Chapter 26: Keeping Score
The silence stretched, thick and fragile as blown glass. Odette remained utterly still, impaled on Paul's softening length, her breath shallow pants against the sudden quiet. The candlelight caught the sweat beading along her hairline, the tremor in her thighs braced wide on either side of him. Her eyes were squeezed shut, brow furrowed not in pleasure now, but in profound concentration, navigating the raw aftermath.
Paul lay frozen beneath her, his hands still resting lightly on her hips. He felt the minute tremors running through her, the incredible heat and tightness even as he softened inside her. The sheer vulnerability of her position – knees high, spread wide, utterly exposed and filled – struck him anew. He saw the slight wince as she swallowed.
"Odette?" His voice was rough, barely a whisper. "Are you..."
She inhaled sharply through her nose, a sound that ended in a tiny, involuntary whimper. Her eyes fluttered open, meeting his. They held a dazed vulnerability he’d rarely seen, stripped of her usual playful armour. "Don't... move," she breathed. "Pas encore. Just... give me a moment. That was... intense." A shaky ghost of a smile touched her lips. "Remind me never to complain about your endurance again, chéri."
He nodded slightly, his thumbs making slow, soothing circles on the sharp points of her hips. The medicinal scent of the arnica balm still clinging to his skin mingled strangely with the intimate musk of their joining and the ever-present jasmine. "Take your time," he murmured. "All the time you need."
She closed her eyes again, breathing deeply, deliberately. He watched the play of candlelight on her face, the fine muscles in her jaw working. Slowly, infinitesimally, the tension in her shoulders eased. She shifted her weight, the tiniest fraction. A soft sigh escaped her, this one less pained, more relieved.
"Okay," she whispered. "Okay. Lift me. Just... just a little. Slowly. Très lentement."
Paul tightened his grip, the balm making his fingers slide slightly on her skin. He lifted, barely an inch, easing the pressure. He felt the drag, the reluctant parting. Odette gasped, a sharp intake of breath. "Stop," she commanded, voice tight. He froze. She breathed deeply again, head bowed. "Alright. Now... down. Slowly."
He lowered her back onto him, the slick heat enveloping the softened head once more. It wasn't the deep penetration of moments ago, but the connection remained, intimate and overwhelming. "Better?" he asked.
"A little," she sighed. Her eyes met his, clearer now. "That initial... exit. Always the worst bit." She managed a more genuine, if weary, smile. "Worth it, though. Seeing your face. Feeling you... lose yourself like that. Inside me. There." Her gaze held a fierce, possessive pride. "Mine. Utterly mine."
He felt a flush rise on his neck, a complex mix of gratitude, awe, and lingering arousal stirring faintly within the exhaustion. "Yours," he echoed, the word thick with meaning. "Always."
"Good boy," she murmured, the familiar endearment reclaiming some of her composure. "Now... let's try that lift again. Gently."
This time, he lifted her higher, perhaps two inches. Again, the dragging sensation, the slight resistance, but Odette only hissed softly, nodding. "Down. Gently."
He complied. Up another inch, down. Up a little higher, down. Each descent was shallower, less encompassing as he softened further. Gradually, she raised herself higher each time, taking more of her own weight on her knees. Finally, with a final, careful lift, she cleared him completely.
The sudden absence was profound. Paul felt oddly empty. Odette gasped, collapsing forward onto her hands beside his head, her back arched, head hanging low. She remained on her knees, straddling his hips, trembling. He saw the glistening evidence of their intimacy smeared across her inner thighs and the base of his own softening cock.
"Fuck," she breathed, the word muffled against the sheets. "That... stings." She slowly pushed herself upright, kneeling back on her heels, wincing as the movement tugged on tender muscles. Her hand went instinctively between her legs, fingers probing lightly. She hissed again. "Definitely need more of that magic balm."
"Let me," Paul said, moving to sit up.
"Non." Her hand pressed lightly on his chest. "Your turn to rest. I've got it." She pushed herself off the bed with a visible effort, standing unsteadily for a moment, one hand braced on the ornate bedpost. The candlelight caught the sheen on her skin, the elegant lines of her back, the reddened marks where his hands had gripped her hips. She walked with careful, deliberate steps towards the ensuite bathroom, the sway in her hips more pronounced, almost a limp.
