The air that hit my face wasn't the humid, exhaust-choked breath of a New York summer. This was different. It was dry, clean, and carried the ghost of something herbal and sweet—lavender, maybe, or thyme crushed underfoot on a nearby hill. It was the scent of release, the official perfume of my vacation self. My lawyer self, the one who lived in tailored suits and sixty-hour work weeks, had been shed somewhere over the Atlantic. Here, I was just a body, a collection of appetites, and my skin hummed with the promise of it.

Our rented villa was a haven of cool stone and dark wood beams. I kicked off my sandals at the door, my bare feet sighing against the terracotta tiles, still cool from the night. The main room opened onto a private terrace where a small, impossibly blue pool glittered, daring us. But my eyes went straight to the bed. It was a sprawling landscape of white linen in an arched alcove, an invitation I knew we wouldn't decline for long.

"I see you've found your happy place," a voice purred from behind me.

I turned, a slow smile already spreading across my lips. Celeste. She stood in the doorway, a vision against the wood. Her white skin, the kind that freckles instead of tans, seemed to glow in the dim, cool light. Her hair, a cascade of fiery red, was pulled up messily, and her eyes were alight with the same predatory mischief I felt stirring inside me. She was still in her travel clothes, a white tank top and jean shorts, but on her, it looked like an artfully constructed temptation.

"The bed was a close second," I said. "But I think my real happy place just walked in."

She came to me but didn't touch me, not yet. She just stood in front of me, her scent—citrus and woman and the faint salt of travel—filling the space. She looked at my breasts beneath my sheer dress, and then met my eyes again. It was a look that stripped me, a look I knew as well as the taste of my own skin.

"Unpacking can wait," she murmured as she grabbed me by my dress strap. Her touch was light. "This bed needs to be properly christened. We need to remind it who's in charge for the next two weeks."

This was Celeste. Always pushing, always daring, always ready to dive headfirst into pleasure. In Aruba, she'd convinced me to have sex on a "private" stretch of beach that turned out to be very visible from a hiking trail for natives above. I'd been mortified and then, thrillingly, entirely consumed by the risk. She brought out a side of me that my corner office and courtroom battles could never touch.

"And who might that be?" I asked.

"Us, baby," she said, leaning in until her lips touched my ear. "We are."

She didn't kiss me. Instead, she pulled back. "But first, wine. We're in Provence. It would be a crime not to."

She ran past me to the kitchen. I watched her, my body thrumming with an impatient energy. I loved this game, the slow burn Celeste was so expert at creating. She pulled a bottle of rosé from the fridge. The pale pink liquid looked like a captured sunset.

"Remember Alesha?” I asked, leaning against the stone archway that separated the living area from the kitchen. “Damn, she was sexy as fuck!”

Celeste paused, two glasses in hand. “Yeah, babe? How could I forget the way we fucked her. She was so sexy.”

“Oh, was she?” I countered, laughing.

“I mean for fun, babe,” Celeste said, pouring a glass. "The point is, we had fun. A lot of fun." She handed me a glass. "But this is France, my love. The land of art, romance, and uninhibited lovers. I think we can do better than a native island girl on a beach."

I took a sip of the wine. It was crisp, dry, and tasted of strawberries and rebellion. "Better how?" I asked, though I already knew the answer. We'd talked about this for weeks, in hushed, excited tones over late-night phone calls. This trip wasn't just about us. It was about us plus… possibilities.

"I want to find a woman who looks like she just stepped out of a Renoir painting," Celeste declared. "Someone with secrets in her eyes and the taste of this wine on her lips. And I want to watch you fuck her while I play with myself."

The directness of it, the raw, unfiltered want in her voice, made me wet. My pussy gave its approval. This was the deal. We were solid, unshakable. Our love and our lust for each other were the foundation. Everything else, everyone else, was just an adventure we shared, a way to amplify our own pleasure by refracting it through a third person. It was a game of Celeste's design, but one I had come to crave with a desperate hunger.

"And what about you?" I asked. I walked toward her, setting my half-empty glass on the counter. I backed her against the cool stone, pressing into her—my curves against her lean, athletic frame. I was taller than Celeste, and I loved the way I could tower over her. "Who do you want?"

She tilted her head back. "I want someone who's never been with a woman before," she whispered. "A tourist, maybe. Or maybe even a French girl on her first trip away from home, all wide-eyed and innocent. I want to be the one to break her. I want you to hold her down for me."

"Fuck, Celeste."

"Exactly," she said.

I kissed her then. It wasn't foreplay, not yet. It was a contract—a seal on the pact we were making with this village, with this vacation. My tongue lunged into her mouth, tasting the rosé and her unique flavor. Her hands tangled in my hair, pulling me closer, her body into mine.

