Chapter 6: Flying Low
The train back to Paris was a ribbon of grey noise. They sat side by side, not touching, the countryside blurring past the window. The physical reality of the last two days sat between them like a third passenger, silent and demanding. Julie’s posture was perfect, her eyes on her phone, where messages from Christophe bloomed with polite frequency. Mark watched the dead fields scroll by, his body a map of fresh aches: the faint crescent marks on his shoulder from her nails, the deep, satisfying soreness in his muscles, the phantom burn of where she’d bitten him.
“Christophe wants to take me to that new Basque restaurant,” she said, not looking up. Her voice was cool, administrative. “I’ll be out tonight. You can stay at the apartment. But you’ll need to find a hotel tomorrow. He… may stay over.”
Mark nodded, a tight jerk of his chin. The permission felt like a dismissal. The grenade of their shared history had detonated in the quiet of her provincial home, and now they were back in the real world, sweeping up the shards. He was the shard that needed disposing of.
Her apartment in the 11th arrondissement was a study in curated calm: polished concrete floors, a single monumental orchid, shelves of books arranged by color. It smelled of lemongrass and neutrality. It was the antithesis of the cracked, haunted house they’d left. Julie changed swiftly into a silk blouse and tailored trousers, her transformation back into Parisian Julie complete. Only the slight shadow in her eyes, the way she couldn’t quite meet his gaze for more than a second, betrayed what had happened.
“Make yourself at home,” she said, the phrase hollow. “There’s food in the fridge.” She paused at the door, keys in hand. For a moment, she looked like she might say something else. Her lips parted. Then she turned and left. The click of the latch was definitive.
Silence flooded in. Mark stood in the pristine living room, an intruder. The stillness was oppressive. He opened the fridge, stared at the neat containers of organic produce, and closed it. He poured a glass of water from a designer carafe.It tasted of nothing. He was adrift in her life, a ghost haunting the stage of her present.
His phone buzzed. A notification from a dating app, then another. He’d swiped mindlessly on the train, a reflexive needle of spite. But one notification was a direct message. He opened it.
>Hey, Mark. Happy to hear from you. I'm back to Paris and have a layover. Free tonight?
It was the flight attendant who left him her phone number. Mark had messaged her when he learnt about Christophe out of spite and then forgot.
Then a picture, legs escaping a robe on a bed, a window open, a TV. She was in a hotel room.
He stared at the message. Then at Julie’s immaculate, empty apartment. The sterile orchid seemed to watch him.
His fingers typed back, decisive.
> I’m at a friend’s place. Empty. More interesting than a hotel room. You have the address.
An hour later, the intercom buzzed. Eloise stood in the hallway, a small bag slung over her shoulder. She looked different out of uniform—softer, in jeans and a loose sweater, her blonde hair down. She smiled, a little uncertain. “Surprise.”
“A good one,” Mark said, stepping back to let her in. He watched her take in the apartment, her eyes widening slightly at its severity.
“Nice friend,” she said, her tone carefully neutral.
“She’s out,” Mark replied. “For the night”
Eloise nodded, putting her bag down. The air thickened. The polite pretense of the flight was gone. They were two adults in a silent, beautiful space, and the subtext of their earlier flirtation hardened into text.
“Can I get you a drink?” he asked, moving to the kitchen.
“Water’s fine.”
He handed her a glass. Their fingers brushed. He saw her eyes drop to his lips, then travel down his body. The look was a spark in the tinder-dry atmosphere. He thought of Julie, sitting in some dimly-lit restaurant, laughing at Christophe’s bland jokes. He thought of her teeth. The very same teeth that bite him under the table.
He closed the distance and kissed Eloise. It wasn’t gentle. It was a claim. She responded instantly, her mouth opening under his, a small sound escaping her throat. The glass was placed hastily on the counter. Her hands came up, tangling in his hair. He walked her backwards, out of the kitchen, through the living room, towards the hallway he’d seen Julie emerge from that morning.
