It was one of those perfect June days that we wait for all winter. The sun was warm, the sky a clear and intense blue without a cloud in sight. It felt like slipping into a warm bath rather than the sauna that the heat and humidity of August would bring. There were even people out sailing at midday this Friday as Stacey gazed out of her office window toward Lake Ontario. They were starting their weekend early and although she had a lot of work to do, she wanted to join them, or at the least get out of the office. No sandwich would be ordered in to be eaten at her desk. She was going to go out and enjoy this day.

Stacey was driven, usually focused on getting work done rather than revelling in the spring sunshine. But there was another part of her that needed feeding from time to time, a part that appreciated the weather and all other things that touched her senses, a part that she acknowledged in her free time and personal life, but not on a work day. Today was an exception.

Stacey pulled her jacket on and rode the elevator down the twenty-six floors from her office. She donned her sunglasses as she left the building and started walking without any particular destination in mind, just walking in the direction of a nearby neighbourhood where there were numerous shops, restaurants and galleries. She felt exhilarated to escape into the anonymity just a few blocks away from her office. She could wander until perhaps stopping to have lunch outdoors at one of the restaurants and watch the scene on the street.

Stacey was tall and blonde, dressed in a black linen suit, the uniform of the season. She called her suits her armour as she took on her professional persona when she dressed every morning. This was how she prepared herself to face the problems she solved each day with the insight and intelligence that had brought many clients to her law practice. The large Jackie O sunglasses made her feel like she was an incognito visitor as she strolled along, looking at the paintings and photography displayed in the gallery windows.

Her attention was taken by a large abstract painting in the window of a gallery. Although it depicted no image, it immediately took her to the Mediterranean. There was none of the haphazard feeling that some abstract art gave her, as if there was nothing particular in the mind of the artist, a kind of accidental art. This work was a riot of colour, yes, but she could intuit all of the things she loved about that part of the world: the golden light of day, the fields of poppies and sunflowers, the clear azure of the skies and lush green of the vineyards. The artist was one who was new to her. She decided to go in and see more.

She walked through the cool air of the gallery, stopping for several minutes at each painting and allowing herself to be taken into the world that the artist had portrayed. She felt as if this person had managed to take all of the exuberance of Van Gogh and Cezanne and distill it to abstract representations. There was a bench in front of a painting that seemed as inspired by night as the one in the window had been by day. There were shades of pink, mauve and periwinkle of dusk and the indigo of night with glowing shades of white and cream like the moon and stars. Stacey felt overwhelmed by all of these works and how they touched her. She sat down on the bench and felt the sense memories of days and nights in southern France wash over her. She was transported and lost in thought and sensation, but suddenly felt aware of someone’s presence beside her.

“What do you think?” asked the man who stood near her. He was tall and dark, dressed simply in a crisp white shirt and jeans. His hair was longer than the corporate types she saw every day and his hazel eyes seemed to dance as he spoke to her.

“It has been a while since someone’s work hit me like this,” Stacey said. “I really love each and every one of them. I would like to know if the inspiration is the Mediterranean, which is my guess. That is where these take me.”

“May I sit with you?” he asked.

“Of course,” she responded.

He sat on the bench beside her and Stacey became even more aware of him. He was very understated but there was a power that exuded from him and she recognized the faint scent of Chanel “Bleu”. She liked that he had not doused himself with the cologne as many men did.

“Please tell me more about what you see,” he asked. “I am interested, you see, because I am the one who painted them. I’m Jean-Pierre Villeneuve.”

Stacey felt herself blushing. She felt a little embarrassed in case what she had already said was incorrect. She was not a fine arts expert, but had taken a couple of courses in university and always spent time in museums and galleries when she travelled.

“I love the way I can read into them and see places in front of me despite their being abstract. There is such a vitality in them. The colours are bold, but I feel tranquil looking at them because they take me somewhere I love when I look at them. I can feel their intensity and that makes me think that you love that place too. Am I right?”

“You are,“ he said softly. He was taking in something he thought beautiful as well. There was a serenity about Stacey that was unusual. She seemed so poised and self-assured, and yet she had blushed before sharing her thoughts about his work. He found himself charmed by her. He looked right at her as they talked some more, thinking that the intense blue of her eyes was one of the hues in the painting in front of them. They talked for several minutes, and he decided that he did not want her to go away.

“I know this is forward of me, but I am so enjoying talking to you. Would you allow me to take you somewhere for lunch?”

