All Chapters of Désiré Me 2: Chapter 91 - Chapter 100

DianeThe French door closes behind us with a dull click, sealing off the outside world. The air-conditioned air of the house, dead and perfumed, hits me again. After the brutal frankness of the night, it feels deceitful.He crosses the living room without a glance at me, heading towards the table where a crystal decanter and two glasses stand. He fills one, the amber liquid gleaming in the half-light. He does not offer me any.— Sit down.This is not an invitation. It is a light order, wrapped in the weariness of the night. I remain standing, near the sofa, my arms still crossed over my chest, as if I could contain the turmoil he has unleashed.He sits in a deep armchair, legs stretched out, and raises his glass towards the faint light. He observes the liquid, thoughtful.— Do you know what Laroche told me, while you were dancing? he asks without looking at me.I do not answer. My silence is heavy, palpable.— He told me you were a masterpiece. A living canvas. And that a collector d

DianeThe silence enveloping us is not peaceful. It is charged with the echo of our kisses, the short breath of our breathing struggling to find a normal rhythm. Lying against him, I feel every part of my being vibrate with a new alertness. The truce is a deception. It is the eye of the storm.His fingers, which were drawing circles on my back, still. Then they become more insistent, now tracing the path of my spine through the fine satin. An uncontrollable shiver runs through me.— You’re trembling, he murmurs, his voice a purr against my temple. Is it from fear? Or something else?He doesn’t give me time to answer. His hand moves, slow, deliberate, to pull up the strap of my dress that he had slid down. But instead of putting it back in place, his fingers linger on the curve of my shoulder, then descend, brushing the top of my breast.I hold my breath.— I want to know, he continues, and his voice has lost its post-kiss softness. It has become that voice of velvet and steel that pie

 DianeSilence is an open wound, purulent with the echo of my own moans. The air is heavy with the smell of sex, sweat, domination. His weight on me is not an anchor, it is a seal. It presses me into the fur, into humiliation, into the irrevocable.Shame does not seep. It floods, black, acidic, rising in my throat in a nauseating flow. I close my eyes and I see, in violent streaks, the spectacle of my degradation: my mouth open on pleas, my hips rising for him, the total betrayal of my own body. The word "love" I spat out like an insult to myself still burns my tongue.I asked for it.This is not a thought, it is a death sentence.He moves, a slight pressure of his hips, and a strangled sound escapes me. He does not withdraw. He remains buried inside me, warm, alive, a completed possession. His breath on my neck is that of a victor savoring his prize. His heart beats, a dull drum against my sternum. And deep within me, in the marrow of

 DianeHe tilts his head. I think he is going to kiss me. I freeze, ready for the violation of my mouth. But he merely rests his forehead against mine. A gesture of heartbreaking intimacy. A lovers' gesture.— I will remind you, he whispers against my lips, his warm breath mingling with the steam. Every day. Every night. Until the only word on your lips, in your head, in your blood, is my name. Until "love" and "me" are the same thing to you.The water begins to cool. It slows down. The roar becomes a murmur, then a drip.He remains like this, forehead against forehead, for a time that is no longer time. Then he turns off the water. The silence that falls is brutal, damp, heavy with all that has been said, all that has been done.He takes a large towel, warm and soft, and wraps me in it. He rubs my arms, my hair, with the same applied meticulousness. He dries himself quickly, then, still holding me by the hand, he leads me back t

 DianeTwo months. Summer burned the hills to ochre and gave way to a dry, windy autumn. Time has passed not in days, but in cycles, in rituals.My body knows his. His hands. The weight of his gaze when he enters a room. The intonation of his voice when he says my name, in the evening, from the threshold of our bedroom—our bedroom. He no longer says "the bedroom." The possessive has become a fact, a stone in the foundation of this world.I am sitting at the vanity, the one he had installed in the first month. A piece of antique mahogany furniture, with a large three-panel mirror. I am brushing my hair. Fifty brush strokes, every evening. A routine he appreciates. He likes to see me do it. He says it makes me serene. I look at my reflection in the glass. The face is paler, the features smoother, as if polished by constant wear. The eyes have lost that flame of acute panic. They are calm. Deep. A dormant lake under a winter sky.I am wear