Paul watched her go, the vulnerability in her movement stoking a fierce protectiveness. He heard the click of the light switch, the splash of water. She returned moments later carrying a damp, warm washcloth and the familiar dark jar. She paused beside the bed, looking down at him.
"Shift over," she instructed softly. "Make some room for your princess."
He obeyed, wincing slightly as the movement pulled at the fading welts on his back. She climbed onto the bed beside him, moving stiffly. Sitting cross-legged, she dipped the washcloth into a small basin of warm water she’d brought. With surprising gentleness, she began to clean him. The warm cloth smoothed over his abdomen, his hips, carefully wiping away the remnants of balm and their intimacy from his skin. Her touch was tender, almost clinical in its focus, yet radiating care. The contrast to the ferocity with which she’d ridden him moments ago was dizzying.
Once he was clean, she unscrewed the balm jar, scooping out a generous dollop. Her cool, slick fingers expertly applied it to the fading bruises across his shoulders and back, her touch firm and soothing. The pungent scent filled the air again. "Still sore?" she asked.
"Less than before," he admitted, relaxing under her ministrations. "More... tender."
"Good." Her fingers traced a particularly dark bruise. "My poor, brave barrister." She finished with his back, then moved her attention lower. He tensed slightly, but her hands were careful, smoothing the balm over the faint marks her own grip had left on his hips. "There. All patched up." She screwed the lid back on the jar.
Then, without a word, she shifted position, turning her back to him. She reached behind, offering him the jar. "My turn."
Paul took it, his heart tightening. He scooped out the cool ointment. Odette leaned forward slightly, resting her weight on her hands, presenting herself to him. The intimacy was staggering. He saw the slight swelling, the redness. He applied the balm with infinite care, his fingers trembling slightly as they touched her most intimate, now injured, place. She flinched at the initial contact, then sighed, a sound of profound relief as the cooling numbness began to spread.
"Merci, mon coeur," she whispered, her voice thick. "That feels... much better already."
He finished, wiping his fingers on the damp cloth. She slowly lowered herself onto her side beside him, facing him, tucking her head against his uninjured shoulder. He wrapped an arm around her, careful of her back. They lay in silence, the only sounds their breathing and the faint hiss of the candles. The jasmine scent seemed stronger now, wrapping around them like a blanket.
"Sharing that," Odette murmured after a long while, her fingers tracing an idle pattern on his chest, "the depth... the invasion... it felt important. After what Clarissa did. After the bottle." She shuddered slightly against him. "To take something ugly... and make it ours. Intimate. To show you... I understand. In my body." She tilted her head to look up at him, her green eyes dark and serious in the low light. "Even if it bloody well hurts."
He tightened his arm around her, pressing a kiss to her damp temple.
He tightened his arm around her, pressing a kiss to her damp temple. The scent of jasmine, sweat, and medicinal balm mingled thickly in the quiet room. Her breathing had slowed, settling into a rhythm against his chest, her body warm and pliant beside him despite the lingering stiffness in her movements.
A soft chuckle vibrated through her. "Mon Dieu," she murmured, her voice still husky. "That was... ambitious. Even for me." Her fingers traced the fading outline of a bruise high on his shoulder. "Feeling suitably worshipped, chéri? After your... dedicated service?"
"Always," Paul breathed, his thumb stroking the smooth skin of her upper arm. The profound intimacy of her act, the shared vulnerability, hummed beneath his exhaustion. "More than. You didn't have to..."
"Shhh," she interrupted gently, tilting her head to look up at him. Her green eyes, reflecting the dancing candlelight, held a fierce tenderness. "I wanted to. To claim that place too. After everything." A thoughtful pause stretched. "Speaking of claiming... and service..."
Her gaze drifted, focusing on the ornate canopy above them. A small, satisfied smile played on her lips. "I've been reviewing recent weeks, Paul. Your...tally." She shifted slightly, wincing only a fraction. "Before you met me, you'd gone down on eleven women. Correct?"
Paul blinked, surprised by the sudden shift. "Uh... yes. Eleven." The number felt distant, almost irrelevant now.
"And knowing how much you adore it," Odette continued, her voice taking on a playful, calculating edge, "I vowed to double that for you. Twenty-two." She counted off on her fingers resting on his chest. "Myself. Astrid." Her smile widened. "Holly. Clarissa. Nadia. Sandrine." She tapped his chest lightly with each name. "That's six already."