He pushed open the bedroom door. It was a room of shades of grey and white, the bed a vast, minimalist platform. It smelled of Julie’s perfume. This was it. The provocation. The answer.
He pulled Eloise’s sweater over her head. She reached for his belt. There was no slow undressing, no exploration. It was a collision. They fell onto the bed, the stiff, expensive duvet swallowing them. His mouth was on her neck, her breasts through the lace of her bra. She arched, gasping, her fingers fumbling with his zipper. He yanked her jeans and underwear down in one rough pull. She wasn’t fully wet, but he didn’t care. He spat into his hand, slicked himself, and pushed into her.
She cried out, a sharp, surprised sound that was quickly muffled against his shoulder. He fucked her with a steady, driving rhythm, his eyes open, fixed on the bedroom door. He wanted this. He wanted the violation of it. He wanted Julie’s ghost to watch. Eloise’s legs wrapped around his waist, her heels digging into his back. Her breath came in hot pants against his ear. “Yes… fuck, like that.”
He flipped her over without pulling out, wrenching a yelp from her. He took her from behind, one hand fisted in her blonde hair, the other gripping the headboard for leverage. The bed, solid as it was, began to knock against the wall in a familiar, rhythmic thud. Eloise pushed back against him, meeting each thrust, her cries growing louder, less controlled. “Oh God, I’m going to come,” she moaned, her face pressed into Julie’s pillow. That did it. The image—this stranger coming on Julie’s sheets, in Julie’s bed, her voice filling Julie’s room—unleashed something feral in him. His thrusts became brutal, punishing. He was chasing his own release now, using her body as an instrument for his anger, his hurt, his desperate, fucked-up reclamation of something.
Her body tightened around him in sudden, pulsing waves, a raw gasp tearing from her throat as she came. He felt her inner muscles fluttering wildly against his cock, a hot, rhythmic clenching that pushed him over the edge. He followed her, spilling into her with a choked groan, his thrusts losing their brutal rhythm, dissolving into shallow, helpless jerks as he emptied himself inside her. The sour smell of their sweat mixed with Julie’s lingering perfume on the sheets, a nauseating cocktail of betrayal and release. They collapsed together, a tangle of damp limbs on the ruined duvet, the only sound their ragged, overlapping breaths. Sunlight had bled from the room, leaving it in a murky twilight that felt like the inside of a confession box. After a few minutes, Eloise shifted, peeling herself away from him to sit on the edge of the bed. "Fuck," she breathed, a little laugh in her voice. "That was...intense." She reached for her cigarettes from her discarded bag, lighting one without asking. The smoke curled toward the ceiling, a new stain in the sterile air. Mark lay on his back, staring at the blank white expanse above him, feeling the cold seep into his sweat-slicked skin. The frantic anger had drained away, leaving something hollow and sharp-edged in its place.
They hung in the bed for a while, not touching, talking shit. She asked about his supposed vacation, and he gave her vague, half-true answers about reconnecting with an old friend. She told him about the drudgery of long-haul flights, the petty dramas of her crew. Her voice was casual, unburdened. Her body, curled beside him, was toned and firm from gym routines and mandatory layover swims, a stark, healthy contrast to Julie’s more yielding softness. There was no desperation in her touch when she stubbed out her cigarette and trailed a hand over his chest. She was simply a woman who’d enjoyed a good, hard fuck and was considering another. "You got another round in you?" she asked, her fingers drifting lower, over the flat of his stomach. Her tone was light, curious, like she was asking about the weather.
"I might need some convincing," he said, his voice gravelly.
"That I can do." She smiled and slithered down the bed. Her mouth was on him before he was fully hard, her technique practiced and efficient. She used her tongue in slow, firm circles around the head of his cock, then took him deep, her throat working around his slowly swelling length. It felt good, expert, devoid of the complicated, punishing hunger he was used to. She got him rock hard again with a detached, skillful ease that was somehow more humiliating than anything else. Once he was fully erect, she swung a leg over him, positioning herself above his hips. She guided him inside her, sinking down with a soft, controlled sigh. Her body was a compact, efficient machine, her muscles tight and defined under his hands as she began to ride him with a steady, athletic rhythm. The bedsprings creaked a steady, metallic protest. This was different. This was straightforward. This was clean.
