Dreaming Of You // If I'm Still Dreaming

[WARNING: Adult content below. Read at your own discretion.]

I thought it was a stereotype coming from ‘Titanic’ but I learnt the sourest way it wasn’t. Nude art model is actually a proper job, and quite common in Paris, city of Arts. Jeanne referred she began casually when she was fifteen years old because of some artist friends of her family. That was the reason she felt so comfortable on her own skin; I had absolutely nothing to do with that. My primary reaction to her revelation was so utterly childish I felt as a fool for the thousandth time around her. Luckily she didn’t seem to mind and our conversation soon regained slightly less surreal paths.

I had so many questions to ask her about her writing and that guy I made her recall. I truly wanted to know everything about her; I was so hungry of her, of her mind, her heart and her story. But finally I decided it was better to circumscribe to the first matter, because I was unsure about listening to her feelings for somebody else.

She explained my character from ‘I Wish’ was based on her father, painter and photographer, who was a person with synaesthesia. I found strange someone could mould a lover from a parental figure, but she told me something I should have known by now, which is art works with substances. She also told me she was quite synaesthetic herself, in particular mixing textures and taste. Usually when she touches something not only her mind is flooded with information but also her mouth. It has to be the most amazing experience. Knowing this fact about her reaffirmed what I knew from the beginning: She is different.

As time passed we finished our dinner and cleared the table. She grabbed two bottles of alcohol from the shelf and two shot glasses. One of them was Sake, and the other one was a rare Spanish beverage called ‘liquor of mandrake.’

“Mandrágora,” she purred.

She explained to me as mandrake is actually a poisonous root the name was symbolic, so it was basically a sweet, although dry, minty liquor from Northern Spain. She made me feel curious about it so I gave it a try. We knocked a shot in one and I could tell it was quite strong but savoury, that sort of tricky liquor you can drink easily and finally puts you down on your knees.

As alcohol began to surge her body, Jeanne asked a bold question, if I liked how she portrayed my ‘real’ self on her writing. I had to admit myself she had caught me very well, although she was far indulgent with my intellect. I didn’t tell her that, but she listened more than pleased when I told her all the boys and I were extremely satisfied with our portrayals on ‘A Season In Paris.’Nonetheless although I insisted, she didn’t want to tell me a single word about what she was holding for ‘Bizarre Love Triangle,’ even the simplest thing, as was with which character she identifies more. I know it’s not so easy as ‘Laila,’ I can tell. They don’t seem to have anything in common. She was so hermetic about everything it made me fear the worst. I knew from the title Harry is going to screw things up but I was truly hoping for a happy ending.

As we took two shots of Sake she became a bit tipsier. She was absolutely adorable tapping her hand on the table emphatically each time she asserted something she meant, and she cares about almost everything. I’m not proud about it but I took a little advantage of the situation. It was then or never.

“How do you saw me on the Olympics if you don’t have a telly?” I asked, glancing around casually.

“It wasn’t at home–––she explained as if it was an obvious matter. I was with some friends I gather with to see this sort of events…” She mumbled, resting her head on her hand.

“What sort of events?” I said, amused.

“Oh, you know… Olympics’ Closing Ceremonies, FIFA World Cup, Eurovision…”

“Do you watch Eurovision?–––I snapped. That’s ridiculous…”

“‘The boybander said…’” She ironised as if she was reading on a book. She could be a bit drunk but she didn’t lose her sharpness. And she was right. I guess some people could say the same about my job.

“I’m not a judgemental person, I swear to God,” I stated solemnly with my hand on my heart. “And did you tell your friends then you’d met me in London?” I asked, leading her to the topic I was interested in.

“Of course I did–––she blurted. I couldn’t stop myself from shouting!” She laughed.

“You fangirled…” I observed, pointing at her accusatorially. She glanced at me in shock.

