her shoulders uninhibited by pins and styles. She wore a nightgown and a thin robe of silk that hung loosely from one of her shoulders. Handing the glass to him in silence, Anais stepped aside to allow him entrance.
It was evident that he had been a hurry and windswept hair was hastily fixed with his hand in the elevator-- there was no reason to feel uneasy, yet the crease remained between his brows through the entire ascent. Gabriel had been too preoccupied with everything that was happening in his life thus far that he simply didn't have time to attend to her, and the last time they saw each other was at the unfortunate luncheon-- he convinced himself that they could use some space. But it was strange, to feel some level of guilt that he owed it to Anais to check on her.
He didn't have to wait long as the door opened and revealed Anais in a night gown, it would be the second time he'd seen her without the frills of an expensive gown and rouge on her face; she said nothing but handed him an empty glass and Gabriel tentatively entered the suite and closed the door behind him.
The glass had remnants of the liquor it contained prior and he approached the table where the decanter was for a refill. The suite was covered in darkness and the door to the balcony open, and perhaps his mindset was still on his research of Anthony's death but the situation he found Anais in rang warning bells.
Wordlessly he approached her, and Gabriel handed Anais her drink; he was anxious to clarify the strange phone call but the critic realized that he didn't know how to ask about it. Or if he should even ask. He suddenly felt foolish for rushing all the way to her suite.
The reality of her connection to Anthony Holst became starkly clear to her as Gabriel entered the room, following her display of silence with one of his own. It was a connection she could never reveal, a connection that had died with the man in the street. There was no reason anyone would have to know she knew him beyond common denominators: her father, other society members, his ownership of some of her frequent haunts. But in the absence of this connection, Anais found a void, a place where images of severed limbs and gravity of her actions were remembered and accounted for by herself alone. She hoped there was no afterlife, because Anthony Holst would undoubtedly be burning in hell. And she would follow.
The quiet stretched between them, interrupted only by the jazz that had been playing for hours now, and Anais wondered why Gabriel had come. He handed her the filled glass, and without thanking him, the woman took it though she did not drink.
"I don't know why I let you in."
"I don't know why I came here, either."
Their new dynamic allowed for a more blunt conversation in private, though all formalities were maintained for appearance's sake; they fucked, yes, but she would still be addressed as Mademoiselle Veilleux. Their supposed affiliation was to remain professional despite what the gossip rags may claim.
The silence was made bearable with the music but it was about to run its course, Gabriel remembered the song that was currently playing as one of the records they've listened to during the nights they drank. Sometimes they would dance to it, or out of whim, she would break the bottles and crystal-- there were no broken glasses tonight.
The critic let out a sigh before fetching himself a drink too, Anais wasn't herself, and try as he may, Gabriel couldn't help but be reminded of Jack during his episodes. He quietly prepared for the worst.
His words drew forth a short laugh from which a smile did not linger, and Anais finally took a sip of the alcohol he had provided. It warmed her as it slid down the songstress' throat and she craved more as soon as she'd swallowed. Her head swam from its affects, and her body felt the numbness it evoked with mild appreciation. It softened the edges, unfocused the lens with which she was magnifying her hand the late tycoon's every encounter, but it also allowed other, gladly forgotten thoughts, emotions, and memories to rise to the surface.
"For a nightcap?" She supplied, following him. "Hoping for a fuck?" She suggested, the vulgar word sounding unnatural in her voice, "Its been awhile." She drew in close, enough so he could smell the liquor on her breath and the traces of rose perfume. "Or maybe you thought I needed you."
The songstress' accusations were met with a hardened expression and Gabriel worked his jaw to keep himself from answering. Something was definitely off and it wasn't just the liquor. Anais smelled of alcohol but it was the strangeness in her words that was a cause for concern; the critic looked away before drinking from his glass, letting the amber liquid slide down his throat and warm his insides. Maybe a tea would have been a better alternative given their tense situation.
He stepped away to stand by the door to the balcony, the cold April wind kept blowing inside the suite and added to the bleak atmosphere. Gabriel moved around, turning on a few lights and closing the door to the balcony and some of the windows, an automatic response to the warning bells inside this head.
It's not like she'll hurt herself, a voice argued but Gabriel was quick to dismiss it.
You don't know that she wouldn't.
Finally, he approached the phonograph just as the song reached its end and Gabriel thumbed through the records to choose a new one.