The front door clicked open.
Footsteps in the hallway. Quick, familiar.
The bedroom door swung inward. Julie stood silhouetted in the light from the living room, her coat still on, a reusable grocery bag dangling from her hand. She took in the scene: Eloise astride Mark, her back to the door, moving with that confident, rolling motion; Mark’s hands on Eloise’s hips; the naked, sweat-sheened reality of it. Her face went perfectly, terrifyingly blank. The bag dropped from her fingers, a bottle inside clinking but not breaking against the hardwood floor.
Eloise froze, mid-arch, and looked over her shoulder. "Oh," she said, dismounting quickly, pulling the sheet up to cover herself. The easy confidence evaporated. "Sorry, I... he said you were out for the night." She looked between them, seeing the absolute, glacial silence from Julie, the way Mark didn’t even move to cover himself. The weirdness of it, the profound wrongness in the air, settled over her. This wasn't a casual hookup in a friend's flat. This was something else, something dark and private she’d walked into. "What's going on there exactly Mark?" she muttered, scrambling from the bed, gathering her clothes with hurried, clumsy movements.
Eloise was frantically gathering her clothes. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t know, he said the place was empty—”
“Get out,” Julie said. The words were quiet, absolute. They weren’t directed at Mark.
Mark didn't speak. They watched her dress, the sound of zippers and rustling fabric absurdly loud. Eloise didn’t look at either of them again. She simply fled, her shoes in her hand, closing the apartment door behind her with a soft, final click.
The silence she left behind was absolute and charged, like the air before a lightning strike. Julie stepped into the room, shutting the bedroom door quietly. She looked at Mark, still lying exposed on the bed, his cock slick and glistening from Eloise. Her expression was unreadable. She didn’t scream. She didn’t cry.
“In my bed,” she said, as if confirming a fact.
She began to unbutton her coat, slowly, methodically. She let it fall to the floor.
“You were with Christophe.”
Then her blouse,
“I was having a tedious conversation about wine exports.”
her trousers,
“You fucked a flight attendant in my bed.”
her underwear.
“You don't like flight attendants?" asked Mark
She walked to the bed, her body pale in the dim light, the shadows of the garden still faintly visible on her skin. She didn’t look at his face. She looked only at his cock.
She took a step closer. Then another. She didn’t look away from his cock. When she was within arm’s reach, her hand shot out, not to hit him, but to wrap around his shaft. Her grip was vise-tight, a claim of ownership. He hissed, a mix of pain and shock.
“You are mine to break,” she whispered, her voice venomous. “Not hers to enjoy.” She pumped him once, a brutal, dry stroke. “You come in this house when I tell you to. You come in this bed when I allow it. You come,” she squeezed, making him gasp, “when I grant you permission.”
She climbed onto the bed, her movements deliberate, and pushed him onto his back. She straddled him, not with Eloise’s athletic ease, but with a heavy, purposeful gravity. She gripped him, still wet from another woman, and guided himself into her. She was already soaking. She sank down onto him in one deep, slow motion, taking him all the way inside her with a shuddering exhale. She began to move, a slow, grinding rhythm that was nothing like what had just happened. This was a reclamation. A punishment. A homecoming. Her eyes were locked on his, and in them was a flat, dark fire that promised this was not over. Her hips rolled, taking him deeper, her body accepting him with a furious, possessive hunger that made the previous encounter seem like a hollow rehearsal. She leaned forward, her breath hot against his ear, and whispered a single, filthy word that contained the whole of their ruined history. She rode him until the world dissolved into sensation and darkness, until the only truth left was the brutal, perfect fit of their mutual destruction.