“It’s true…–––she mumbled, astonished. I fangirled over you!” She said, throwing her head back, giggling. I chuckled trying to imagine her on the task. “But then you stopped singing and it was over…” She explained, slightly regaining her composure.

“It was not over–––I claimed, getting closer. Look at us right here.”

“Who would have known…” She snickered with her chin propped on her fists over the table.

“Well, something kept going on, obviously,” I smirked, approaching her to kiss her lips, my hand grabbing the back of her head.

“You said Louis sensed me…–––she mumbled with a hint of vulnerability on her voice I hadn’t heard till that moment. What did you mean by that?”

“On your first message you used that French expression…” I said glancing away, reminiscing the anecdote with a discreet smile. It made such an impression on me.

“‘Je ne sais quoi…’” She muttered with each fist on her cheeks as I turned towards her. I felt a stroke rushing through me.

“Yes–––I said. He just knew who you were…” She raised her eyebrows and blinked, moistening her lips.

“It’s quite a common expression, but in this particular case I quoted a song–––she explained. And you? Didn’t you sense me?” She grinned.

“I was far too involved to be objective,” I mumbled, lightly frowning, and leant to kiss her again. We smiled on each other’s mouth, my hands caressing her scalp. But soon I remembered what she just said. “And what song was that?” I asked, curious, to regret it an instant later.

“A song by France Gall, an Eurovision winner…–––she ironised and tapped the table. I’m going to play it for you…” She stood up from her chair and approached her laptop, open over the desk. She searched through it and pointed at the screen. I sighed, lightly shaking my head ‘no’ and glancing down, giggling in defeat. She played the song and returned to my side graciously dancing around, making me remember Laila. She came to sit on my lap and moved her back to the rhythm with her hands on my shoulders, then translated some of the lines of the song to my ear.

It is as a smile,
Something in the voice, which seems to tell us ‘Come,’
Which makes us feel strangely good.
If you have it, you have it.
That ‘je n’sais quoi’ which others don’t have,
This indefinable charm you cannot buy.
When you have it, you have it.

As I understood the meaning of the song I smiled at her, feeling honoured by her perception of me. Jeanne was straddling me, lightly brushing her pubis on my lower belly, her slip hoisted over her waist, my hands grabbing her by her hips, pressing her against me.

“Do I have it?” I asked her with a cheeky lop-sided grin.

“You definitely have it…” She murmured looking directly into my eyes, her arms tightly circling my neck.

“And do you like it?” I boldly said.

“I like it,” she replied, grimacing.

“But I believed you think I’m evil…” I joked, referring to her words from the afternoon, running my hands around her waist.

“You aren’t,” she asserted, surprising me.

“Have I made you change your mind?” I laughed.

“Yes, you have.”

“I can die now.” She laughed. I captured her face with both hands and pulled her towards me slowly, my eyes fixed on hers. She made a minimal grimace with her mouth, almost as pouting, and my heart leapt inside my chest. I crashed my lips on hers eagerly, parting them and sliding my tongue between her teeth, slightly grazing them. Her limbs twitched and she moaned deeply. I rubbed the centre of her tongue with the tip of mine and she contorted between my arms. Her mouth was so delightful to kiss a rush of blood flooded my crotch. “Come here,” I said as I pushed away the last remaining objects from the table with my hand. I lifted her to sit on the edge, her legs folded on my sides, rubbing myself between them. She held my head and my waist trembling against me, soft sounds coming out from her lightly parted mouth pressed on my ear, making my hairs stand on end. The way she moved against my body with a slow pace and right amount of pressure made my mind go wild.

I held her tightly and lifted her from the table, and walked towards the bed. As we fell against it, I prevented from smashing her supporting our weight on the palms of my hands. Despite our rough motion I continued to kiss her hungrily, her hands grasping my back, bringing me near. I slid my hands under her slip and took the garment off without breaking our visual contact. I knelt between her legs and slowly removed her knickers. Once I got her naked I removed my boxers, Jeanne glancing at me expectantly, and I lay over her, sucking on her lips. I searched for her wrist and captured it, taking her arm above her head. Her back slightly arched. As I reached out for the other one she opposed some resistance.

