Chapter 5: Dating
The silence that settled after she left was different this time. It wasn’t a questioning void but a heavy, satisfied quiet, thick with the memory of her scent on his skin. For three days, it clung to him—in the pillowcase he didn’t change, in the faint, musky trace on the sofa where they’d first kissed that night. He didn’t text immediately. He replayed her words: I had to know if you were actually interested in me. He was. Profoundly, awkwardly, completely. And now, perhaps, she believed it.
Her text came on a Friday morning, sunny and sharp.
Britney: Brunch? Saturday. I know a place in the Village. I can't cook so my treat this time.
He smiled at his phone, a flush of warm relief spreading through his chest.
The place was small, crowded, buzzing with the languid energy of a weekend mid-morning. She was already there at a tiny wrought-iron table, sipping an orange-hued mimosa. She wore a flowing, cream-colored linen dress, her hair in a loose braid over one shoulder. She looked like she’d stepped out of a different, softer city. When she saw him, her smile was immediate, reaching her eyes in a way that made his breath catch.
“You found it,” she said as he navigated the tight space to sit opposite her.
“I have a good navigator,” he replied, gesturing to his phone.
They ordered eggs Benedict and bloody marys. The conversation flowed easier than it ever had—no wine-induced haze, no prelude to sex, just the daylight and the clatter of cutlery. She told him about a chaotic sales call that had ended with a client accidentally on mute for five minutes while ranting. He described Leo’s attempt to fix their leaking faucet, which had resulted in a minor flood and a visit from the super. They laughed freely, the sound mixing with the din of the restaurant.
Afterwards, stuffed and content, they drifted into Union Square. The greenmarket was in full swing, tents bursting with winter squash and dark purple kale, the air rich with the smell of apples and fresh bread. They walked without purpose, brushing shoulders, sampling honey from a stick. He bought a small, ridiculous-looking gourd because it was striped like a tiger and it made her laugh. She carried it for him, cradling it in the crook of her arm like a baby.
The light was golden, the afternoon stretching before them. He felt a boldness, a sense of normalcy. As they waited at a crosswalk, the crowd pressing around them, he leaned in, aiming to kiss her temple, her cheek, anything.
She turned her head away, a smooth, practiced pivot. “What are you doing? No PDA,” she said softly, not looking at him.
The rejection was a small, cold needle to the heart. He stepped back, confused. "PD-what now?" He asked.
"Public Display of Affection"
"What does it mean?" He really had no clue what she was talking about.
"You can't hold my hand or kiss me like this in public. Everybody will see."
"See what? No one cares. He's just me and you. I like you and I want to kiss you".
He leaned forward again. This time, she didn't dodge. He kissed her until the sign switched. She grabs her hand and walked forward hooking her arm through his as they crossed the street. An older women stared at them and said "Ah to be young and in love again".
He suggested a photography exhibition at a small gallery in Soho she’d mentioned wanting to see. Inside, the hush was a relief. They moved slowly through the black-and-white portraits of New York faces—fishmongers, ballerinas, tired mothers on stoops. They didn’t speak much, just pointed, shared a look, moved on. The tension from the sidewalk eased in the contemplative dark.
Emerging into the late afternoon, the sun lower now, she touched his arm. “I’m having a good time.”
“Me too,” he said, meaning it, despite the confusing sting.
“Want to get a glass of wine? I know a quiet place near me.”
The quiet place was a dimly lit wine bar with velour banquettes. They ordered two glasses of Pinot Noir. As the second glass emptied, she seemed to come to a decision.
“My roommates are having some people over later. Just pre-gaming before a party. You should come up. Meet them.”
It felt like a test, a significant one. “Yes. Okay.”
Her apartment was on the fourth floor of a walk-up on the Lower East Side. The hallway smelled of incense and stale beer. Inside, it was chaos of a different kind than his—organized, feminine chaos. Plants everywhere, a large, neon-pink sign that read “VIBES,” three different patterned rugs layered over each other. Music pulsed from a speaker.
Three women were in the living room, surrounded by a cyclone of makeup, clothes, and solo cups. They fell silent as Hugo entered.
“Guys, this is Hugo,” Britney said, dropping her bag on a chair. “Hugo, this is Chloe, Maya, and Sasha.”
Chloe, tall and blonde with a piercing gaze, looked him up and down. Maya, small with a sharp black bob, offered a faint, assessing smile. Sasha, the most approachable with kind eyes and freckles, gave a little wave.