Stacey hesitated for a moment. She did not know this man at all. But she was hungry now and she also did not want their conversation to end.

“I would like that. Thank you for being so kind,“ she said.

Jean-Pierre took her hand as she rose and led her to the street. “It is not very far from here and is quiet. I hope you will like it.”

They walked down the street together passing more than one restaurant. Stacey wondered where he was taking her and hoped they would sit outside. He took her arm as he turned on to a side street that was more residential, all Victorian houses, but given the upscale neighbourhood, most likely all renovated as well. Jean-Pierre led her down a flagstone path beside a red brick house with stained glass inserts on top of its windows that looked original. She looked at him quizzically, and he smiled and said, “Don’t worry. It will be okay.”

Then she saw where they were. The garden looked like an English one, but not one of those strict formal gardens. It was lush and cool and green, full of flowers in white, pink, and violet blue, every flower imaginable, even hydrangeas and peonies in bloom. It was not just how it looked and felt, but also the scent that impacted her. It was like the most beautifully blended French perfume. If only it could be captured just like that. She returned to reality as she heard Jean-Pierre inviting her to sit. He said he would be back shortly.

He made two trips from the kitchen bringing a chilled bottle of white wine, a board of cheese, charcuterie and fruit, and the requisite plates, glasses, and cutlery. Stacey was impressed at how quickly he put this together and took a few sips of her wine. It was crisp and delicious, perfect for such a day. She felt at ease despite being alone with this man who was essentially a stranger. They carried on their conversation about art and travels in France. She wanted to know more about his painting and what had inspired him.

Jean-Pierre watched Stacey as she ate, and he could not help but think how sexy this was. She made eating a sensual experience. Stacey tried to keep her mind on their conversation, but felt herself becoming more enchanted by the garden, the wine, and especially by Jean-Pierre. His eyes spoke to her with all of the depth of his thoughts.There was an undeniable electricity sparking between them. As they finished the last of the wine, he asked if she wanted to see the house. She was about to say that she had to get back to work, but really did not want to leave and break this spell. She nodded and again he took her hand as she got up. It was soft and warm, but there was a strength there. She wondered what was happening to her. This was not the usual work day Stacey.

The interior was as she imagined, mostly contemporary but somehow without being cold as modern usually was. Perhaps it was the warmth generated by Jean-Pierre’s paintings that did that. Again she was entranced by them. She stood still and pivoted around to look at all of them on the walls of the open space. They were unlike any other work she had seen. He was watching her face as she took it all in and felt compelled to kiss her. He did not think about it because if he had done so, he would have stopped himself. He did not want to frighten her. He leaned in and gave her a soft kiss that lingered. He felt her respond to him and the kiss become deeper. They came up for air and he led her to the staircase, kissing her again. No word was spoken, but they looked at each other for a moment. She nodded “yes”.

He removed her jacket as he embraced her. She could feel him so near and sighed as she kissed him again. She felt his hands moving on her back and her body becoming parallel to his as he held her ever more closely. They started up the stairs, trying to maintain their balance while not letting go of each other. It was a few moments of this that made them laugh together before they reached the top of the stairs and he led her to a sunlit bedroom. He opened the French doors to the deck and allowed the soft air in.

Stacey had this moment to think about what she was doing. Her passion overcame her reason. She knew she should be more cautious. She knew that this was something that she did not do. But she also knew that she wanted this, to give in without all of the usual baggage to the desire that she felt. “No past, no future, just live in the moment,” she silently told herself. “Let yourself feel instead of thinking for a change.”

Jean-Pierre came back and looked down to her face. He kissed her again and again as he unbuttoned her blouse and unzipped her skirt. Stacey undid his shirt and pushed it off his torso. In seconds they were almost entirely undressed. He bent down to kiss the swell of her breasts above her bra and then back to her mouth. She could feel his arousal as his cock stood erect and pushed against her belly. Their underwear was soon on the floor and they moved toward the bed limbs entangled.

They fell on to the bed and he allowed her to move over and make herself comfortable before climbing over her. Stacey’s arms were above her head and Jean-Pierre held her hands there as he kissed her face, her eyes, her mouth and her neck. She sighed audibly as he moved down her body, continuing to leave a track of kisses. He stopped at her breasts, going back and forth kissing and licking them and sucking her now sensitive nipples. He took his time to ensure she would be ready for him.

