Silk Scarf Liaison Redux

**Author's Note.**

Okay so this is take 3 of "Silk Scarf Liaison" lol. Thanks to whoever said the first version read like a bad movie script (you were right) and that I went overboard with all the French phrases. Guilty as charged.

Tried to make it real this time. Raw. No bullshit romance novel stuff. Just what might actually happen between two people - messy parts included.

Anyway, let me know if it works better now. Or if it still sucks, tell me that too I guess.

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Chap 1 - Museum Day

First time I saw her she was looking at that depressing Degas painting, the one with the absinthe drinkers looking all miserable and shit. I was supposed to be sketching random people for my morning assignment but my hand just stopped working when she walked in. Not just cuz she was hot tho she was but there was something about how she held herself. Sad but fancy, if that makes sense? Like those women in movies who've got everything except happiness.

White silk top tucked into navy skirt, perfectly fitted not like the Forever 21 crap the college girls wear. Her stockings had that line up the back. Weird how that got me. Reminded me of my grandma, which should've been a turn off but wasn't.

Crap, been staring too long. Back to my sketchbook before I look like a total creeper. Compared to her the other study abroad students looked like kids playing dress-up. All Uggs and North Face jackets with their college logos. She wore her clothes like they were part of her skin.

When her scarf slipped off, I practically dove across the room like an idiot, nearly flattening some German guy with a camera.

"Sorry, sorry," I mumbled, grabbing the scarf before it hit the floor. Up close she smelled expensive. Not like Jen, my ex, who bathed in that sickly Bath & Body Works stuff till you could taste it.

She turned around, looked surprised. 40ish? Maybe? Hard to tell with the classy ones. Her eyes checked me out just some 20yr old in jeans that looked okay in my crappy dorm mirror but now felt like I'd bought them at Walmart.

"Merci," she said, all French and elegant.

"No problem. I mean, you're welcome," I blurted, too loud for the quiet gallery. Some security dude gave me a dirty look. "The brushstrokes are amazing though right? Like how he shows she's sad without making it obvious."

God I sound like a freshman trying too hard. But her eyebrows went up a bit.

"You are student of art?" Her English was perfect but French. Actual French, not the kind from my high school textbooks.

"Yeah, University of Chicago. Semester abroad." I stuck my hand out like a job interview. "Ethan."

She hesitated then took it. "Clémence."

My hand was all sweaty. Held on too long til it got awkward, then let go too quick.

"The isolation in this painting..." she began.

"Clémence." Some guy appeared next to her, gray at the temples, suit that probably cost more than my tuition. Put his hand on her back like he was marking his territory. "We need to find Sophie. Her project..."

"Philippe, this student saved my scarf." She nodded at me. "He studies art in Chicago."

Philippe looked at me like I was something stuck to his shoe. "American art student. How... quaint." Sarcastic jerk. "And what brings you to our museums? Surely America has pictures in books."

Felt my face get hot. "Not the same as seeing the real thing."

"Indeed." Smug smile. "And your specialty?"

"Contemporary influences of the Impressionists on modern figurative painting." Sounded rehearsed cuz it was. I'd said it at about fifty gallery parties.

"Ah, the Impressionists." He practically sneered. "How very... accessible. Clémence, the children are waiting."

As he stalked off she stayed behind. "My husband teaches at the Sorbonne," she said, sounding half sorry. "Dutch masters. He finds Impressionists a bit... I don't know, sentimental?"

"What do you think though?" Came out bolder than I meant.

She looked at me for a sec, head kind of tilted. "They capture life as it happens. Before it's gone." Glanced after her husband. "I should find my family."

I kept bumping into them all afternoon. Not following exactly. But not not following either. Our eyes met across rooms and there was this... thing. Not just wanting to sleep with her tho obviously that too but like she got me. Crazy.

Later on I found her alone by a small Monet. No sunglasses now, just hanging from her pocket. Her eyes looked tired. Real.

"They've gone for coffee," she said without looking around. Like she knew it was me. "Philippe gets bored with the smaller paintings."

I stood next to her, heart going crazy. "You like small better than big then?" Realized how that sounded and felt my face burn.

She turned and looked right at me, different from before. "Sometimes there's more truth in the things artists don't plan to show everyone." Had a little scar by her eyebrow I hadn't noticed before.

"Show me?" I said, then went red. "I mean, your favourites."

