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Very gently, I stroke his razor up from his neck to his chin, revealing a path of skin beneath the lather. Christian exhales. I steady myself with my hands on his upper arms. He licks his lips nervously.

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No sunbathing today. I thought you might prefer something else. My dad recommended we visit. There are some galleries there. I thought we could pick out some paintings or sculptures for the new house, if we find anything we like. I lean back and gaze at him. How can I buy art? I shake my head. He had to remind me of her. My dislike is irrational.

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Saint Paul de Vence is a medieval, fortified, hilltop village, one of the most picturesque places I have ever seen. I stroll arm in arm with Christian through the narrow cobblestone streets with my hand in the back pocket of his shorts. We pass a tree-covered square where three old men, one wearing a traditional beret in spite of the heat, are playing boules.

There is so much to see—little alleys and passageways leading to courtyards with intricate stone fountains, ancient and modern sculptures, and fascinating little boutiques and shops.

In the first gallery, Christian gazes distractedly at the erotic photographs in front of us, sucking gently on the arm of his aviator specs. They make me think of the box of photographs I found in his closet, our closet. I wonder if he ever did destroy them. He takes my hand, and we stroll to the next artist. Idly, I wonder if I should let him take photos of me. My inner goddess nods frantically with approval. The next display is by a female painter who specializes in figurative art—fruit and vegetables super close up and in rich, glorious color.

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Nice idea, Mrs. Five thousand euros each. I want to roll my eyes, but turn my attention back to the paintings. Five thousand euros. We have finished lunch and are relaxing over coffee at the Hotel Le Saint Paul. The view of the surrounding countryside is stunning. Vineyards and fields of sunflowers form a patchwork across the plain, interspersed here and there with neat little French farmhouses. Christian interrupts my reverie.

His tone alarms me. He looks. His birth mom. He gazes at me, his expression unreadable.

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My heart leaps into my mouth. What do I say when he says things like this? He regards me with uncertainty. I grasp his hand. Have I gone too far? Say something, Fifty—please. But he remains resolutely mute, gazing at me with fathomless gray eyes while the silence stretches between us. He looks lost. He glances down at my hand on his and he frowns. He shakes his head, exhaling deeply. His expression guarded. Have I overstepped the mark?

I have no idea. I decide on the latter and follow him dutifully out of the restaurant. In the lovely narrow street, he takes my hand. I exhale, relieved, and shrug. The thought saddens me, and for the first time I wonder if it will ever be finished.

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Do I want him to change? No, not really— only insofar as I want him to feel loved. Peeking up at him, I take a moment to admire his captivating beauty.

I sigh heavily and hug him closer. Christian stops outside a small boutique selling fine jewelry and gazes in the window, then down at me. He grasps my free hand and runs his thumb across the faded red line of the handcuff mark, inspecting it. He twists so that my other hand is freed from his pocket. The platinum Omega watch he gave me at breakfast on our first morning in London obscures the red line. The inscription still makes me swoon. I gaze down at the faint marks on my wrist.

Then again, he can be savage sometimes. Releasing my left hand, he tilts my chin up with his fingers and scrutinizes my expression, his eyes troubled. He pulls my hand to his lips and plants a soft apologetic kiss on the inside of my wrist.

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  4. He fastens it around my wrist. I have never worn anything so expensive. It catches the afternoon light streaming through the boutique window and small sparkling rainbows dance off the diamonds all over the walls of the store. Why does he need this? Does he feel guilty? About what? The marks? His birth mother? Not confiding in me? What'd you buy? An airline.

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    Your new favorite flavor. Excuse me.

    https://ersweeptorhiland.tk Do you need a hand with that?