"Eroticism is first and foremost a question of language, and secondly a question of skin."
— Jeanette Winterson
~~~~~~
The text came on a Thursday. Late afternoon. Simple. Precise.
[8PM. Le Mur Blanc. I'll have a table~ Cael]
Zaya stared at the name beneath the text, thumb hovering over the screen.
He hadn't followed up. No chatter. No small talk. He had simply chosen a place, a time, and signed it like a quiet promise. He didn't ask if she was free. He told her where to meet him...
She liked that.
She read it again before setting her phone down on the edge of the counter.
She'd passed Le Mur Blanc dozens of times but never gone inside.
The place he chose wasn't casual. It was the kind of place where people didn't wait at the door. Where bookings weren't public and meals were served in silence.The kind of place you had to be invited into. The kind of place with white tablecloths and quiet staff who already knew your name.
She didn't respond right away. Instead, she walked to her closet, pulled open the door, and considered her options with more care than usual.
She chose a black dress. Silk, cut to the knee, fitted at the waist with delicate straps that crossed low in the back. It moved when she moved, and clung just enough to remind her of her own shape.
Underneath, she slid on her favorite lingerie: sheer black, lace edged. She wasn't expecting anything. But she was thinking about what might happen if things went further. She liked the idea of being prepared without knowing what would happen. If this lingery would be revealed or if it had to wait before he got the appreciation it deserves.
🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹
🥀 💥 ❤️🔥 🥀
v𝖊𝘭v𝖊𝘵 𝚙𝔯𝖊𝓼𝓼𝗎𝔯𝖊
🥀 💥 ❤️🔥 🥀
🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹
The car ride was quiet.
By 7:55, she was stepping out of a cab in front of Le Mur Blanc. A man in a dark suit opened the door before she could knock.
The entrance looked like a private club, no sign, no crowd. Just marble, lantern light.
Inside, the room glowed gold. Soft, indirect lighting. Ivory walls with long mirrored panels. Tables spread wide for privacy, not efficiency. Staff moved without sound. It wasn't showy. It was built for people who didn't need to be seen to feel powerful.
Cael was already there.
He stood as she approached, tall and calm in a charcoal shirt with sleeves rolled neatly just below the elbow. He looked at her and held her gaze a moment longer than necessary. She didn't need a compliment. His eyes did the work.
He gestured to the seat across from him. She sat, adjusted her dress at the knee, and exhaled slowly.
A waiter appeared, poured water into crystal glasses, then disappeared without asking for an order.
Cael picked up the wine list and handed it to her.
~ Cael: "You choose."
She scanned it. No prices. Just vineyards and years. She pointed to a Burgundy. He nodded nodded at the waiter, who was already watching.
The bottle arrived minutes later. The cork never made a sound.
They didn't speak until both glasses were poured.
~ Cael: "How was your week?"
The young woman rested her chin lightly on her hand.
~ Zaya: "Busy. But something's shifted. I haven't figured out what."
~ Cael: "Does it need figuring out?"
~ Zaya: "Eventually. I like knowing where my lines come from."
He nodded slowly, as if storing that away.
~ Cael: "What brought you to art in the first place?"
She took a sip before answering.
~ Zaya: "Curiosity. Because gestures say what mouths don't. You can fake words. But the body always tells on you."
Cael's mouth curved slightly.
~ Cael: "That's very specific."
~ Zaya: "I like watching people try to hold themselves together. I like drawing the tension right before they lose it."
They clinked glasses lightly. The moment didn't need commentary.
~ Zaya: "What do you do, Cael?"
~ Cael: "I'm an architect. Mostly private residences. Sometimes retreats."
~ Zaya: "Is it the kind of job that follows you home?"
~ Cael: "Only when the house is badly built."
She smiled at that, quick and honest. He wasn't trying to impress. He was telling the truth.
~Zaya: "And how old are you?"
~ Cael: "Thirty-four. You?"
~ Zaya: "Twenty-three."
He nodded once, then paused. His glass hovered halfway to his lips.
~ Cael: "That's a stretch. A decade"
~ Zaya: "It's eleven years." she leaned back in her chair slightly
He set his glass down.
~ Cael: "Does that matter to you?"
Her fingers played idly with her napkin, but her expression stayed open.
~ Zaya: "It depends."
~ Cael: "On what?"
~ Zaya: "On how a person carries it."
He watched her for a long second.
~ Cael: "And how do I carry it?"
She tilted her head, studying him.
~ Zaya: "Like someone who's stopped explaining himself."
That made him laugh, low, quiet, but real.
~ Zaya: "That's not a bad thing."
~ Cael: "It could be."
~ Zaya: "Not to me."
He let the moment breathe.
~ Cael: "So you're comfortable with older men?"
She didn't rush her answer.
~ Zaya: "Let's say I've always noticed them more."
~ Cael: "What do you notice?" his voice dipped, slower now.
