Note: This is the (really, truly) final chapter of the series. It's possible I might write a few stand-alone vignettes, but I have other works to focus on for now. Thanks once more for all the support and feedback I got during this process. It is all so appreciated!
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Summer was finally making its presence known in the foggy coastal city where Claire was at that moment wading knee-deep in the restless ocean. She had gone out in a little black bikini, glad to have a warmish breeze brushing her bare skin. She hadn't thought about the fact that a variety of different bruises, yellowish-green older ones along with purplish new ones, would be showing - on her thighs, upper arms, wrists and ankles. A few strange stares had come her way before she'd figured out what was bothering people. She had mostly ignored them, wandering out into the water.
The ocean had always been her "happy place." Maybe it was the calm, rhythmic way that the foamy waves rushed in and lingered on the sands before draining away. Maybe it was the way that the water could be a bright, sparkling blue and turn to a muted grey-green in a few moments. It had been her favorite vacation spot as a kid, the place she'd driven when she got her very first car to get away from it all, a place she turned to whenever she felt sad or confused.
Her life had gotten very complicated as of late. It was August, almost halfway in between the upcoming start of her second season with the symphony and her trip to Paris with Sebastien, her Maestro, her lover, and inexplicably, her friend. She had known him just over a year now, and their relationship had changed so much in that time that it was dizzying to think of it.
It was only in the past few weeks that she had realized how deeply she cared for him, in fact that she loved him. Suddenly she was looking at life, at everything, so much more seriously. So instead of just joy and anticipation, when she saw Sebastien, or thought of him, those feelings came along with the heavy burden of the secret she was keeping. And why, she asked herself, was she keeping such a secret, when she knew - or thought she knew - that Sebastien also cared for her? She had met his family, for goodness' sake. Always, she came to the same conclusion. He may have cared for her, but he had never given any indication that he thought of her as a partner, someone to be with long term.
She had been pulling away, little by little, since they had returned from Paris. Of course the apartment he had fixed up there was amazing, and beautiful, and the part of her that secretly hoped for more wanted to believe that it was an indication that he meant there to be more between them. Hadn't he said he had bought it, essentially, to bring her to? Well, the more practical part of her would respond, he probably wanted it anyway, or he could always sell it, or use it with another woman in the future, when their sexual attraction had fizzled out and they separated.
Still, it didn't seem very likely that it would ever fizzle. For her part, Claire felt that something big, something almost integral to her very person had been awakened by Sebastien. In daily life, she was strong, opinionated, ambitious, passionate about everything she pursued; the very epitome, she sometimes thought, of the modern woman. Yet with this man, as with no one before, she found such great joy - and arousal - in submitting to his every desire (well, almost every desire) and to be punished and pleasured by him. She sometimes tried to picture having a "normal" sexual relationship again, and it just didn't seem like it could ever be as fulfilling. Perhaps she would meet someone who would light the same fires in her as Sebastien could, but she doubted it.
Then, too, there was this odd tug-of-war between them. She was not really the pursuer, as she had been in previous relationships with men. Rather, she was certainly the pursued. And yet, it wasn't so simple as that, either. She pulled away from Sebastien, pushed him away from her, resisted him at every turn, challenged and excited him. Even as she was pulling away from him this time, wasn't it just as much for the anticipation of the punishment she would receive as it was because she had felt the need for a little breathing room? Maybe more. She had thought many times about what would happen if they made their relationship really "official." If they seriously dated or even, she hesitated to think, got married, would they still have that same friction? If they did, would it constantly threaten to tear them apart? If they didn't, would they simply become bored or disillusioned, and drift away?
It hurt too much to think about. So she sought the solitude of the coast, the companiable bubbling of the waves that didn't ask for anything in return.
She trailed her fingertips through the surf, feeling the chill from the waters raising goosebumps on her skin. She wandered aimlessly, thinking of everything, thinking of nothing at all. She spent about an hour there, just walking back and forth. It was the first beach-worthy day in several weeks, summers in that little city typically being blanketed by the chill fog for what in the rest of the country were the three hottest months of the year. As she approached the rocks where she had left her bag and shoes, she involuntarily tensed with the sudden feeling that she was being observed.
Claire took a moment to think of how she must look. She cut a petite, somewhat slim figure, her bathing suit covering just enough, her body curved in the right places. Her deep auburn hair was pinned loosely to her head, wispy tendrils giving her a charmingly windswept appearance. Though she had probably looked either pensive or simply relaxed walking in the shallow water, anyone perceptive would have noticed that she was moving more conscientiously. Mocking herself internally, she assumed a pose against the rock that she hoped radiated peaceful indifference, and then turned her head toward the beach.