"You sounded strange on the telephone," the critic pointed out, and he paused to place the vinyl on the record player. The needle was left raised as he debated on saying more.
Anais may have sounded strange but Gabriel went to see her in the middle of the night of his own volition, years of taking care of his uncle whenever he had his episodes and the madness of Jean-Baptiste Sauvage taught him to pay attention to the smallest signs.
"But I see that it was just the liquor," he dismissed, and a new song finally crackled through the speaker. It felt such a crime to show concern, a weakness even, and a part of Gabriel knew that she would take it against him if he admitted to worrying. He had no right after all.
Anais watched him move comfortably throughout her space, turning on lights, and shutting out the cold air that had helped in keeping her sober. He moved to the phonograph and still she simply watched as he operated with a familiarity that she hadn't quite realized he possessed in her presence. The critic finally chose a record, one of her favorites among the collection of music, and Anais had the suddenly gripping, mad urge to blurt out the dark truth at the root of it all. It clawed its way up her throat, black and ugly and the woman had to look away from Gabriel as she swallowed it down with a what remained in her glass.
Too occupied in her own thoughts, the songstress barely registered the reasoning for his late visit, and only glanced back at him when the music began to play again. The anger that had reared its head moments ago was doused by the wave of anxiety that now threatened to pull her into its depths, and Anais turned away to fill her glass once more. It was the last of her liquor, and instead of drinking it, Anais crossed the room to pour it into Gabriel's cup.
"When I was thirteen years old I wanted to run away to a convent and spend the rest of my days in holy matrimony with God..." She smiled briefly, as though amused by the idea, but as quickly as it'd come it was gone. "I could still sing, I reasoned, I could sing every day. I wasn't much interested in the opposite sex so that aspect hardly bothered me... I should have gone. I should have left the moment the idea found its way to my head."
Gabriel stood in front of the phonograph, brown eyes following the spinning of the vinyl, and when he turned around, Anais looked at him before pouring the rest of her liquor into his glass.
"Some would say that it's the highest honor, but what kind of God would deny the world of such a voice?"
He continued to nurse his drink, the contents of the glass almost filled to the brim; Gabriel lifted his gaze to stare at her, a silent attempt in gauging what was wrong though he found that the more he looked, the less he understood.
"My grandmother wanted me to be a priest," Gabriel offered an anecdote of his own, "She had hoped that my father would remarry and have another child. So everyday she would make me kneel and pray, and sing, and read the bible. I went to confession everyday."
His fingers twitched and Gabriel wanted to reach out and touch her, maybe then he'd find a clue to what was troubling Anais. But his hand remained at his side and he glanced down at his glass instead. He really shouldn't be drinking too much.
"But my father refused to remarry and my uncle took me under his wing. I suppose it wasn't about religion for her but just another way to get rid of me." It was his turn to offer a small smile. "I'd make a terrible priest anyway."
Anais smiled, and it lingered a little longer this time before Anais simply shook her head at his words. A proactive God, she wanted to say, but the songstress remained quiet as the two stared at one another and a breeze from the last remaining open window sent a chill down her back. That or the way the critic looked with intention. When Gabriel broke through the sound of jazz with a story of his own, Anais furrowed her brows. It sounded dreadful to be forced to confess to ones sins everyday, to be forced to kneel. She prayed, but never on her knees.
She felt the urge to step closer, a silent plea for him to touch her, but Anais stayed in place. "You would," a pause, "I'm glad you're not a priest," and she left it at that, though blue eyes danced with what she didn't say. Turning away, Anais moved towards the sofa where her cigarette case laid, almost empty. Placing one between her lips, the songstress struck a match and lit it, blowing the smoke out of her nose.
"I was sleeping with him," Anais finally offered, and though she didn't say his name her gaze was on the newspaper that proclaimed his death. "And..." She laughed humorlessly, "That's it. We were fucking." She turned to look at Gabriel, and tears stung her eyes. "He was never gentle, but he wasn't cold either, and he made sure..." She needn't finish.
Her revelation left Gabriel with an odd sense of detachment, or perhaps he wished to be anywhere else at that moment, rather than hear the rest of what Anais had to say. A sickening feeling that he refused to name jealousy settled in the pit of his stomach, one that he quelled with the liquor in his hands. Gabriel nodded once before finishing off the tall glass of whisky, and the critic focused on some far away item in the room just so he didn't have to look at her.