"Go take a shower," she commanded, her thumb stroking my lower lip. "A cold one, if you can manage. Put on that black dress, the one that clings to your ass. We're going into town."

I didn't need to be told twice. I finished my drink in one long swallow, then walked toward the bedroom, feeling Celeste’s eyes on me every step of the way.

In the shower, the water wasn't nearly cold enough to quell the fire my femme had lit. As I soaped my ebony skin, my thoughts were a riot of images: Celeste's dominant personality, the promise of a stranger's touch, the taste of French wine on my femme’s mouth.

Dressed now, I met Celeste in the living room. She had changed into a simple, elegant slip of a dress, the color of cream, that left her shoulders and back bare. We were a study in contrasts. Night and day. Dark and light. A walking, talking invitation.

She held out her hand. "Ready to cause a little trouble, my love?"

I took her hand, our fingers lacing together.

"Celeste," I said. "Lourmarin has no idea what's coming."

The village of Lourmarin came alive at night. The narrow streets, lined with ancient stone buildings, glowed amber under wrought-iron lamps. The air was thick with conversation, laughter, and the clinking of glasses. We found a wine bar tucked away from the main square, its terrace spilling onto a cobblestone alley. The tables were close enough that conversations overlapped, creating an intimate clamour.

Celeste chose a table at the end, where the light from the bar met the shadows of the alley. Perfect for watching, for being watched. I sat beside her rather than across, our thighs touching beneath. Her hand found mine, tracing circles on my hand.

"What are we drinking tonight?” I asked, reading the handwritten menu.

"Something local," Celeste replied, her eyes not on the menu but on the patrons around us. "Something that will taste like this place."

The waiter, a young man with a light beard, recommended a red from a nearby vineyard. When he returned with the bottle, Celeste talked with him in French. I caught only fragments—something about the best places to go after hours. Her French was flawless, all learned during a year abroad in college. Mine was rudimentary at best, limited to ordering food and asking directions.

"What was that about?" I asked after the young man left, pouring each of us a glass.

"Reconnaissance," she said. “There's a small jazz club that opens at midnight. Very exclusive, very... open-minded."

I took a sip. The drink was bold, complex, with notes of blackberry and something earthy. "Open-minded how?"

"The kind of place where people go to find what they're looking for," she said. "Or who they're looking for."

This was how it always started with Celeste. A suggestion, a possibility, a door cracked open just enough to glimpse what lay beyond. I felt the familiar sensation of a flood starting to build underneath the table.

"And what exactly are we looking for tonight?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.

Celeste whispered in my ear, "I want to watch you come hard under someone else's hands. I want to see your face when she makes you scream."

I gasped sharply, my nipples hardening.

"And then," she continued, her hand now in the center of my legs, "I want to eat you after she's had her fill. I also want to lick her for you.”

"Jesus, Celeste," I gasped, shifting. My pussy was wet and I was ready.

She pulled her hand off my leg, taking a sip of her wine as if she hadn't just set me on fire. "But first, we drink. We watch. We wait."

And so we did. We ordered a plate of local cheeses and cured meats, sharing small bites between sips of wine. All the while, Celeste's eyes observed the crowd, assessing, dismissing, considering. I knew better than to rush her. Her instincts were impeccable, her taste exquisite. When she found what she was looking for, I would know.

An hour passed, then two. The wine bottle was emptied and replaced. The crowd thinned slightly as families with children left. Those who remained were mostly couples and small groups, their conversations growing more intimate as the night deepened.

I was about to suggest we try the jazz club when the door to the wine bar opened, and Ms. It walked in.

She entered alone, with the confidence of someone who knew she belonged anywhere she chose to be. Tall and lithe, with jet-black hair cut in a bob that accentuated her high cheekbones and lips. Her skin was pale, almost luminous in the dim light, a stark contrast to her dark hair and the black dress that clung to her slender frame. She spoke briefly to the bartender, who nodded toward a small table in the corner.

Celeste's hand tightened on my leg. "Her," she said.

I watched as the woman sat, ordering without looking at the menu. She pulled out a small sketchbook and began to draw, seemingly oblivious to the attention she commanded.

"How do you know?" I asked. Celeste's selection process was always a mystery to me.

"Look at her hands," Celeste said. "The way she holds that pencil. Those are artist's hands. Precise. Confident. Imagine them on you."

I did look, and I did imagine. The woman's fingers were long and elegant, moving across the page. I pictured those fingers tracing my breast, dipping between my legs, feeling so turned on as I did.

"Go to the bar," Celeste instructed. "Order another bottle. Make sure you walk past her table."

"You're sending me as bait?"

She smiled. "I'm sending you as a gift.”