She watched me for a bit, thinking. Then nodded. "There's a gallery of sketches around the corner. Not many people go there."

We walked through the museum, chatting about art but not really about art. In the little gallery, we were alone. Dark-ish, to protect the sketches or something.

"See how he captures her uncertainty?" she whispered, pointing at some Rodin sketch. Just a line showing a woman's back. "The pressure changes when she decides to be brave."

"Like watching something private," I said quietly. My arm touched hers. Neither of us moved away.

She turned to me, close enough I could see where her makeup didn't quite cover a freckle. "You understand," she said. Wasn't a question.

Without thinking I reached out and touched her wrist. Felt like touching a live wire.

A security guard's radio made a noise nearby. She stepped back, but kept looking at me, like she was making her mind up.

"There's a maintenance closet through that door," she said quietly, nodding at some door I'd never have noticed. "The cleaners use it."

My brain caught up with what she was saying. Holy shit. I nodded, heart in my throat. She glanced around, then walked to the door like she belonged there. I followed her in and she closed it behind us.

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Chap 2 - Closet

Jesus it was small. Lightbulb flickering overhead making everything look weird. Metal shelves digging in my back. Mop bucket right where I was trying to stand.

Reality hit me like a slap. What the actual fuck was I doing? She was married. With teenage kids. Old enough to be... well not my mom exactly but definitely not age appropriate. But there in that tiny space with the smell of bleach and floor cleaner, I'd never been so turned on in my life.

"Tu es sûr?" she asked. Giving me a chance to bail.

Was I sure? My roommates would never believe this. I hardly believed it. Thought about that Dutch girl from class, the awkward coffee last week where I'd tried to look sophisticated.

"Never been more sure," I said, and my voice cracked like I was 14 again.

She smiled, not making fun of me, and put her finger on my lips. "Shhh. Security," she whispered, and then kissed me.

Nothing like I'd imagined. Kinda messy. Our teeth clacked together which hurt. She tasted like coffee and expensive lipstick. My hands went to her waist then down to her ass, squeezing through her skirt. Firm but soft at the same time.

"Fuck," I whispered into her neck as she pressed against me. Got hard so fast it was embarrassing, straining against my jeans. She felt it and smiled against my mouth.

"Eager," she murmured, her hand going down to rub me through my jeans. "I like."

Outside, a radio crackled. We froze. Her hand on my dick, mine in her hair.

"They mustn't find us here," she breathed into my ear.

Made it better somehow. The risk. The secret. Not some fantasy but something real.

Hands shaking as I pushed her skirt up around her waist. Her thighs were bigger than they looked in the skirt, with silvery stretch marks catching the light. Fancy black panties with lacy bits, probably cost more than my textbooks.

"Jesus," I muttered, dropping to my knees. Floor was hard and freezing but I didn't give a damn. Pushed my face against her inner thigh and breathed in. Smelled like expensive soap and that smell when a woman's turned on. Not like porn where everyone smells of nothing.

"Ethan..." she started to say something but I was already mouthing her through her panties, feeling how wet she was already, soaking through the silk. She made this noise and grabbed my hair, pulling hard enough to hurt a bit.

I hooked my fingers in her panties and yanked them down her legs. She stepped out of them, fancy heels and all. Those stockings though. Damn. All that time in life drawing classes, never felt anything like silk stockings on actual warm legs.

Her pussy wasn't all neat and tidy like in porn. Dark hair, trimmed but definitely there, and her lips were darker, more complicated-looking than I'd thought. When I spread her with my fingers she was wet and swollen, her clit sticking out.

"You don't need to..." she started.

"Want to," I said, and licked her.

Her head banged against the shelves. She didn't taste like I expected kinda tangy, kinda metallic, nothing like what I'd imagined. I licked her all enthusiastic, no real clue what I was doing.

"Like this?" I asked, circling her clit with my tongue.

"Bit fuck bit softer," she gasped, pushing my head where she wanted it. "There. Right there. Don't you dare stop."

Kept going even when my jaw hurt and my neck was killing me. Not till she shook against me, her thighs squeezing my head, making this muffled sound as she came on my tongue.

She pulled me up by my shirt, kissing me hard, tasting herself. Her hands went for my belt, fumbling with my zipper.

"Shit, I don't have a condom," I realized suddenly, panic cutting through everything.

