Page 106 of All Our Nevers

Our morning begins with espresso and pain au chocolat as we walk to the Musée de l’Orangerie; panoramic water lilies in seafoam and lilac, bold strokes of thick texture in soft, soothing tones. Then the Seine; yellowed paperbacks sold out of wooden carts, bright posters of Le Chat Noir and Moulin Rouge, painters camped nearby twisting sky blues into sunset reds.

I’m in a pastel yellow satin dress, v-neck, pleats (I fucking love pleats), and tasteful cut-outs showing just a sliver of skin on each side at my ribs.

We have lunch outside. The sparkling wine in our cups mirrors the sparkling sun above as we enjoy salty fish, creamy soups, the flaky crusts of savory pies. Every time he mentions my birthday, I counter with a crack about him being a cradle robber—all of three years older than I am.

Then in the afternoon, the pièce de resistance: the Louvre. Sprawling, iconic, bustling, contemplative. I feel more inspired than I have since… I don’t know when. I can see a whole clothing line inspired by these pieces. Multiple lines. A line for each wing.

I even want to draw again. So I do. My notebook, lined though it is, becomes my sketchbook: Winged Victory atop a marble summit of stairs. Psyche reaching for her beloved. Even Venus de Milo herself, imagined arms reaching in endless possibilities across the pages. Owen is physically exhausted, I know he is, but he would never say it. It’s my special day, and he lets me know as often as possible that I’m completely in charge.

In fact, he’s so single-minded in his determination to not detract from my Louvre experience that he doesn’t tell me his news until much later that night, at dinner.

We only leave when the museum closes at six, just in time for our dinner reservation at the Michelin Star restaurant on the first floor of the Eiffel Tower. The waiters describe each course to me in the rapidly slurring French of Parisians and I catch maybe half the words. It doesn’t matter. The wine is a vintage riesling, the company is adoring, and the pictures I take will keep my social media accounts going for at least ten years.

We’re two courses in when Owen confesses to checking his work email this morning while I was in the shower.

“As of the day we get back to Boston, I’m officially a partner at Wilmar Gould,” he tells me, an almost self-conscious smile on his lips.

My shriek of happiness is way too loud for this restaurant, and the way I throw myself at him is downright uncouth, but I don’t give a fuck. He’s worked so hard for this, and so rarely gets recognition for all the incredible things he does. He deserves this. This and so much more.

From that point in the evening, we switch to champagne.

Four more courses and we’re crawling back to our hotel just before midnight. The humid night air sticks to our skin and I feel warm and pliant.

“Lia,” Owen says, folding himself over my shoulder as I unlock our hotel room door. “You’re so beautiful, and it’s your birthday, and I want to have sex with you so badly, but I’m so full. I don’t know if I can do it. I mean, I can definitely do it, but I might puke on you while I do. Is that okay?”

I cackle as the door opens and I pull him inside.

“You’re gross,” I say just before I kiss him. My hands squeeze his ass as he backs me through the door, pulling his body flush with mine, and that’s all it takes.

“Actually, nevermind.” His mouth moves wetly down my neck, surely purpling the skin there. “I’m in peak shape and definitely won’t puke on you.”

I’m still laughing as I drag him the rest of the way into our room by the collar, his arms wrapped around my middle, tugging me up until only the tips of my toes touch the floor. Even after the six-course meal, his lips are starving, greedily tasting and claiming. I love the way he gets riled up for me, how comfortable he is showing me exactly how much he wants me. I want to see him beg, hear him whimper, make him earn me like a prize.

There’s a taunt in my voice as I ask, “What do you want to do to me?”

To my surprise, that has him pulling back, eyes darting between mine, searching for something. “Do you trust me?”

I think about it for a moment—really think about it—before saying, “Yes.”

“I want to try something.” His hands slide over the cut outs in the fabric at my ribs, cool fingertips against warm skin. “I want to make you feel good, gorgeous. And I have an idea. But if you don’t like it, just tell me to stop. Okay?”

“Okay…” I hedge. “Do I need a safe word?”

“No.” He shakes his head. “The word ‘no’ is all you need, or any other indication you don’t like what’s happening. Okay?”

I nod, feeling uncertain but not at all afraid.

The fire in his eyes is hot enough to burn blue. “Get on the bed for me.”

Curiosity turns me obedient. I take a few steps back to sit on the edge of the bed, then watch Owen approach the desk on the far side of the room—the pile of yarn and fabric I’ve haphazardly tossed there. He takes my small sewing scissors into his hand, cuts a short length of yarn, then carries it back to me.

One hand reaches forward to cup the back of my neck. He kisses me, softly, once, before pulling away.

“Lie back on the pillows.”

I do, never tearing my eyes from his as I lower onto my elbows, then all the way down. Owen crawls across the bed, each movement slow and deliberate until he’s beside me. Nothing has happened yet, but still I feel vulnerable—my willingly relinquished control aching like a pulled tooth.

From where he kneels next to me, Owen tenderly reaches for my hands, crossing one wrist over the other, then wrapping the length of yarn around them. He ties one knot. Only one. A feeble, singular tuck of the yarn under itself. Nothing I couldn’t undo with the slightest separation of my wrists.