We had a few more drinks, flirting with one another, much more openly than the night we met. The alcohol smoothed down my throat and I was filled with confidence and totally turned-on by Clara. Whenever she spoke, it was like silk poured out of her mouth and wrapped around me, drawing me closer to her.

By the time we ordered our third round, I was hanging off my stool, she off hers. Our tongues met in luscious, not-publicly-appropriate swishes. We made out like two teenagers learning how to make out, and the more I tasted her, the more I wanted to. The delicate after-effects of chocolate liqueur and red wine left a burn of pleasure on my lips.

We left the bar and headed to Clara's nearby studio, since I preferred not to take conquests back to my condo. While Clara was seductive and enticing, she did exhibit a slight stalker tendency, I thought; happening to be wherever I was, looking innocent and blaming fate.

But she was too hot for me to pay that notion too much mind.

We stumbled into her place, fumbled for the lights, grasping for hips and breasts and breath as we made our way to her bedroom. It was tiny, but the bed was huge. I envisioned so many possibilities for us once we were naked atop it.

Clara had no intention of that happening too fast, though. She persisted in massaging my tongue with hers, gliding her hands down my back, my waist, and grabbing my ass firmly.

"You're everything I thought you'd be," she whispered, her tongue tickling my earlobe.

"Show me more about how you feel," I whispered back, cupping one of her breasts, running my thumb over her hardened nipple. She was still wearing her blouse, but it was so thin, I perceived her arousal for me underneath. I could sense her body speaking to mine, desperate to be touched, savored.

She pulled away from me and unbuttoned her shirt, exposing that sexy red bra I'd glimpsed back at the bar. Her breasts are perky, hefty; more so than I'd thought. I salivated at the idea of getting those nipples into my mouth.

She twirled a finger around one nipple, licking her lips. "Catch me," she said, running to the other side of the bed.

I nearly ripped off my own shirt, and that startled her, giving me ample room to catch her, as she'd asked. When I tugged her into my arms, our nipples crashing together, only concealed behind a thin film of lace, she squirmed, but smirked at me.

Oh, she wanted to play.

I kissed her neck, right below her chin, and trailed more kisses down to the space between her breasts, where I remained for a few moments as I teased at her peaks with my fingers. When I slowly pulled down the fabric of her bra, she arched her spine and let out a moan, urging me to do more, go further. So I did: I put my mouth over one nipple, flicking at it with my tongue.

She moaned again, and with my free hand I carried on running my thumb over her other hardened peak, sensing her jittering at my touch. It was so satisfying, so sexy, and I only wanted more of her, faster, immediately.

She nudged me off her boob and returned the favor, but removed my bra completely and perched on the end of the bed, bringing me closer to her. My breasts were eye-level with her, and she admired them for a spell, first, as if they were the most precious gift she'd ever unwrapped.

"Perfect," she said, kissing one side, then the other. "Absolutely divine." She took me into her mouth then, and the warmth of her tongue enhanced the feeling, made me almost crumble at every flick.

My center pulsated with need, and she knew it—while she had my nipple in her mouth, she slid her hand down to my pants, unfastened them, pulling them down. She then snuck her hands directly into my underwear, finding a wet surprise there.

"Mm," she groaned, the sound reverberating all through my breast as she was still suckling on my nipple. She released it at last, and looked up at me with hunger in her chestnut eyes. "You're incredibly aroused, aren't you?"

I tugged my lip between my teeth. "Incredibly." I struggled to put words together as her fingers spread my crease, rubbing across my drenched vagina.

"I'm not in the habit of asking before I take, but..." She peered down at where her fingers kept exploring between my folds, then back up at me. "Can I? A quick sample."

In response, I lowered my underwear, stepping out of it. I touched myself briefly to find that yes, I was aroused. Dripping for her, eager for her to do whatever she pleased with me.

"Yes," I said, so starving for her it almost hurt. "For as long as you want."

She took my leg and hefted it onto the mattress, opening me up to her. She grinned at the exposure, her eyes wide with approval. At first she only awed at my damp pussy, taking in every angle, wetting her lips as she considered where to start. But then she positioned herself and cocked her head before sliding her tongue straight into my business.

Right into my pleasure. My legs shook as she grasped my ass and brought me closer, her face colliding into me. She ate, she delighted in my flavor, lapping me up like I was her favorite ice cream, and every touch of her tongue sent delicious chills down my spine.

I could barely stand up when she was finished; I came explosively. The sweet sheen of my arousal over her lips made me want to kiss her, made me want to push her down onto the mattress and take my turn.