“Don’t. Don’t fight,” I begged deeply looking into her eyes, leading her arm back. She lightly made that gesture with her lips. I don’t know why it affected me that much but in a second my mind went blank and all I could do was kiss her longingly. As she shook underneath me I approached both wrists above her head and caught them together with just one hand. She glanced at me in defiance, lifting her hips from the bed. “Don’t fight it,” I asked in a husky tone, brushing the side of her body with my fingertips. Her lips trembled but she didn’t say a word.

I ran my hand across her abdomen feeling her soft, toned muscles beneath my fingers, and reached her mound of Venus, lightly covered by reddish hair, but moved forward. I slipped between her labia and placed two fingers on her clitoris.

“Don’t fight it,” I repeated to her mouth, closing my eyes. I could feel how she arched her back, titling her head, and began to move around my fingers as I brushed them to the sides, applying some pressure. Her body deliciously contorted under mine as she moaned again and again. I fell in rapture only by the heat emanating from her core. I needed her so badly.

I let her go from my grip and crawled in bed, pushing her backwards until she sat with her back against the headboard. She reached beneath the pillow and grabbed a condom, opened it and began to put it on for me. I watched her hands unrolling it expertly along my shaft, making me shiver. I quickly placed myself between her knees and lifted her above my hips, holding her gaze. As I slid inside her in a single, potent thrust she moaned and held my head tightly against her chest. I was pinning her from her sides on the headboard and began to slowly but resolutely rock myself against her, every thrust sending electricity throughout my body and making my lower belly lurch.

She started to gasp jaggedly on my ear and I heard her say my name confusedly. My thrusts soon became increasingly harder and she gripped her arms on the headboard to offer resistance to my forcefully motions. I was fixated on the contact of the skin of her breast and her nipples grazing my chest and the imminent sensation of our orgasm growing between us. With one arm she tightly held my neck as she began to contort and breathe erratically. I groaned sharply breathing as I rocked my body vigorously, my face falling on the crook of her neck. Her body twitched in mine as she unfolded a leg from my side, her foot pointing forward.

“God, Jeanne,” I grumbled letting myself go and colliding convulsively with her quivering centre. She fell into my arms murmuring something I couldn’t understand, and heavily rested her head on my shoulder.

–.–.–

As I lie in bed facing down I try to stay awake until Jeanne returns by my side. The shower didn’t help very much though and it’s not that late, but I’m knackered. I giggle, smiling as an idiot. I hear the crack of the door and her light footsteps on the wooden floor. She slides into bed and rests her body against me. Thanks to God, she’s naked, and still delightfully moist. I have some remaining forces to tease her. She’s so cute when she rages, so I speak.

“French music sucks…” I mumble.

“I know…” She says after a moment in annoyance.

“But you feel so proud of your ‘République…’”

“We are proud,” she states. If she wasn’t so exhausted herself I swear she’ll stand up and sing the ‘Marseillaise.’

“It’s not even the oldest–––I retort. And we British managed despotic power plenty of years before you…” The last ten minutes I’ve been trying to remember something clever to say. I hope it works. I feel she straightens up a bit and I chuckle.

“You just sound like one of my characters,” she says near my ear, pressing her breasts on my back as she slides on top of me. The feeling is overwhelming. We giggle. “You better keep it quiet.”

–.–.–

Notes

I loved writing this chapter so I truly hope you enjoyed it. I know not everyone is OK reading smut so if you ask me I can give you a little summary of what's in Harry's mind, because around here smut isn't a casual thing. Just ask. The same if you have any question about what they talked about. It will be raining information for a few more chapters. Many things from French and European culture I hope you enjoy.

I want to thank you, clever readers, lovely friends. Love you all!