Page 61 of The Pairing

“¡Hola!” says a smooth voice, and I recognize the chocolatero just as he swoops in to kiss the air beside Kit’s cheek. Kit looks at me with wide, apologetic eyes.

There’s no reason I should be disappointed. I’m the one who told him to call the guy. I put on my most easygoing smile.

“Sorry,” Kit murmurs, “I—”

“Nothing to apologize for,” I say. The chocolatero turns to me, a handsome, dark-skinned man in simple beige and gold linens, and I let him air-kiss me too. “¡Hola, Santiago, qué bueno verte!”

“You remember my friend Theo,” Kit says, and really, after allthe work I’ve put in, it shouldn’t sting to be called that.

“¡Sí!” Santiago says warmly. “And this is my neighbor, Caterina.”

A woman appears beside him, tall and graceful and smiling. She pushes her wild hair behind her ear with a paint-smudged hand.

“Caterina,” I say. I glance toward Kit and find him watching me. “Can I buy you a drink?”

Caterina is a painter. She smells like almond blossoms and turpentine and just broke up with a Dutch girl who captains sunset sails out of the main port. She lives in a skinny apartment building in the Gothic Quarter, one so old its door still has a bronze knocker shaped like a hand holding a persimmon. At the top ofthe stairs, as she unlocks her flat, I kiss her behind her silver earrings.

Her apartment is a magpie’s nest. Dried flowers hang from the chandelier, strings of translucent citrus slices in every window. Half-finished paintings lean against velvet armchairs and side tables heaving with books. It’s as hot here as it is outside, so she brings out a pitcher of cold water and pours two glasses.

When she presses one into my hand and guides me onto a kitchen chair, I think:I’m not even thinking about Kit right now.

I’m not seeing him and Santiago ahead of us on the walk from Bar Marsella, or the way he glanced at me when Santiago pulled him into the apartment building across from Caterina’s. I’m not even thinking of the way he looked last night on the edge of my bed, or the heat of his hand against my tattoo.

There’s so much to like about Caterina. I like how she floats around the apartment, emptying the rest of the pitcher into her houseplants. I like the paint stains on her hands.

She asks, “What do you want?”

I spread my legs wide, feet planted on either side of my chair. All my unsatisfied need rises to the surface, thick in the sweat on my skin. God, it’ll be good to finally get it out.

“Take off whatever’s under that dress, and come here.”

Caterina does as she’s told, straddles my lap, and kisses me. I kiss her back, hard, her tongue swiping into my mouth, her hands cradling my jaw. I guide her hips with both hands until I can feel her slick and needy against my thigh before I’ve even touched her, which is extremely fucking hot.

Everything is extremely fucking hot, actually. Suddenly, urgently, the heat between our bodies is nearly suffocating. My shirt sticks to my back. Sweat beads in the hollow of my throat. I break off to catch my breath.

“Okay?” Caterina asks, wiping my brow with the back of her wrist. “Do you need air?”

“Sorry, yeah.” The unsteadiness in my voice surprises me. “Could we open a window?”

“I have even better.”

She crosses to a tall, street-facing window and parts the gauzy curtains to reveal a set of narrow French doors.

“Come, look.”

When I join her, we’re on one of the Gothic balconies I admired yesterday. It barely fits us with all the flowers and plants crowded along the railings. Every building on the street has rows of tiny balconies like hers, pressed right up against one another like you could pass a cigarette to the person next door. The balcony across is so close, I can almost touch the curtains drifting from the open door.

As I pull Caterina’s body to mine, I hear it. A voice, close but slightly muted, shockingly familiar. A soft, open moan.

“Uh, does—does Santiago live in that apartment across from you?”

“Hm?” Caterina slips her hand up my shirt. “Oh, yes. Why?”

Another sound, a second voice saying something too low to decipher. Kits voice is rough when he answers, but this time I can make out “yes” and “please.”

Fuck.

Caterina laughs, her nose bumping my shoulder.

---