"What do you know," Gabriel spoke after allowing themselves a moment's silence to compose himself. "I didn't need to be a priest to have people confess to me." The critic smiled wryly before shaking his head and he moved away from the phonograph to place the empty glass on a faraway table. He was uncertain of his emotions and if he should be feeling anything at all.
"Should I assign you penance?" The words were spoken in jest though his tone lacked the humor it should accompany. Gabriel then took out his cigarette case and stuck one between his lips to light it.
Anais watched him in lieu of her confession, attempting to smother the seeds of guilt that attempted to root themselves in the pit of her stomach as he finished off the whiskey that had filled his glass moments ago. And yet a weight was also lifted at her attempt to scrub away a dirty secret that haunted her with the image of his lifeless body, pale and cold in the middle of the street. Not too unlike the life she had taken herself. She wondered if she was next, and bringing the cigarette to her lips, Anais inhaled the smoke as she allowed Gabriel a moment without her scrutiny.
But his words garnered her gaze, and Anais did not adopt a smile when he did, but instead flicked the ash from her cigarette and moved to sit in an armchair some distance from where the critic stood. Leaning back, the songstress turned her face towards the ceiling, blowing the smoke skyward in a hazy column.
"Please, Father." She responded, closing her eyes. "I repent, I repent, I repent." The words were said in a whisper, and Anais was unsure if he could hear her over the sound of the phonograph.
Opening her eyes, Anais looked at him, wetting her lips. "Unless of course you wish to punish me yourself." The woman stood, and moved to walk past him towards the balcony.
A ribbon of smoke curled and floated around the critic as he watched Anais turn her gaze upwards, her words were lost to him, drowned out by the sound from the phonograph until she returned her gaze on him.
An offer was made though Gabriel made no move to answer; temptation beckoned him though with it jealousy coiled around tightly. Anais got up from the chair and walked past him to linger by the balcony, he followed after a while, though words remained unspoken as the critic attempted to sort out his thoughts; she didn't have to tell him, the purpose of the confession lost to him, and it was then that he realized how Anais often left him confused.
He stood behind her, and the smoke from his cigarette that was poised between his fingers lingered around them. What did she want from him? What did he want from her? His questions, along with the smoke, were carried away by cold, April wind, and with his free hand, Gabriel reached out and touched her.
His palm smoothed down her arm, and the sleeve of Anais' loosely tied, silk robe fell easily from her shoulder. Gabriel's fingers curled around her wrist gently, and the critic lifted it up slowly before bringing her knuckles to his lips; he pressed a lingering kiss, his eyes closed as though he was saying a prayer for her. And maybe he was, maybe the man who spent his childhood kneeling and praying, and asking for salvation was now asking for her to he delivered from the evil that was Anthony Holst.
Gabriel opened his eyes and released her hand; he looked at Anais and drowned out a lingering question that refused to be drowned in liquor or carried away by the wind with a tender kiss.
She had opened the door but hadn't ventured beyond the threshold, and instead Anais leaned against the door jam, allowing the cold to temper the heat of her skin. The air smelled like rain now, and as the wind whipped past Anais was reminded why Spring was her favorite time of year. There was something stormy and renewing about the promise of rain and the chance of sun and the flowers and the birdsong. It reminded her of life. And though a death attempted to spoil her love of Spring, a death that left her quite alone with the weight of a gruesome crime, the smell of rain, and the feeling of Gabriel's hand running down the back of her arm fortified it.
Turning around, Anais met his gaze, and she wondered again why he had come, and why she had called him. She remembered the night of Tristan and Isolde all those weeks ago, when they hurled words at one another that could not be unspoken; and how the very next day she'd felt him for the time. Anais couldn't keep it all straight, the accusations, the questions, the answers that only led to further questions. He took her wrist, and she watched as he brought her hand to his lips. The heat of his mouth pressed against her knuckles, his eyes closed, and her lips parted. [i] Repent, repent repent.[/i]
His eyes found hers, and Anais thought to say something, an elucidation. But then he was kissing her, so gently that she did not move at first, but simply lingered in its softness. Even as she stepped closer and her hand found the curve of his jaw to hold him near, the songstress did nothing to invigorate their embrace, and only swept her tongue across his bottom lip to deepen the kiss.
“Where have you been?” She asked, pulling away.
Gabriel ran his tongue along his bottom lip, soothing the soft flesh that still craved for her. Anais asked him a question and the critic pursed his lips as he debated on telling her the truth.
