One Week in Provence: Chapter 2

Heatwave

 The fans stopped spinning at 1:12 a.m.

I know, because I was wide awake—sweating, sticky, and tangled in thin sheets that felt like they were smothering me.

The power was out. Provence was burning.

I stepped outside in nothing but a slip, the thin silk clinging to me in all the wrong—and right—places. The air was thick, buzzing with cicadas and tension.

He was already out there.

“Too hot to sleep?” he asked, shirtless, barefoot, leaning against the stone wall with a cigarette tucked behind his ear. The glow of the moon lit his jaw, the slope of his chest.

“I hate this heat,” I murmured, brushing my damp hair off my neck.

“Then stop resisting it,” he said, stepping closer.

I should’ve turned away.
But I didn’t.

He didn’t touch me. Not yet.
Just stood behind me.
Close. Closer.

“You smell like honey,” he said into the dark. “Like something I want to taste.”

I exhaled, shaky. “Don’t.”

“Say no,” he whispered.

I didn’t.
And that… was its own kind of yes.

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