Paris Can Wait

She woke to his mouth against her shoulder. Not quite a kiss. Something lazier than that, unhurried, the kind of thing a man only does when he has nowhere to be and knows it.

She smiled without opening her eyes and shifted back into him.

"We're supposed to go to the Louvre."

His mouth moved to the curve of her neck. "Supposed to?"

"Yes."

"You don't sound very committed."

"I'm deeply committed."

"To the Louvre?"

She opened her eyes. He was watching her now, and the expression on his face made a convincing argument for several things that were not French art.

"No," she said.

"I didn't think so."

She rolled toward him and slid a hand around the back of his neck. "We paid for tickets."

"Tragic."

"We made a reservation."

"Devastating."

"We could miss it."

"I'm beginning to suspect that's what you want."

She kissed him, slowly, deliberately, and when she pulled away his eyes had changed.

"Maybe."

His arm tightened around her waist. "Maybe?"

She kissed the corner of his mouth. "I was trying to pretend I had some self-control."

"How did that go?"

"Poorly."

"Good."

He kissed her again, and there it was: that astonishing transition he could make without warning, from teasing her until she wanted to throw a pillow at his head to kissing her in a way that made the rest of Paris irrelevant. She curled her hand around the back of his neck and pulled him closer.

He laughed softly against her mouth.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"You're laughing at me."

"Never."

"Liar." She kissed him before he could get any more pleased with himself.

Outside the open windows, Paris was waking. A scooter buzzed down the street. Someone dragged chairs onto the pavement below. Somewhere nearby, a church bell marked an hour neither of them cared enough to count.

His hand moved slowly along her side and she shivered, and he stopped. Not because he didn't know what she wanted. Because he did.

His eyes found hers. There was something devastating about being looked at that way. Wanted, certainly, but also known, and with him there was never any distance between the two. Desire wasn't something he did to her. It was something they stepped into together.

She touched his face. "I love the way you look at me."

His expression softened. "How do I look at you?"

"Like I'm your favorite thing in the room."

"You're my favorite thing in Paris."

She laughed. "That was terrible."

"It was excellent."

"It was painfully cheesy."

"You loved it."

"I did."

"I know."

She kissed him again, and this time there was nothing playful in it at all.

The morning stretched. The Louvre became less likely, then extremely unlikely. At some point she remembered coffee. At some later point she stopped caring about coffee.

Much later she lay tangled against him beneath sheets that had long since surrendered any resemblance to a properly made bed. His fingertips traced idle patterns along her back.

She lifted her head. "What time is it?"

He reached blindly toward the nightstand, found his phone, looked at it, and winced. "No."

She started laughing. "What?"

"We missed our Louvre reservation."

She dropped her head back onto his chest. "Oh, no."

"You don't sound devastated."

"I'm inconsolable."

"You're smiling."

"I contain multitudes."

His laugh rumbled beneath her cheek. She tilted her face toward him. "We should feel guilty."

"We should."

"Do you?"

"Not remotely."

"Me neither."

He tossed the phone toward the foot of the bed, and she watched it land somewhere in the wreckage of the sheets.

"Tomorrow?" he asked.

"We have dinner plans tomorrow."

"We'll go before dinner."

She studied him. "You don't believe that."

"Not even a little."

She laughed and climbed over him to reach the water on the nightstand. His hand caught her around the waist and pulled her back, and she landed against his chest with a surprised laugh.

"See? This is why we can't have culture."

"Paris has plenty of culture."

"We have seen almost none of it."

"We saw Notre-Dame."

"From a taxi."

"The Eiffel Tower."

"From a restaurant."

"The Seine."

"We were walking home."

"A very cultural walk."

She was still laughing when he kissed her. When they separated, she stayed close enough that their noses nearly touched.

"Coffee," she whispered.

"Eventually."

"And croissants."

"Eventually."

"And then the Louvre."

"Absolutely."

She looked at him. He looked at her. Neither of them moved.

Her smile came first. "Fuck the Louvre."

His laugh filled the room as she kissed him again, and outside, Paris could wait.