I stood, smoothing my dress. I felt Celeste's eyes on me as I walked toward the bar, deliberately taking a path that would lead me past the mysterious woman's table. As I approached, I slowed, allowing my hips to sway more pronouncedly.

The woman looked up as I passed, her pencil pausing mid-stroke. Her eyes, a startling shade of gray, met mine briefly. I offered a small smile, just enough to acknowledge her presence without being too forward. She returned it, her gaze dropping to take in the rest of me before returning to her sketchbook.

At the bar, I ordered another bottle of wine. While I waited, I looked back at our table. Celeste was watching me, her chin resting on her hand, smiling. She knew exactly what she was doing, sending me across the room like this. Making me the object of attention, the focal point of desire.

The bartender handed me the bottle and two glasses. As I turned to head back to our table, I nearly collided with someone.

"Pardon.”

It was her. The woman with the artist's hands. Up close, I could see that her eyes weren't just gray; they were flecked with silver, like stars in a winter sky. She smelled so good.

"No, I'm sorry," I replied, stepping back. "I wasn't watching where I was going."

"I was," she said, smiling. Her English was perfect but tinged with a French accent that made each word sound like a caress. "Watching, that is."

The directness of her statement caught me off guard. I felt a flush creep up my dress.

"My name is Marie," she continued, extending her hand. "Marie Devereux."

I shifted the wine bottle to my left hand and took hers. Her grip was firm. "I'm⁠—"

"With someone," she finished for me, nodding toward Celeste. "The beautiful redhead who hasn't taken her eyes off you since you stood up."

I smiled. "Yes. But that doesn't mean we're not... open to new acquaintances."

Marie's eyebrows rose. ”Is that so?"

"Why don't you join us?" I suggested. "We'd love to hear about your art."

She glanced down at the sketchbook in her hand, then back at me. "You noticed."

"Hard not to," I said. "You have very... expressive hands."

"I'd be delighted to join you."

I led her back to our table. The potential of the night had suddenly crystallized into something electric.

Celeste stood as we approached. "I see you've made a friend," she said, extending her hand to Marie. "I'm Celeste."

"Marie," she said, accepting Celeste's hand. "Your partner was kind enough to invite me to join you. I hope that's alright."

"More than alright.” Celeste gestured for Marie to take the seat across from us. "We were just saying how we'd love some local insight. Are you from Lourmarin?"

Marie settled into the chair, placing her sketchbook on the table. "I have a small studio here, yes. But I'm originally from Paris. I come to Provence in the summer for the light. It's... different here. More open.”

I poured wine for all of us, using the moment to check out Marie. Something was compelling about her, beyond her beauty. A self-possession, a certainty in her movements that suggested she knew exactly who she was and what she wanted.

"And what do you do when you’re free here?” Celeste asked, taking a sip. "Besides, capture tourists in your sketchbook?"

Marie laughed, a rich, throaty sound that aroused me. "I paint, primarily. Landscapes, sometimes. Bodies, often." She looked directly at me as she said this last part, her gaze lingering on my breasts.

“Bodies,” Celeste repeated. "What is it about the human form that interests you?"

Marie’s finger went about the rim of her glass. "The truth of it," she said. "The way a body cannot lie. You can control your words, your facial expressions, but the body... the body always reveals what it truly wants."

As she spoke, Celeste squeezed my hand under the table.

"And what does your body want, Marie?" Celeste asked.

Marie didn't hesitate. "Beautiful things. Experiences that leave marks." She took a sip. "I've always been drawn to contrasts. Light against dark. Soft against hard." Her eyes moved between Celeste and me, taking in our contrasting skin tones. "The tension between opposites creates the most interesting... art."

"We're not opposites," I said. "More like complementary."

Marie's smile deepened. "Even better. Complementary colors, when placed side by side, make each other more vibrant, more alive."

Celeste leaned forward. "Would you like to draw us, Marie? Both of us?"

"I would," she answered slowly. "But not here. My studio has better... lighting.”

Celeste looked at me, a silent question in her eyes. I nodded, almost imperceptibly. This was what we had come for, this exact moment of possibility.

"Where is your studio?" Celeste asked.

"Not far. Five minutes away,” Marie gathered her sketchbook and stood. "But I should tell you, I work best when my subjects are... uninhibited."

I felt so turned on as Celeste gathered our things.

We paid and stepped out into the night. The air had cooled, but I barely noticed. Marie led us through the narrow streets, away from the main square and into a less busy part of the village. We walked in silence, the only sound our footsteps on the ancient stones and the distant murmur of the village behind us.

Marie's studio was on the top floor of a converted barn, accessed by an external stone staircase draped in flowering vines. She unlocked the door and ushered us inside.