"I'm on the pill," she said, wrapping her hand around my cock, which jumped like it had a mind of its own. "And I'm clean. You?"

"Yeah. Checked after Melissa. My ex," I added stupidly. Why was I talking about Melissa now?

She didn't seem to care though. Just turned around, leaned on the shelf unit, and looked back over her shoulder. "Like this," she said. "Now."

Lined myself up, pushing against her. She was so wet already. I pushed in slow, watching my cock disappear into her, nearly made me come on the spot.

"Oh fuck," I gasped as I got all the way in. The heat. How tight she was. Nothing like awkward hookups in college bedrooms. I was gonna embarrass myself in about ten seconds.

"Move," she told me, pushing back.

So I did, holding her hips, watching myself slide in and out of her. The wet sounds seemed too loud. Couldn't help the groaning in my throat.

"Quiet," she reminded me, reaching back to touch my face. "They'll hear us."

Bit my lip trying not to make noise. Each time I pushed in, she bumped the metal shelving, making it rattle. A bottle of cleaner fell off, hit the floor with a bang.

We froze. Footsteps went past the door, then away.

The close call gave me this rush of adrenaline. Started moving again, faster now, one hand going around to find her clit. She was gonna come again, could feel it in how she gripped me.

"Not gonna last," I admitted, voice all tight.

"S'okay," she breathed, showing me how to touch her. "Just don't stop that."

Kept going, holding back my own orgasm by thinking about baseball stats. Anything. Focused on my fingers on her, her breathing getting all ragged. When she came again, squeezing my cock inside her, I let go, rammed into her as deep as I could, coming so hard my knees nearly gave out.

For a bit we just stayed like that, her back against my chest, both panting. Then reality came crashing back. An announcement echoed through the museum: fifteen minutes till closing.

"I must go," she said, fixing her skirt. Button missing from her top. No idea when that happened. She tucked it in, hiding the gap. "My family..."

"When can I see you again?" Sounded desperate. Felt desperate.

She hesitated, then took a card from her bag. Had an address. "Tuesday. Three o'clock." Pause. "If you want."

"I want," I said.

She checked the corridor was clear before going out, transforming back into fancy museum lady like magic. I waited five minutes before leaving, still buzzing with what just happened.

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Chap 3 - Tuesdays

Six Tuesdays later I was lying on these fancy cotton sheets in her secret apartment, a "pee-ay-tear" she said she used for "writing and reflection." Yeah right. My wrists were tied to the headboard with her stockings. Not tight, just symbolic like. First time she suggested it I was surprised not my usual fantasy. But watching her take control, seeing who she really was when she wasn't being Professor's Wife, changed everything.

She was on top of me, naked except for stockings. My cock was deep inside her but she wasn't moving, just squeezing me inside which was driving me crazy.

"Not allowed to come till I say," she told me, pinching my nipples. "Understand?"

I nodded, trying to think about anything else. The ceiling. Traffic outside. But then she started moving, lifting up till I nearly slipped out, then sinking back down super slow.

"Fuck, Clémence," I groaned, pulling at the stockings around my wrists. "You're killing me."

She laughed, real laugh from her belly. "So dramatic." Her accent made it sound sexy not insulting. "You can take it."

Light coming through the curtains made everything golden. Not like the harsh lights in the closet. At 46 she'd finally told me after I guessed 38 and she laughed her ass off, she didn't look like the girls back at college. C-section scar under her right breast, stretch marks on her hips, bit of a belly. Found myself drawing these bits from memory, more beautiful to me than the skinny girls in magazines.

She sped up, chasing her own pleasure. Her tits bounced as she moved, head thrown back, legs shaking around me. Started touching herself, rubbing circles.

"Can I touch you?" I begged. "Please. Need to touch you."

She untied one of my hands and I grabbed her breast, feeling the nipple go hard. She moaned, moving faster, getting sloppier.

"Now," she gasped. "Come now. With me."

Didn't need telling twice. Came like a fucking freight train, back arching up as I pumped into her. She followed right after, her pussy squeezing me almost painfully as she came with this sharp little cry.

She collapsed on my chest, both of us sweaty as hell. Wrapped my arms around her, feeling her heart going crazy against my ribs.

"Back to Chicago next week," I said after a bit, watching her face.

She nodded. Not surprised. We always knew there was an end date. My semester finishing, her going back to her life of dinner parties and gallery openings.