She moved her hands on his back, scratching, but gently. Then to his chest and below. She held his cock in her hand and grasped it lightly. It grew and stiffened more in her hand. She could feel the weight of his balls and he gasped as she kneaded them. His hand had also moved down and he could feel the heat of her sex before he could touch it. His fingers played there, feeling the dampness increase and her breath quicken when he probed her. He carefully found her clitoris and stimulated her even more as his kisses intensified.

He thought himself a gentleman and huskily whispered, “Puis-je?” (May I?) before going further. Stacey’s “mmmm” seemed to indicate “yes”. She was incapable of speech.

Slowly and deliberately, he moved to enter her. She reached to feel the head of his cock, already wet with pre-cum. Her legs opened wider yet, and his cock began its trek to her core. Their hips moved in unison to a rhythm that lovers know, a dance that they want to do again and again. His penis penetrated her more with each thrust and he could hear her soft “ohs” each time.

Their pace quickened and he knew she was there as he felt her pulsing on his cock, pulling him inside her even more. The tension in his balls was rising and he was about to come with her. He wrapped her in his arms, lifting her off the bed as he shot stream after stream of semen into her. The moment was frozen in time, as if it would never end. Her spasms were in sync with his. Their sensation matched the intensity of the paintings that had brought them together. Then it was over. He collapsed beside her and they both fought to catch their breath.

They stayed there quietly for a while, languidly touching and kissing each other. He worked his way down Stacey’s body and opened her thighs. She was slick with his ejaculate and her moisture. He kissed her sex and used his tongue on her now swollen lips and clitoris. She gasped and arched her back as he did this, marvelling at the idea of another orgasm so soon. He pushed her further and further with his mouth and tongue relishing the taste of her. She fell into an abyss of sensuality as she came hard, flooding his mouth with more of her essence. She was trembling so he held on to her tight to bring her back to earth.

Stacey pushed him off her and straddled him, kissing him just as he had kissed her. With one hand she pulled on the length of his cock, already almost fully erect. She felt his testicles in her hand, not as heavy as earlier, but certainly not empty yet. Then she returned the favour. She leaned down and took his cock into her mouth, first licking its entire length and then making slow circles with her tongue around the head. She took him in inch by inch and he groaned just as she had with each stroke. She finally had his full length in her mouth and began working her way back up, sucking and kissing. She left his cock to lick his balls and perineum. He knew he would soon come again but did not want it in her mouth. He lifted her on to his fully erect penis and she rode him like a champion until he filled her once more, coming with her.

They were sated now. Spent and covered in a film of perspiration and each other. When the room stopped spinning around them, Jean-Pierre suggested a shower to cool off and clean themselves. He asked Stacey if she wanted anything and brought her a big glass of mineral water to quench the thirst she always felt after sex.

The shower was separate from the bath, enclosed with a glass wall and more than large enough for two. There were multiple showerheads that streamed water all over them including two which were dish sized that doused them from above. It was refreshing to allow the warm water cascade over them and then use the scented soap and big natural sponges to clean themselves.

Stacey realized that despite the fact that they had just made love, cleaning each other was too intimate a thing to do now. Slowly, and if she was to be honest, reluctantly, she returned to reality. They stood side by side after exiting the shower, making themselves presentable and returned to the bedroom to retrieve their clothes and dress.

Jean-Pierre was lost in thought. This had been on the face of it some sort of casual hook-up of grownups, but that was not how he felt. He did not intend to forget about the beautiful and interesting woman beside him.

Stacey too pondered where she was and what she had done. This was not a habit. She had allowed herself such experiences when she travelled alone, but even that was not a frequent thing. Vacation sex was meaningless if pleasurable, no different than a wonderful meal that satisfies an appetite. Something had happened here that was different. She was profoundly impacted by this man, this stranger. She was captivated. It would take her time to process this and decide if she wanted to go down this path with him. “I am thinking again,” she realized as she smiled at Jean-Pierre.

“Are you okay?” he asked. She said she was fine as she started down the stairs. He followed her and held her for a moment when they reached the bottom.

“I am sorry, but I do have to go,” Stacey told him.

She kissed him softly on each cheek and then the mouth and slipped out the front door. He leaned on the door frame as he watched her straighten her shoulders and stride up the street. Then it struck him. He did not even know her name or how to find her again. He would have to leave that to her and hope that he had enthralled her as she had him and that she would find him. He wanted to know her, really know her. He had to believe that just as fate had brought her to him, it would bring her back. He wanted to capture the magic again.

Author's Note: As some of you know, I have written several poems and have written stories before with friends. This is my first solo effort in prose.