She read my mind as she lifted up and smooched me, her tongue twisting into my mouth and giving me a hint of my essence.

Fuck, it was hot. Beyond hot. So sensual, so soothing, so—

So not Zane.

There was no passionate violence, no repulsion or hatred. No, Clara and I were a rehearsed but exciting dance, following a rhythm as we sought our climaxes. We didn't break things, didn't scream—though we did moan in utter satisfaction. This was simple, but good, incredible sex.

She tasted like heaven. Sweet, spicy, juicy. When my face was between her legs, I never wanted to leave. Every shiver of her thighs, every tiny yelp out her mouth—Béa, oh! Béa!—made me want to keep eating her out until she couldn't move anymore. She turned me on with her squirming, with how she gripped the sheets and whipped her neck back and gasped out loud as if the ceiling were watching, as if she wanted to show it how much she enjoyed this.

My clit pumped with need, desperate to release again. I toyed with myself as I licked her, and that seemed to bring her even closer to the brink when she noticed it. She smirked, pulled her legs further apart, and watched me ravish her with my tongue until she came undone.

I wasn't sure how many times I made her come—enough for her aroma to imprint inside my mouth, hopefully forever—but we ended up pussy to thigh, skin to skin, nipple to nipple. We thrust against one another, chasing that high, finding it, then chasing it again. Her leg glistened with my essence, and mine was sticky with hers; yet we endured, unable to get enough of one another.

It was a delirious time, and I had no regrets whatsoever.

None.

At all.

Except when I woke up, gasping, disoriented. Not in my bed, not in my apartment—and not alone.

It took a moment for everything to come back to me.

The bar, the beautiful Clara, her awe-inspiring pussy rubbing against mine. A night of bliss, of paradise, of coming and panting and coming again.

Curtains draped over the window, but I could tell it was still night out.

She was awake, clad in a robe as she sat on the edge of the bed, brushing her dark, satin-like strands. A TV was on in front of her, and she was so absorbed in it, she didn't sense me waking and stretching.

When I yanked on the covers, she shook out of her TV absorption and twisted to me. The screen's light haloed around her graceful face as she smiled at me.

"Sorry," she said, grabbing a remote to lower the volume. "Did I wake you?"

I shook my head, returning her smile. God, she was exquisite. Every curve molded from expert hands, her breasts so round and touchable, her skin so smooth and soft. The outline of her boobs protruded from the robe, and I feared if one of them released, if I got a simple glimpse of her nakedness, I'd want to fuck her all over again.

"I can't sleep," she said, gesturing at the TV. "It happens when I drink too much."

"I understand." I sat up, making sure I covered myself. The way she stared at my cleavage area showed that she, too, was considering another round, and if she saw my nipples, she'd lose it.

She resumed her hair-brushing in silence, tuning back into whatever documentary she'd been watching.

I tuned in too, and instantly regretted it.

It was a channel three report—channel three, in France, was notorious for all sorts of documentaries, varying from animal stuff to obscure celebrities to cities and monuments with dark histories. I remembered its strange cartoons when I was young, and its news reports from anchors who had little to no facial expressions.

This report was about Zane. It was Zane; his handsome face popped onto the screen, his dark eyes like wells I'd fallen into and couldn't get out of.

I stilled, knowing I should have turned away, averted my gaze, covered my ears; but the sickening curiosity kept me riveted, focused on the screen.

He was still bashing me. Still talking about our one-night-stand, then the incident at the conference. But now, it was all in French, dubbed over by a man whose voice sounded too similar to Zane's for my taste.

And the fact that I remembered Zane's voice so clearly put me off even more.

"She embarrassed me," he said, and I saw those words on his mouth and heard them in his tone, though the man's translation muted the real sound of it. "I've been getting ghosted at my restaurant, and bad reviews on my book. And I know she's behind it all. She's commanded her little army of Picky Eater fans to destroy me by any means possible. Because she still has tons of fans; she had a big fan-base to begin with. Most of them still side with her, despite what she's done to me."

My fists clenched, gripping the sheet so hard I worried I'd rip it to shreds. I released my hold on it and shoved the covers aside, standing up.

There he was, in his kitchen, chopping vegetables, tossing his concoctions in a huge iron skillet. Then there was a zoom-in on one of his most famous dishes—his goddamn ratatouille.

"All she had to do was take one bleeping bite," said Zane's translator, as the camera panned around the dish, showing all its gorgeous colors. "One bite, and we could have avoided all this."