"Make today count then," she said, kissing my chest. "Got something for you."

From this old desk in the corner she got a package all wrapped in fancy tissue paper.

Inside was a man's silk scarf, blues and grays that looked like that Vermeer painting I'd dragged her to see.

"To remember," she said, dragging the scarf across my chest, down my stomach. "Bit of me to take back."

"Don't need this to remember," I said, pulling her close again. She smelled like fancy soap and sex. Like Tuesdays.

"I know," she said, gasping when I sucked her nipple. "But need to give it. Makes it real."

Later in the shower she said, "Should draw me sometime."

"Already have," I admitted, watching soap run down her back. "From memory."

"Your teacher must wonder about your interest in older women," she said, raising an eyebrow.

"Says my work's better now. More feeling." Stopped. "He's right. See everything different cuz of you."

She didn't say anything, just kissed me, water maybe hiding tears.

When I was leaving for the last time, she put the scarf around my neck, fingers touching my throat.

"Philippe's got one like it," she said, smoothing the silk. "Suits you better though."

Meaning she'd see bits of me in her normal life. Reminders of our Tuesdays. Kinda sad, kinda nice.

"Oh revwar, mon sher," she whispered against my mouth.

Walking back to my student housing, her smell was all over the scarf, all over me. Tomorrow's plane would take me back to a life that seemed both less real and more real after knowing her.

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Chap 4 - Ten Years Gone

Ten years went by.

Got my degree, starved in New York for ages, then got lucky when some gallery owner saw my paintings women's legs and feet mostly, drawn like I knew them personally. Which I did.

Now I was in this fancy Chicago gallery, everyone drinking cheap wine from plastic cups, nodding at my paintings. My agent talking up buyers. My girlfriend worked at the gallery, had plans of her own working the room.

New people came in. Nearly dropped my glass.

Her hair was shorter now, bit of gray in it. Still gorgeous though. Her husband still in expensive suits, still looking down his nose at everyone had his hand on her back just like that first day.

I ducked behind a pillar, heart going crazy like I was 20 again. Why was she here? Chicago's miles from Paris. Had she seen the exhibition info? Known I'd be here?

Her husband got talking to some university guy. She wandered over to a painting called "Museum Memory." Woman's reflection in a mirror, wrists tied with silk, looking free not trapped.

Watched her looking at it, tilting her head like she used to. Her fingers touched her throat, where I'd kissed her years ago.

My girlfriend appeared beside me. "That woman really connects with your work," she said. "Should talk to her might buy something."

"I... maybe later," I managed.

But couldn't stay away. Found myself drifting over, using my champagne glass like a shield. Her husband was boring some poor guy with academic bullshit.

Clémence was alone by a smaller piece, hands unwrapping a silk scarf from a man's neck.

"It's about memory," I said quietly, standing next to her. "How touch stays with you."

She didn't turn straight away. "The artist captures intimacy well." Accent exactly the same. "Like he knows his subject's body properly."

"He does," I said, heart pounding. "She taught him to see different."

Now she turned. Lines around her eyes, but same eyes. Museum eyes that had seen me really seen me when I was just another American student.

"The artist has matured," she said carefully. "Still something young and passionate there though."

"Some subjects do that to you."

Our careful conversation hung in the air between us.

"Clémence!" Her husband's voice cut through the gallery noise. "Time to go. Early flight."

She nodded, still looking at me. "Visiting Art Institute board," she explained. "Philippe's advising on their Dutch collection."

"How long you in Chicago?" Loaded question.

"Three weeks." She took a business card from her bag. "Museum business."

Our fingers touched as she passed it to me, same electricity still there after all that time. On the back, her handwriting: "Tuesday, 3pm."

"Clémence." Her husband appeared, nodding at me. "Interesting work. Bit derivative of Schiele, but contemporary."

"Thanks," I said, barely looking at him. "Your wife's got a good eye."

"Indeed," he said, not really interested. "Though she likes the Impressionists. Always liked the sentimental."

Clémence's mouth curled up. "Not sentimental. Just alive in the moment."

As they left, she looked back once. Ten years of Tuesdays in that look what we'd had, what we might still have.

My girlfriend came back. "Important collector?"

I put the card in my pocket. "Just someone who gets the work."

That night, added something to a painting that had been sitting in my studio for months. In the corner, where only someone looking properly would see, I put two words in French: