After their breathing returned to almost normal he took her in
his arms, their steaming bodies sticking together as they lay
entangled, too exhausted to move. Her head was spinning from the
champagne and from their intoxicating lovemaking.
Never before had she felt like this, she thought, feeling him
still inside her, softening. Matthew had always been the one to
want, and she had always given to him, but now she understood all
at once her desire to be given to.
Their hands remained clasped together as she drifted away from
her thoughts, the tingling inside her turning to numbness as she
cooled, cooled, then felt chilled, as though she were shaking.
Being shaken.
"Greta!" Jean-Pierre whispered.
"Mmm?" she moaned, disoriented.
"Matthew!"
Not Matthew, she thought half-consciously. No, not Matthew. Not
for a while. Only Jean-Pierre now.
"Matthew!" Jean-Pierre hissed again, leaping from the bed.
She sat up, wide-eyed. It was dark in the room. She turned on the
beside lamp. Jean-Pierre was hastily gathering his strewn
clothes. No, he didn't understand. They were safe. Touching her
hand to her head for an instant, she relaxed a little, felt a
little laugh begin in her chest at the comedy of his panic. He
must have heard Marie, because Matthew wouldn't be home from his
New York trip until tomorrow afternoon.
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