A young man was watching her. He was lounging on the sand, a book forgotten in his hand. She wondered what she would have done if she had been totally single, unattached. Would she have waited for him to come to her? Would she have wandered over to him and introduced herself? Would she have simply gone about her day? Impossible to know. The young man had shifted several times, seeming to be convincing himself to get up, and then think differently of it.
His attention shifted to the side as someone passed him, and Claire followed his gaze up to a sight that pierced her heart. Sebastien. She wasn't nearly as surprised as she should have been, but somehow he always seemed to know things about her that she had naively thought were her own private secrets.
He was tall, thin, his straight black hair, dark eyes, dark suit making him stand out among the other beachgoers, uniformly shorter, tanner, blonder, more casual. Still, the suit always fit him like a second skin - well-tailored, yes, but it was more than that. He was coming closer, and she noticed that he was actually barefoot. Of course that made sense for the beach, but she still caught her breath. Somehow a barefoot man in a suit was so sexy to her. Or was it just him?
She met his eyes, willing her expression not to change to what she was feeling inside, any of the feelings: trepidation, desire, fear, or hot, sweet, passion. His face, too, gave away nothing. She turned her face away, watching the ocean and breathing in slowly to master her heartbeat.
Even as she was still processing the sound of sand shifting aside slowly, she felt his hand brush her stomach, which quivered with the touch. She looked at him and before she could speak, his mouth was on hers, hot, wet. She let out a soft sound without meaning to and he crushed his body against hers, pressing her into the rough rocky surface behind her. As they kissed, she tried to think of something to say when their lips parted. Maybe something funny, something sexy, even something sweet and romantic.
As he pulled away from her, she felt herself fighting against the urge to sigh. He was so handsome. She twisted her mouth into a sulk instead.
"How do you always know where I am?"
A smile ghosted around his lips, but his eyes were serious. "Why are you always running off someplace I need to find you, mon abeille?"
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Rehearsals had started with a vengeance for the symphony, after Claire and Sebastien's vacation to Paris. They were leading the season off with a massive undertaking in the theme of love: sixteenth-century Italian madrigals sung by double choir, and a number of operatic arias with lush orchestration, sung by soloists, sometimes in duos or trios. Claire had eagerly participated in suggesting pieces for the concert, but had lately turned to her music in dread.
Once she realized the depths of her feelings for Sebastien, it seemed the absolute height of ridiculousness to be on stage, singing in front of him about love. He was no idiot. Surely he would see through the pleasant facade she put on for singing to the warm depths of feeling underneath. Their eyes might meet, and he would realize the truth, and she would die of humiliation.
Luckily, the sheer number of performers meant that she was not put on the spot in every rehearsal. She dutifully showed up to each one, even when her pieces were not even on the schedule. The music really was gorgeous, and she would have been a fool to pass up the opportunity to absorb as much as possible. Some of these songs had not ever been recorded, and to hear them being performed was such a treat.
Still, being the soprano meant that she participated in more pieces than any soloist except the tenor, and she was frequently called upon to perform on cue. Some days, she was able to sublimate her discomfort into a convincing show of cheer. Other times, she was driven to distraction by Sebastien's sheer presence, the strange feeling of singing love songs near him, the memory of him inside her, bringing her to orgasm again and again.
After one such reverie, she was reprimanded sharply by Sebastien.
"Claire! Your attention, please!"
"Sorry, Maestro," she murmured demurely, seeing his eyes glint in pleasure. So she was not the only one whose mind wandered to dark places, she thought with warm satisfaction.
It was with some measure of relief that she escaped from rehearsal that day. She glanced ruefully at her running shoes, hanging neglected from a hook in her dressing room. It seemed that she had little need of running of excess energy these days. She should have been gaining weight, she supposed, but then the fine trembling in the tautness of her muscles as Sebastien tortured and teased her probably burned plenty of calories.
She had just stepped onto the sidewalk outside the symphony hall, when a tall, handsome man encircled her waist with his arm and drew her into an embrace.
"René, please, what if they see you?" she protested, referring to the other musicians.
"What if they do? It's not as if they know about your affair with the illustrious conductor, do they?" he teased.
"Shhh! They don't, but I don't want them asking me any questions either. What are you doing downtown?"