“So you’re the French chef,” Chloe stated, taking a sip from her cup.
“I… sometimes cook, yes,” Hugo said.
“Brit says you’re, like, a finance geek or something.” This from Maya.
“Not a genius. An engineer. It is different.”
“How different?” Chloe pressed.
For the next twenty minutes, he was gently, relentlessly grilled. Where in France was he from? What did his parents do? Did he vote? (For who?) What were his thoughts on the metric system? (They liked that he was baffled by the question.) Did he find American girls to be too forward? This last one, from Maya, made Britney roll her eyes and go to the kitchen for another drink.
He answered everything as honestly as he could, his accent thickening under the pressure. Sasha asked him about French cinema and he found himself passionately explaining the premise of Amélie to a politely confused audience. Through it all, Britney watched from the periphery, a small, unreadable smile on her lips.
Finally, Chloe checked her phone. “Alright, party people. We’re late.” They began gathering themselves in a whirlwind of glitter and fishnet stockings. Chloe paused by Hugo on her way out. “Be cool,” she said, not unkindly. Then they were gone, the door slamming shut behind them, leaving a sudden, ringing quiet.
The apartment felt enormous in their absence. Britney let out a long breath and walked over to the window, looking down at the street. “Well? Survive the inquisition?”
“They are… intense.”
“They’re protective.” She turned to face him. The braid was coming undone, a few dark strands framing her face. “I’ve had some shitty boyfriends.”
The word ‘boyfriend’ hung in the air between them, potent and terrifying.
He walked towards her, stopping a foot away. “I am not shitty.”
“I know,” she said softly. She reached out and took his hand, pulling him closer. “Thank you for coming up. It means something. So you said you liked me”
He cupped her face, his thumb stroking her cheek. This time, she didn’t turn away. She leaned into his touch, her eyes closing for a second. When they opened, the playful, guarded woman from the bar and the brunch spot was gone. In her place was the raw, hungry woman from his bed. It was a startling transformation.
She kissed him. It was deep, hungry, and tasted of red wine and a desperate kind of permission. Her hands fisted in his sweater, pulling him towards the hallway.
Her bedroom was a sanctuary of soft grays and whites, dominated by a large bed piled with textured blankets and pillows. A single string of fairy lights glowed above the headboard. She pushed him down onto the edge of the mattress and stood between his legs, looking down at him with a fierce possessiveness.
“No one’s here until tomorrow,” she said, her voice low. “No one to hear us. Can you make me scream?”
She pulled her linen dress over her head in one fluid motion. She wasn’t wearing a bra, just a dark boyshort. Her body in the soft light was a curve of shadow and pale skin. He reached for her, his hands finding her waist, pulling her closer. He buried his face in the softness of her stomach, kissing her skin, inhaling her scent—clean sweat, perfume, her.
She threaded her fingers through his hair, gripping hard. “I want you, Hugo,” she whispered, the crude word elegant in her mouth. “Right now. No waiting.”
He nodded, his breath hot against her skin. He leaned back, tearing his own shirt off, then his pants. His cock sprung free, already fully hard. She pushed him back onto the bed and knelt over him, her knees on either side of his hips. She rolled over a condom on him and lowered herself slowly, guiding him inside her with one hand. She was wet, gloriously so, and so tight he groaned as she sheathed him completely.
She rocked once, twice, getting used to him, her head thrown back, a throaty sigh escaping her lips. Then she began to move, setting a hard, driving rhythm, using her thighs to lift and drop, taking him deep with each plunge. He gripped her hips, his fingers digging into her flesh, helping her, matching her pace.
“God, yes,” she panted, her eyes locked on his. “Just like that.”
He could feel everything—the slick clench of her around him, the heat of her skin, the powerful flex of her muscles. She was in complete control, a goddess riding him, and the surrender of it, the sheer trust, made his vision blur. He reached up, palming her breast, rolling her nipple between his thumb and forefinger until she cried out.
“Touch yourself,” he growled, his accent slurring the words. “Show me how you like it.”
A wild, wanton look flashed across her face. Without breaking her rhythm, she slid a hand between their joined bodies, her fingers finding her clit. She moaned, her movements becoming more frantic, less precise. The sounds she made were raw, unfiltered—grunts, whimpers, choked pleas.