"I was with Carmen," he admitted. "She left Paris and decided to return home-- she's been away for too long."
Before that he'd been avoiding her, the unpleasant luncheon reminded Gabriel of the issues with their new arrangement, if he could even call it that. Blanche Veilleux was as ruthless as they come, prying him open and picking him apart. And while the Spaniard was used to criticisms and harsh judgments in front of a large audience even, his ties with the songstress was casual as best, so why must he suffer? Worse yet, why was he affected by what should be trifles?
Gabriel sighed and raised the cigarette to his mouth, it was near its end, the ash at the tip had built up from their time spent kissing; he pressed a brief kiss on her forehead before walking past Anais to the balcony and discarded the cancer stick. It was a strange night full of confessions, though if he were truly being honest, there were still a handful of secrets they were both keeping from each other
Anais felt her stomach twist into tight knots with his answer, and she glanced towards the clock to hide whatever might flash across her eyes. He had told her briefly of his relationship with the dark beauty, the Queen of The Night. But Anais couldn't gauge the depth of whatever their connection was. Anais hated the simmering desperation to know, to be exactly sure, and she refused to acknowledge the emotion that swelled in her chest. The songstress blinked once before looking at Gabriel again, "Bon voyage." She said with the slightest touch of a smile, just as the end of a song brought silence.
They had not spoken since the luncheon from hell, and Anais did not perceive that Gabriel thought on it with a fondness of memory. Her mother, in a relentless war against all of which she did not approve, had shown little mercy. It left a stain, and neither of them had attempted to scrub it clean. Anais remained in place even as he moved past her. The feeling of his lips against her forehead lingered, and still she stood there, back to him as her own cigarette continued to burn.
Finally she turned, stepping out into the night where she drew to his side. Without the cover of a robe, her skin was exposed to the cold, and a goosebumps riddled her arms. It felt good, the wind sweeping against her, and though her body cried for warmth, she stayed. The songstress felt her heart thump as the pace quickened, and the words drew to the tip of her tongue.
"Are you going to follow her?” Anais was looking at Paris, not him, when she asked.
"My life is here," he told her simply, as he too kept his sight on the horizon. It came so easy for the critic to say it, how he much preferred Paris, and if he truly had to leave, he wouldn't think twice in choosing Mexico or America over Barcelona. One day though, he would visit, if Alicia came calling, then, he would return.
Gabriel turned to look at Anais, and while it was presumptious of him, the critic was reminded of the first time the songstress had inquired about the the courtesan. Her mind might go along with the like but her body easily betrayed her, her words, her eyes, her tongue, they all held a sliver of truth from time to time.
"She would never ask me to leave Paris for her."
There was a significant pause after he spoke and Gabriel felt it to be an opening; he could ask her why Anthony's death affected her so much, they were only sleeping together, or so she says, then why this grief? His eyes searched her face for the answer to the question he was yet to ask, the words on the tip of his tongue, it felt like a line to cross, something much more dangerous than others before, so Gabriel pursed his lips and returned his gaze towards the city.
"Do you want me to stay for the night?" The question he refused to ask was replaced with another, equally perilous one.
Gabriel gripped the handrails and looked at the narrow street below, the wind smelled damp and rain threatened to cover the city, attempt to wash it clean, take the blood of Anthony Holst from the pavement where he died; he imagined the blood mixing with the clean rain water and the dirt, and how in a way it described the mobster's life on earth-- may he find eternal peace in the afterlife.
She understood. Paris was enchanting, a world of music, cuisine, birth, influence, rejuvenation. It breathed life into all who stepped foot within its city limits, and to be without Paris would mean a missing element in ones life. Part of them would always stay in the city of love. It swallowed you whole, and lest you could crawl your way out, it digested you. It was beguiling and beautiful, and Anais in all her travel knew no place like it.
She didn't return his gaze right away, and with his eyes on her, warmth rose to her cheeks and the songstress swallowed. She kept her eyes on the lights that bled into the murky darkness of a night that promised rain. The moon was shut out, as were the stars, and Paris could only rely on the sleeplessness it evoked to create a spectacle. She would never ask me to leave Paris for her . A smile touched her lips, and Anais could not decide if this made Carmen a fool or a fine woman. She turned to look at him. "Is that so?"