~ Zaya: "Presence. The way they move. The calm."
She paused, then added:
~ Zaya: "There's something... anchored about them. Like they've survived things and wear it well."
~ Cael: "Charisma?"
Zaya nodded once.
~ Zaya: "But not the loud kind. More like... gravity. Like the room bends slightly around them."
Cael didn't speak.
~ Zaya: "That sounds dramatic, I know."
~ Cael: "No. It sounds honest."
She rested her elbows on the table, leaning forward just slightly.
~ Zaya: "I've never dated someone older, though. Not really. A few years here and there. But not like this."
~ Cael: "Like this?"
She met his eyes without flinching.
~ Zaya: "With a man who doesn't need to guess what he wants."
There was no smirk. No blush. Just a quiet shift in the energy between them, like the lights had dimmed without anyone touching the switch.
~ Cael: "That clarity doesn't always come with age."
~ Zaya: "No. But I can tell when it has."
He sat back, glass in hand, and looked at her in a way that wasn't predatory or indulgent, just aware. Just focused.
~ Cael: "And that's what draws you?"
She didn't answer immediately. She let herself feel it first. Then she said:
~ Zaya: "It makes me want to pay attention."
🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹
🥀 💥 ❤️🔥 🥀
v𝖊𝘭v𝖊𝘵 𝚙𝔯𝖊𝓼𝓼𝗎𝔯𝖊
🥀 💥 ❤️🔥 🥀
🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹
The air between Zaya and Cael had thickened. Not in discomfort but in awareness.
The young woman's words still hung in the space between them, soft but certain:
"It makes me want to pay attention."
He let his fingers rest against the stem of his wine glass, but his eyes never left hers.
~ Cael: "You spoke about presence. About how older men carry themselves."
She nodded, watching him just as carefully.
~ Cael: "But how do you feel when it becomes physical?"
Her expression didn't shift, but something in her posture did. Not shrinking. Just settling.
~ Zaya: "You mean intimacy?"
~ Cael: "Yes. Is the idea of being touched by someone older still something you're comfortable with?"
He asked the question as if he already knew she'd answer, but not how.
~Zaya: "It depends on the man. And the kind of touch."
~ Cael: "And what kind do you expect from someone like me?"
~ Zaya: "Intentional. Confident, Experienced."
She sipped her wine, then set the glass down and rested her forearms on the table.
~ Zaya: "Older men tend to know the difference between touching someone and reaching for them."
He nodded slowly. His gaze moved over her face like a hand that wasn't quite touching.
~ Cael: "And if I wanted to touch you now...May I?"
The words were low. But she heard every syllable.
She didn't give a verbal answer. Instead, she tilted her head slightly, exposing the curve of her neck just enough to speak without saying it.
Cael's hand moved slowly across the table, deliberate and grounded.
When his fingers brushed the side of her neck, Zaya felt her breath catch, quiet and low in her chest.
He didn't trail downward. He didn't press. His hand hovered there, his thumb grazing the line just below her jaw, soft and firm all at once.
Her pulse rose immediately under the skin. She knew he felt it.
His touch moved up, to the hollow just beneath her ear. His fingers paused there, gently tracing a point she didn't know could feel that exposed.
She kept her eyes on him at first. But the sensation began to outpace her control.
Her lids fluttered and then closed. Not by choice. Her body chose for her.
Cael's fingers barely moved, just a slow rotation along the curve of her skin, pressure without force, sensation without demand.
Her breath slowed but deepened, each inhale more noticeable than the last.
She didn't speak. Neither did he. They didn't need to.
His touch shifted slightly, tracing behind the edge of her ear, where the skin turned delicate. The heat of his hand had found her now, pulling her forward without movement.
She felt every nerve in her upper body lean into him. She wasn't trembling. But she was alive. Completely.
She hadn't realized how long her hands had been still until they twitched, involuntarily, in her lap.
Cael didn't press forward. He didn't use the moment to take more.
He simply let his fingers speak, tracing from her jawline to her ear, then back, a path of memory she'd never had before, but now wouldn't forget.
His other hand never moved. Only one touched her. And that was enough.
After a few moments, Zaya opened her eyes again.
The way he was looking at her: calm, intent, completely composed almost unraveled her more than the touch itself.
He withdrew his hand slowly, letting it fall back to his side. He didn't smile. Didn't comment.
She reached for her wine glass again, but her hand shook just enough to remind her that something inside her had shifted.
She steadied it, took a sip, and met his gaze over the rim.
~ Zaya: "You're very… precise. I didn't expect a single hand to feel like a conversation."
~ Cael: "You were listening."
~ Zaya: "I didn't know I could."
He sat back again, the moment not dismissed, but complete.
Their food sat between them, barely touched. Neither seemed to care.
The quiet that followed wasn't silence. It was permission.
Zaya didn't ask what came next. She didn't want to know.
She wanted to feel it, the same way she'd felt his touch, one deliberate breath at a time.