A slow-motion capture of him shaking salt and pepper over a flaming pan brought my mouth to open wide, for me to basically drool over him. He wore his olive chef shirt, sleeves rolled up, arms bulging beneath the fabric as he shook, shook, shook, every time amplifying the muscles he hid under his clothes.

I knew those muscles; knew them too well. And that mouth, those lips quirking as he watched his meal transform before his eyes, as he sprinkled other spices over the heat, drizzled sauces into the pan.

My body melted at the sight of him in his element. My heart melted to see him again, after so much time spent avoiding him.

But my anger didn't melt. I still hated him so fucking much, and he kept proving why.

I wanted to destroy him? It was the other way around. He was the one who wouldn't shut up about all this, continued to feed bullshit to the press, accepted interviews where all he did was demean me, blame his lack of success on me not eating his damn ratatouille.

What the fuck was his problem?

Clara's sudden twist towards me broke me out of my stupor. "Hein?" she asked; the French version of huh?

I clapped a hand over my mouth; had I said all that out loud?

"Nothing," I said, standing up, stretching again. I scanned the room, searching for my clothes. It was time to go.

I couldn't stay here, couldn't unleash my vulnerability in front of this woman. She was a one-night-stand, and as marvelous as the sex had been, she wasn't my friend, wasn't my therapist.

To my surprise, she didn't hold me back when she caught on to what I was doing. Instead she got up and helped me find my bra, my underwear, then pointed towards where my pants and shirt had landed. She was a big girl, she knew this was a one time thing and wouldn't happen again. I appreciate her grace, her understanding.

As I buttoned up my top, she sat back on the bed and motioned at the screen. Zane's image was all over it, again; another slow-motion zoom in of him at his restaurant, greeting patrons at a table while they ate.

"That's your nemesis, hein?"

"Nemesis." I scrunched my eyebrows. "I wish he wasn't."

Clara crossed her arms, tilting her head this way and that. "Kill them with kindness," she said, in fractured but hot English. "Is that not some American saying? I heard it somewhere."

"It is." I studied her, wondering where she was going with this.

"He's a liar," said Clara, squinting at me. "The way he portrays you...non," she tutted, "that's not you. Not that I know you, but what I've gathered tonight, and that night I met you at your restaurant...non. He's got something else going on. And the way he spoke of you and sex?" She smirked as she shook her head. "I can attest that you are more than skilled in that area."

I couldn't help but smirk back at her, but then realization swarmed me, nearly knocking me backwards, onto the bed.

I gawked at her. "You read his book?"

"Béatrice," she said, standing to approach me and take my hands in hers. "I support you. I have followed your journey, not in a creepy way," she winced, "but because I love what you're doing for the community. I myself am not a picky eater, but I have picky friends. Going to your restaurant provides them with that comfort."

I gulped. "Thank you." My cheeks overheated, and I wondered if I should leave this woman. If maybe staying with her, snuggling, having another round was the smarter, safer thing to do. Instead of returning to California where my nemesis awaited me for more torture.

No. I had to face my fear, my enemy, fix my reputation before he squandered it.

She took my hands again. "This man, Zane," she sneered as she pronounced his name, "is a bug. And if you can't ignore him, then you need to make peace with him, with yourself, and move on. A man like that?" She spun to the TV, where he stood speaking to the interviewer—it looked like a PBS style interview—and scowled at him. "He knows he's good-looking, knows he has charm and can use it against women."

I arched an eyebrow, slightly amused at how her voice dipped when she peered at him with a mix of rage and intrigue. The same way I did, in fact.

Of course, she found him attractive, too. It had slipped during our drunken conversations earlier at the bar that she was bisexual.

She quickly shook out of whatever spell his TV version had put on her, and returned to me. "He will not give up, he won't quit harassing you until he gets what he wants."

"And what does he want?" I growled at his image, annoyed at seeing him behind Clara as we spoke of him. It was like he eavesdropped, like he was there, taunting me. "Fame? Money? To bring down a fellow chef for no reason at all?"

"Fame and money, sure," she said, cupping my chin. "But you, mostly. Obviously."

"Huh?" I backed away from her.

"Yes," she said, nodding slowly as if having an epiphany. Her eyes grew wide. "He's like that little boy in the playground who insults the girl he likes. He likes you, Béatrice. Wants you, your attention."

I frowned. "No, that's not possible. We despise each other."

She shrugged. "Love and hate aren't so far apart. The point is," she found my purse on the floor and handed it to me, "he likes you. So you either give in and admit you might like him too," I cringed, she chuckled, "or you don't say anything and move on with your life. That's entirely up to you."

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