The space was ample and open, with high ceilings crossed by wooden beams. One wall was almost entirely glass, currently reflecting our images back at us in the darkness beyond. Canvases in stages of completion leaned against the walls. In the center of the room was a large, low platform covered in rumpled white sheets.

"Your stage?" Celeste asked, nodding toward the platform.

"When needed," Marie replied, moving to light several lamps around the room. The light was soft and golden. “Something to drink?” she offered, gesturing to a small kitchenette.

"Please," I said.

As Marie busied herself with opening a bottle, Celeste pulled me in. "Are you okay with this?" she whispered.

“Of course,” I said. "She's perfect."

Celeste kissed me then, a deep, possessive kiss that left no doubt about who I belonged to, regardless of what happened next. I melted into her, my body reacting instantly.

"Beautiful," Marie's voice came from behind us. We broke apart to find her watching, three glasses of wine in her hands. "Like I said, the body doesn't lie."

She handed us each a glass.

"So," Marie said, taking a seat on a low couch near the platform. "How shall we begin? Would you like to see some of my work first?"

Celeste sat beside her, close enough that their knees almost touched. "I'm more interested in your process," she said. "How do you decide what to capture? What moment to freeze in time?"

I remained standing, sipping my wine and watching the two of them. Celeste was in her element, drawing Marie out.

"It's instinctual," Marie explained, her eyes moving between Celeste and me. "I look for the moment when the subject is most themselves, most authentic. Often, that's a moment of... surrender."

"Surrender," Celeste repeated, murmuring. "To what?"

"To what I feel,” Marie said. "To whatever it is they truly want but perhaps fear to take."

Celeste's hand moved to Marie's knee. "And what do you feel, Marie? Right now?"

Marie looked at me. "I want to see your woman,” she said. "All of her."

Celeste looked at me, a silent command in her eyes. I set my wine glass down on a nearby table and moved to stand in front of them both. Without being told, I reached behind me and slowly lowered the zipper. The sound of it, a soft rasp in the room, seemed to echo off the walls.

I let my dress fall to the floor, stepping out of it slowly. Beneath, I was wearing only a black thong with no bra. My nipples were hard and black.

Marie gasped. Celeste smiled.

“Wow!” Marie whispered. "Like ebony carved by a master's hand."

“Feel her," Celeste instructed. "Show me how an artist's hands appreciate a masterpiece."

Marie stood, setting her glass aside. She approached me slowly, her eyes never leaving mine. When she was close enough, she raised her hand and traced the line of my collarbone.

"Your skin," she murmured, "is like silk over steel."

Her touch was light, almost reverential, as her fingers trailed down to my breast. I stood perfectly still, my breathing shallow, aware of Celeste watching us from the couch.

Marie fondled my breasts and rubbed my nipples. “Ummm…” I couldn't help the gasp that escaped.

"Yes," Celeste urged from behind Marie. "Make Celeste feel loved. I want to watch her as you do."

Marie's hand came up to my face, tilting my chin so that I was looking directly at her. "May I?" she whispered.

I nodded, unable to speak. Her lips met mine, soft at first, then more insistent. She tasted of wine and something uniquely her own, a flavor I couldn't name.

As we kissed, her hands went down, brushing across my pussy.

"Take them off," Celeste commanded. She had moved to stand beside us, watching intently. "I want to see how wet she is for you."

Marie knelt in front of me, dragging my thong down. I stepped out of them.

"Open your legs, baby,” Celeste instructed, her hand behind me. "Let her see what she's done to you."

I complied. Marie, still kneeling, looked up at me, then at my pussy. She touched my pussy, observing how wet I was.

"Mon Dieu," she said, bringing her finger to her lips and tasting me. "Like honey."

Celeste held up my breasts, her fingers pinching my nipples just hard enough to make me gasp.

"She tastes even better directly from the source," Celeste told Marie, her lips against my neck. "Would you like to find out?"

Marie whispered, “Yes," she said.

“Before you do,” Celeste said. "I want to watch you use those artist's hands and make her come, Marie. Show me what those fingers of yours can do."

Marie's fingers slid across my pussy. She circled it slowly, watching my face for reactions.

"Like this?" she asked, increasing the pressure.

"Yes," I gasped, moving against her hand. “God, yes."

Celeste continued to fondle me, her mouth was on my ear. "Tell her what you like," she whispered. "Guide those hands."

"Inside," I gasped. "I need them inside me."

Marie put her finging into my pussy while her thumb flicked my clit. Her long slender finger made me feel so weak at the knees.

"Fuck," I moaned, my head falling back against Celeste. "Right there."

"Look at her face," Celeste said to Marie. "See how beautiful she is when she's being devoured? That's what I want you to capture. That moment when she loses herself to you.”