They stared at one another, and Anais waited for... something. A question, a demand, an answer, a kiss. They stood in suspension, tied up by a web they had created for themselves, sticky and confusing. The danger of getting caught, unable to escape lingered with every line they crossed. She held her breath, her cigarette forgotten on the floor of the balcony, and her gaze followed the journey his brown eyes took upon her face. And her expression remained in its gentle proclivity of reservation. She did not display whatever he was seeking. It would take more than that.
He looked away, and the breath she released was carried away by the wind. She continued to watch him, and had he been looking at her, the critic would have seen the soft surprise that captured her features at his unexpected question. She hesitated, her focus drawn to the way he gripped the rail, and Anais was reminded of his discomfort with the height. Or perhaps it was something else entirely. But it was her turn to speak, to answer his question, and nothing came forth. The answer that immediately came to mind was stuck in her through, and her body seemed to rage war on itself as two simple answers vied for it's place on her tongue. The song that played on the vinyl drifted out of her suite, and as the first droplets of rain could be felt on her bare shoulders Anais tugged Gabriel's hand free of the rail and wordlessly led him indoors.
Placing his hands low on her hips, Anais pulled her body in close and wrapped her arms around his neck, swaying to the midnight melancholy of the music that played. Reaching up, Anais pressed her mouth against his not quite as tender as he had been, but with a softness that filled her chest with a rush of warmth. The woman closed her eyes, and her fingers played with his hair as they danced to jazz and rain.
Although Virginia Woolf was not yet a household name, Elliot truly hoped that she would be. The only book the store had of hers was The Voyage Out, although he did read that she had recently published a new novel in English, and he hoped that a translation would be available soon. It all depended on the reception of the book, but he just had to hope she would get the recognition she deserved.
“Wonderful. I hope you enjoy it - it is fantastic writing.” It was the newer version, republished to contain much of the risky material Woolf had originally cut out. “Is there anything else I can help you find?”
Anais peeled her eyes away from the book to look at the young man again. She eyed him for a moment before glancing around the small shop. “How many of these books have you read?” She asked offhandedly. His question was left unanswered as the songstress moved further into the bookstore, scanning the shelves. Many of the titles were unfamiliar to her, and Anais noted how much less she read since the war. After all that’s how life had come to be measured.
Gabriel meant every word, even if Anais had dismissed them as pointless flattery, but the critic had thought of her and this moment more than he could care to admit. Imagination paled in comparison to the reality of having Anais Veilleux to himself as they crawled their way to the conclusion of their sick, little game.
He pressed his mouth against the heat of her core and his tongue swiped upwards to tease the small bundle of nerves that made Anais cry out; Gabriel looked up, watched her writhe against the sheets as he worked between her thighs, unrelenting even as she ground her hips against him and pulled at his hair. He craved her, missed the taste of her on his tongue and the sounds she made as he pried the songstress open.
Finally, he pulled away when he couldn’t keep up with the torture he imposed upon himself, and Gabriel lifted his head as he roamed upwards, trailing wet kisses on Anais’ warm skin. He gripped her thighs to wrap around his waist, shifting his weight above her as he reconnected their mouths, teeth capturing the flesh of her bottom lip before kissing her again. His heart pounded in his chest and his mind was a scrambled mess; she occupied every corner of his consciousness, and all that Gabriel could see, hear, taste and breathe was Anais.
“Tell me to stop,” he urged her, the breathless plea spoken against the column of her neck between hungry kisses. Gabriel stood at the edge of a cliff, and the height from which he would fall was far too deep for him to see; whether they were sharp rocks or the powerful ocean waves, it didn’t matter, because he’d thrown an anchor into the abyss long before. It wasn’t a matter of ‘if’ but ‘when’ he would fall, and that moment, it seemed, was now.
“Just tell me, and I’ll stop…”
The heat of his tongue pressed against her core, and Anais could think of nothing but his hands gripping her thighs, and his mouth on upon her core. She could feel nothing but the raging of her heart, and the shocks of pleasure that pulsed through her veins as Gabriel slipped his tongue inside her. The songstress arched her back, pressing her hips against him as her body begged for more. He was all there was, and all her yearning, her thoughts, her desire for the critic built in a deafening crescendo played against her nerves.
“Gabriel.”
It slipped from her mouth in a whisper, so different than the other sounds he evoked. And perhaps he had heard it in the quiet sigh of his name, her need, because he was pulling away. The critic left kisses that sent shivers running across her skin in his wake as he held himself over her once again. Her arms wound themselves around his neck in a loop much like the way her legs encircled his waist. The heat of his skin pressed against her own, threatening to set the woman on fire, and Anais adored the way he seemed to burn through her.
He bit her lip, and the diva moaned, and it vibrated through her chest when Gabriel pressed his mouth against hers, tasting herself on his tongue. Her hands slid down his, fingers trailing down the ridges of his spine as he kissed her neck. Every inch of her body ached for his touch, and yet when he spoke, she gave pause. She could tell him to stop, she could end it right then. But even as she thought it Anais knew it wasn’t true. That there would be no stop, and no end in sight.
She pressed herself against him, maneuvering her body to tease them both as he slid between her slick folds. Anais gasped, and her fingers pressed into his back. Blue eyes were open, and the woman turned to meet his gaze as Gabriel looked at her. She leaned into him, her mouth open to his.
To say that Anais was a hard nut to crack would have been an understatement, but as he caught the subtle relaxation of her shoulders it seemed he was doing alright. That minute display of ease was more than he needed to know he was doing something right, and it allowed him to let go of the breath he was holding in his chest.
Maybe the interview would be alright, after all? Maybe he could crack the “ice queen” that his colleagues had incessantly warmed him about? It certainly would not have been the first time that his colleagues opinions were wrong. In his notebook he wrote a G to remember to tell Gabriel all about his encounter with the famous diva; though he doubted the critic would believe him.
At the mention of the tale, his interest was quite visibly piqued. “How exciting!” The tip of his pen rapidly scratched out notes. “I’m quite familiar with the tale, myself.” All those years ago, when Bhari was still in school and made to study French, he was given the task of translating a section of Le Roman de Tristan into English.
“Will it be told with its original German libretto, or has it been translated? I can’t imagine it’s easy to sing in German in such a way— then again, I’m not the expert.”
Anais watched him carefully, her cool blue eyes dissecting what they could of the man who sat across from her. She supposed it was his job to formulate an extension of what it felt like to sit before her and have a conversation-- that those reading would be looking for something to give them a little more insight to who she was. If Monsieur Sinclair was any good at his job he was getting a read on her, and yet she was doing the same. Arranging what little pieces she had into a story, an image.
One might be surprised to find that cynicism didn’t come naturally to Anais, and from what she could tell the journalist seemed a kind soul. Something about his eyes. A small smile came to her lips with his recognition. “There’s something to be said about lovers who die in vain. It’s delightfully tragic. Sweetens the sting.”
Reaching to the table beside her, Anais grabbed her cigarette case and shook one free. “It’ll be in German. The director is attempting to bring his own interpretation to life, and he thought to do so it must start in its most pure form. So...” She lit the cigarette with a match before shaking it out, adjusting slightly in her chair.
“Nothing about opera is easy. But I studied in Germany for a little over two years, so that won’t be a problem.”
Gabriel had been playing the role of accomplice and a secret keeper after finding his footing and building a reputation in Paris, more than once, he’d meet the husband, mother or brother of his latest bed partner and the critic’s perfectly stoic expression would ensure everything remained under the surface, which was why his gaze did not linger on Anais when she arrived and they greeted each other.
When everyone had settled back in their seats and the waiter arrived to serve them a bottle of wine to Lucien’s choosing, Madame Girardot wasted no time starting with the pleasantries– the faster they go through the motions, the sooner they could all go to the heart of conversation; which, in the aristocrat’s case, was gossip involving the cafe society.
Lucien might be present but it was clear who was in charge of the table; Blanche Veilleux ordered for everyone, hinting that the luncheon was a recurring event for them, but the matron even ordered for Gabriel and only asked for his acknowledgment once the waiter had left. The critic nodded– an attempt to maintain the civility, –as brown eyes trained on the older Veilleux while her cold, blue eyes stared back at him.
Finally, Blanche looked away, and she turned to her daughter to address her tardiness and other things.
“I hope you have a very good reason to have kept us waiting,“ she chastised, as perfectly manicured nails lifted the crystal glass from the table. “Aren’t you going to ask why we have Monsieur de Silva dining with us?“
“Why are you dining with us so unexpectedly, Monsieur de Silva?“ inquired the politician before glancing around the restaurant. “Did they run out of tables?” Lucien smirked before smiling good-naturedly, “we’re very happy to have you join us of course. There’s plenty of seats to go around.”
Gabriel maintained a look of polite detachment to everything and everyone, even as Emmanuelle answered Lucien’s question for him.
“The boy looked awfully lonely in the corner table so Blanche and I invited him here. Isn’t that right, Gabe?“
“You forgot the part where I’m meeting someone here, Emma,“ Gabriel gently corrected, and after a quick glance at Anais, he added, “Monsieur Gabin has a tendency to be notoriously late.“
Anais’ gaze moved in equal measure among the guests who sat around the table, following the flow of conversation as she attempted to curb her irritation. Though she hardly kept up with Madam Girardot and her ever full glass of wine, Anais was liberal with the chosen Château d'Yquem as her mother ordered for the table. She could feel Lucien watching her, and Anais turned to catch his gaze, her cold blue eyes so like her mother’s as she stared back at him. Though she knew it was Blanche’s doing, to have the politician at lunch, Anais found herself annoyed with the man himself, and gave very little effort in hiding the fact. The songstress quirked an eyebrow, bringing the glass of wine to her lips, and it seemed as though Lucien was about to say something when Madam Veilluex spoke up, pulling Anais’ attention away.
“I got a late start to my morning,” She replied after setting her glass on the table, “Went for a ride. I suppose I just needed an early morning pick me up before attending to my appointments.” Her pokerface came with ease, and Anais knew not to glance at Gabriel as she answered her mother, and her words were spoken with such an air of indifference that no one had reason to delve into their meaning. It was only when Blanche mentioned the critic that Anais turned her eyes on him, watching his face as Lucien threw thinly veiled daggers at him. He remained unfazed, and Anais smothered a smile with a sip of wine as Madam Girardot answered.
Gabe. Emma. Anais had been unaware of how familiar the two of them were, and once glance at her mother proved that the matriarch had also been ignorant of the fact. Catching Gabriel’s eye for a moment, the songstress nodded. “Well, try to enjoy our company until your acquaintance arrives.”
“But Monsieur de Silva isn’t the only surprise guest. Non,” Anais turned to look at Lucien, and though a smile presented a facade, Anais’ words were as sharp as a razor’s edge. “I don’t suppose your reasoning is due to a lack of tables, Lucien... But like you said, plenty of seats to go around.”
“I invited him join us. We were spoke briefly at the President’s Feast last week, but didn’t have time to properly catch up. And it’d been too long since you two had spoken. Weren’t you just asking about him, Chaton, when you came by a few weeks ago?”
“I’d asked about the election, yes,” Anais admitted, and a fleeting glance was shot in Gabriel’s direction. “But politics is hardly a lunchtime topic.”
“Weddings,” Emmanuelle said, having finished her second glass of wine, “Now that is a topic well suited for a lunch. You attended that shoe designer’s nuptials, right Gabe? Was it a spectacle?”
Elliot chuckled a bit at her words and he nodded in understanding, putting the book back onto the shelf while thinking for a moment. It didn’t surprise him that she had already read the series - it was one of the most popular book series’ of its time. “What about… this?” He reached lower on the same shelf and pulled out a different novel, by a different author but with a similar genre. “The writing is really clever.”
Anais studied his profile as the young man as he searched for another novel, wondering why he looked vaguely familiar. Was it something about his bone structure? Or perhaps his eyes? Or simply the way he held himself? She couldn’t recall having seen him before, and whatever the reasoning it was not clearly presenting itself. He handed her another book, and Anais took it.
Virginia Woolf. She’d heard the name is passing before, but hadn’t read any of her work. Flipping through the pages, Anais scanned the words, before tucking it beneath her arm. “It’ll do.”
Gabriel sighs as he feels her fingers wrap around him and the rhythmic movement of her hand sends waves of pleasure through his entire body. He becomes breathless but continues to press his mouth hungrily against her skin, moving across the swell of her breasts and up the base of her neck. With furrowed brows the critic lifts his head and captures her mouth, kissing the songstress like a man dying of thirst.
His hand rests between her legs and grazes teasingly near her core, Anais’ body felt feverish and everywhere their skin touched felt like being burned– Gabriel too was on fire. He pries her open and his index finger toys with the small bundle of nerves in slow, circular motions.
Gabriel deepens the kiss, tongue slipping inside her mouth just as he dips a finger in her slick opening; he adds another digit and moves in the same rhythm as her hand. Teeth pulled at her bottom lip before moving to the side of Anais’ long and graceful neck, trailing down and nipping at her collarbone. He was eager to taste her again, and the anticipation of burying his head between her thighs was heightened with every breathless pause from their kiss.
Ravenous. Their lips pressed together with insatiable hunger as their bodies desired the other’s touch with every roll of their hips, every shift slightly closer, every breathless gasp. It built into a slow crescendo with every passing second, and when his fingers skimmed against her thigh, dangerously close to wear she yearned him most, her quiet moan, her plead for more, was swallowed by his mouth.
Her eyes were open, darkened and focused on the man above her as he teased the swollen bundle of nerves with slow, torturous circles that sent waves of heat through her core. She pressed her hips forward and Gabriel obliged, sliding a finger into the warmth between her thighs, before pressing in another as Anais’ eyes fell shut against the feeling.
Her grip tightened in his hair, as she continued to touch him, brushing her thumb over the sensitive tip, and finding a rhythm that tantalized them both-- as though they stood at the edge of a precipice, deciding if they wanted to fall. His mouth moved lover, down her neck, teeth grazing against her collarbone, riddling her skin with goosebumps, then his breath was tickling her chest, and his lips her pressing against her breasts, lingering for only a moment, before ghosting down her abdomen. He pressed feverish kisses against her hips, spending currents over her skin that quickened her pulse, and stole her breath. Then he paused, and Anais caught his gaze for a moment. He had driven her to fury only hours ago, and now he was driving her ecstasy, equally as impassioned.
Even after his eyes had shifted away from hers, traveling down her body as he pushed her further up onto the bed, Anais continued to watch him. The songstress watched as his fingers slipped from her core, and Anais sighed as she was left with the longing to feel him. His hands smoothed over the inside of her thighs, spreading her legs, and Anais laid her head back as her fingers gripped the sheets beneath her. She recalled the wine cellar, the near darkness, the feeling of his hands on her bare legs, the hair on his face brushing against her flesh. Even when she’d asked that question, what would you do if I asked you to take me right now, she had never truly planned on letting it transpire. But then he was on his knees, hand running over the smooth material of her stocking as he spoke against her skin, Anais knew she wanted him. Knew their games could spin them in circles, but that she craved his touch. And she still did, as infuriated as she was.
So she waited on bated breath, eyes closed, and muscles tense until the flat of his tongue slid from her opening, to the small bundle of nerves, and she cried out, gripping the sheets as her back arched against the bed.
For a majority of the men she sleeps with Anais is quick to remove herself, dismiss, or put either emotional or physical distance between her and her bed partner. There are a few that compel her to linger in the moments and even evoke a caring, tender part of her. Whether that be talking, helping each other get dressed, cleaning up together, or spending the entire night with one other.
N = NO (Something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)
Anything that will permanently hurt or mark her are off limits. Anything that draws blood, or causes her to cry from physical pain are also off limits. Humiliation of any type is a no go. Turn offs include people who talk too much, bad hygiene, and selfish bed partners. Really, turn offs present themselves in the moment and are specific to people for her. Something that turns her off with one person, might not translate to another.
I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment, romantic aspect…)
Again, a lot of how Anais operates is partner based. It is a combination of her comfort level, deepness of her connection, and whether or not she is interested in the as a person beyond the physicality. Depending, she can be quite carnal, or intensely passionate, and even vulnerable and honest. Romantics are not something she has accustomed herself with and has time and again set it aside in favor of the love of her career. That does not mean she doesn’t appreciate or yearn for it.
S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they last…)
She can go once or all night long. It depends on the amount of alcohol, rest time, music, and her partners skill level and chemistry.
D = Dirty Secret (Pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)
Anais has had an affair with four married men, one of which was the husband of one of her close friends, and another of a woman she respected. She has never apologized for her actions and does not intend to. Guilt and remorse are easily excused by the thought process that she was not the one responsible for staying faithful to a significant other.
O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc)
The opera singer definitely prefers to receive oral rather than give it with most of the people she has been intimate with. For the most part she doesn’t enjoy the act itself, and will only give oral with people that she has an emotional attachment to. There has to be another element for her to desire to do it. And she always swallows.
M = Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going)
Attributes in others that Anais is turned on by are assertiveness, confidence, drive, and power to name a few. Other, more physicals, acts and sensations that turn her on are breathing/kissing/touching the back of her neck, grabbing/touching/hitting her ass, whispering, eye-fucking, having her hair touched/pulled. The smell of cigarette smoke is also an aphrodisiac for Anais.