“I’m gonna come,” she gasped, her rhythm starting to break apart. “Oh fuck, Hugo…”
Her orgasm ripped through her, a violent, trembling contraction that squeezed him like a fist. She cried out, a sharp, broken sound, and collapsed forward onto his chest, her body still pulsing around him. The feeling pushed him over the edge. With a final, deep thrust up into her warmth, he came. He held her tight against him as he shuddered through it, his own cry muffled in her hair.
They lay tangled like that for a long time, breathing hard, slick with sweat. The fairy lights twinkled above them, casting tiny, shifting shadows. He could feel her heart hammering against his.
Eventually, she shifted, sliding off him to lie beside him, their legs still entwined. She traced the line of his jaw with a fingertip.
“Hungry?" she whispered
“Hungry?” she whispered.
Her breath was warm against his neck. The word seemed to hold layers of meaning beyond food. He was hungry for her, still, always. But his stomach growled a more basic agreement. “Yes,” he said, kissing her damp temple. “But I do not want to move.”
She shifted, a slick slide of skin against skin, and reached for her phone on the nightstand. “Thai? There’s a place that delivers until two.”
They ordered drunken noodles and panang curry, a feast chosen by tapping screens in the dark. The mundane ritual felt profoundly intimate. She pulled on one discarded t-shirts, the hem brushing her thighs, and he pulled on his briefs. They left the bedroom door open, listening for the buzzer.
The food arrived in greasy paper bags smelling of chili and basil. They ate cross-legged on her bed, plastic containers balanced on their laps, a predictable rom-com playing softly on her laptop. It was a messy, quiet communion. He stole a piece of tofu from her curry. She moaned theatrically at the first bite of noodles. “So much better than my sad ramen,” she said, sucking sauce from her thumb.
He watched her, looking so tiny in her oversized shirt. A splatter of red sauce stained the cotton over her breast. He wanted to lick it off.
The movie droned on, the plot dissolving into background noise. She set her empty container aside and slid down, resting her head on his thigh. Her fingers absently traced patterns on his leg. He stroked her hair, his stomach full, a deep contentment settling in his bones. This was new. This stillness.
Her hand drifted inward, her fingers brushing the fabric over his cock. It stirred, half-hard, responsive to her slightest touch even now. She glanced up at him, her eyes dark in the laptop’s glow. She didn’t say a word. Holding his gaze, she hooked her fingers into the waistband of his briefs and tugged them down.
His erection sprung free, already thickening under her attention. She turned her head, nuzzling the base of his shaft, breathing him in. Then, without ceremony, she took him into her mouth.
He gasped, his hand fisting in her hair. Her tongue was hot, wet, and expert, licking a long, slow stripe from root to tip before swallowing him deep. She worked him with a focused, relentless rhythm, one hand cupping his balls, the other braced on his hip. The sounds were obscenely loud in the quiet room—the wet suction of her lips, his ragged breathing, the soft grunt she made as he hit the back of her throat.
“Fuck, Britney,” he groaned, his hips lifting off the bed.
She hummed in response, the vibration wrenching a moan from him. Her pace quickened, became sloppier, more urgent. She sucked him like she was starving for it, like this act was for her own pleasure as much as his. Like he was dessert. He looked down and the sight undid him: her lips stretched around his girth, a string of saliva glistening in the dim light, her eyes closed in concentration.
He was close, too close. “I’m gonna come,” he warned, his voice rough.
She didn’t pull away. She took him deeper, her throat relaxing, and he lost all control. His release hit him in violent waves, spilling into her mouth. She swallowed, once, twice, until he was spent and shuddering, gently pushing her off as he became too sensitive.
She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, a sly, satisfied smile on her face, then curled back against his leg. They lay tangled for a long time, slick with sweat and other things, the laptop screen now dark. The city sounds filtered in—a distant siren, the hum of traffic.
In the silent dark, she whispered it. “You can stay.” Her eyes were closed. “Just for a while. Until I fall asleep.”
It was a concession, a crack in her armor, more vulnerable than anything they’d done with their bodies. He pulled the blanket over them, drawing her into the curve of his body. She fit against him perfectly, her back to his chest, his arm around her waist. He kissed the ridge of her shoulder, tasting salt and soap and her.
“Okay,” he said.
He listened as her breathing deepened and slowed, feeling the exact moment sleep claimed her. He stayed awake, holding her, mapping the geography of this new and treacherous peace. The squash he’d bought her sat on her dresser, a silent, striped witness. Outside, New York glittered, indifferent. Here, in her bed, he was anything but. He was anchored. He was lost.