Page 55 of A Night with Damien Spur

‘You have fallen asleep. I think it’s time to go home,’ he whispered, waking her gently.

He gave the musicians 100 euros and, holding Sophie round her waist, he took her to his car.

They arrived in the early hours, the light illuminating the entrance. The stars still clear in the night sky.

Sophie lifted her head. The moonlight caught her profile as she leant against the oak double doors.

‘Such a joy to meet you.’ He kissed her hand, making no apology for his old-school manners.

‘Thank you for a wonderful evening,’ she said, and waited.

He held her face in both hands and brushed her lips with his.

Let yourself taste him, but don’t give him too much. Don’t pull away– you want this. A kiss full of promise.

Finally, he let her go.

‘I’ll call tomorrow. Two weeks is such a short time to get to know you.’

‘Yes, and most days I’ll be painting.’

That’s it, Sophie– show him you’re independent.

‘Of course,’ he replied. ‘Maybe we can set up an easel in my grounds. The view is beautiful and it’s a good reason for me to see you more often.’

‘That’s a lovely idea, but I think in the day I should stay with the group as I don’t want to miss my tuition.’

***

Sophie was no easy prize and when Horatio took her to his vineyard the next day to taste the wines, she kept her head. Every evening he courted her with courteous self-restraint.

And yet…

Sophie found herself wishing he would pull the reins and tether her affections.

So one night, as they dined by candlelight on the splendid terrace of his chateau, she said, ‘Horatio, I want you to know that I am not the delicate flower that you perceive me to be. I haven’t exactly lived behind a widow’s veil for the past six years.’

‘I wouldn’t expect a beautiful woman like you to waste herself in that way.’

The sweet scent of jasmine and the rich wine had gone to her head.

Was he going to reach for her, touch her cheek, kiss her neck?No, he wants me to seduce him. Lead him to the edge.

‘Shall I tell you a bedtime story, Horatio?’ she whispered.

‘Please do,’ he said.

He held her gaze while he poured her another glass of wine. Sophie took a sip and moved towards him.

‘When I was a sweet thirteen-year-old, my parents took me to Cannes. We stayed at the Carlton Hotel. And in the foyer, there was a woman called Madame Molière who had a kiosk displaying cigarettes, sweets and magazines. But hidden in her little nook was a secret stash of erotic books conveniently covered in brown paper for guests to savour… Classics such asFanny Hill,Lady Chatterley’s LoverandThe Story of O.’

‘I know the kiosk well,’ he said.

She paused and, giving him a naughty smile, lowered her eyes.

‘And…’ he said.

‘And so I bought one, encouraged by my friend Emily, who was also staying at the hotel with her parents. She was older than me, sixteen, and had already been fondled by a boy she’d met at a disco in Juan Les Pins.’

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