Paul absorbed this. Six. The names conjured a whirlwind of sensations: Holly’s frantic desperation, Clarissa’s terrifying dominance, Sandrine’s unexpected intimacy. "Six," he echoed.
"Six," Odette confirmed. "And tomorrow..." Her eyes sparkled with anticipation. "...you'll definitely eat out Isabelle. My sister." She watched his reaction closely.
Paul’s eyes widened. "Isabelle? Your sister?" The sheer audacity, the casualness of it, momentarily stunned him. Then, a belated realization struck. "But... Sandrine. Isabelle’s wife. Shouldn't she... I mean, I already..."
"Sandrine counts separately," Odette stated firmly, a hint of amusement in her voice. "She's Isabelle's wife, yes, but she's also Sandrine. Distinct." She arched an eyebrow. "You did taste her quite thoroughly, non? She deserves her own spot on the list."
Paul flushed, remembering Sandrine’s intense flavour, her commanding presence. "Right. Yes. Sandrine is... definitely distinct." He hesitated, then added softly, "There’s... another."
Odette’s head tilted, instantly intrigued. "Another? Who?"
"Jamie," Paul said, the name feeling strange on his tongue in this context. "At the hairdresser." He swallowed. "She... just sort of... used me. Briefly."
Odette’s eyes lit up with pure, unadulterated delight. She propped herself up on one elbow, ignoring the twinge it caused. "Jamie?" she breathed, her smile radiant. "A random stranger? Used my beautiful mouth?" She laughed, a light, delighted sound. "Oh, Paul! That’s perfect! Absolutely perfect! Seven already! And Isabelle makes eight tomorrow!"
She settled back against him, radiating triumphant satisfaction. "Random strangers using you," she murmured, tracing his jawline with a fingertip. "Delicious. My devoted boy, spreading his talents." Her gaze grew distant, contemplative. "Twenty-two feels... achievable now. Don't you think?"
Paul looked at her, this force of nature nestled against him, sore from taking him impossibly deep, utterly delighted by the idea of strangers claiming his mouth. The sheer, terrifying scope of her ambition, the casual ownership she asserted over his body and its uses, sent a complex shiver through him – part awe, part submission, part dawning apprehension mixed with undeniable arousal.
The sheer, terrifying scope of her ambition, the casual ownership she asserted over his body and its uses, sent a complex shiver through him – part awe, part submission, part dawning apprehension mixed with undeniable arousal. Her triumphant smile softened as she studied his face in the flickering light, her fingertip tracing the line of his collarbone. "Twenty-two," she murmured again, the number sounding like a sacred covenant. "But..."
Her green eyes snapped wide, a sudden spark of pure, delighted revelation igniting within them. "Oh! Mon Dieu! Nine! There will be nine!" She pushed herself up onto her elbow again, wincing only slightly as the movement tugged at her soreness, her gaze fixed intently on him. "I completely forgot! While you were sleeping off Clarissa’s... attentions... and Sandrine and I were clearing the party mess... I promised you to Maria. The cleaner."
Paul blinked, genuinely startled. "Maria? The... the woman who comes Tuesdays?" The image of the sturdy, middle-aged woman who efficiently vacuumed around their entangled limbs surfaced, utterly incongruous with the current conversation. "You... promised her? Me?"
"Of course!" Odette's laugh was bright, utterly unapologetic, her eyes gleaming with fierce purpose. "She admired your... dedication last Tuesday. Saw you under Holly, remember? Working so diligently." She patted his cheek, a playful gesture belying the steel beneath. "She was very appreciative of the view. Said you looked like you knew your way around. So, I offered your services for next week. She accepted. Enthusiastically. That makes nine." Her smile turned predatory. "Nine down, thirteen to go before we even hit the twenty-two. But why stop there?"
She leaned closer, her breath warm against his ear. "I think fifty, Paul. By New Year's Eve. Fifty different women tasting paradise on your talented tongue." Her voice dropped to a low, intense whisper. "Every single day, if need be. If a single day passes without you serving a woman with that mouth..." She tapped his lips lightly. "...I will feel I’ve failed you. Deeply." The absolute conviction in her tone was staggering.
Paul stared at her, momentarily speechless. A giddy, almost hysterical laugh bubbled up in his chest, a reaction born of pure, overwhelmed disbelief. Fifty? Every day? The sheer impossibility, the audacity, collided violently with a visceral, teenage-boy surge of euphoria deep within. That perpetually hungry, insecure sixteen-year-old who’d craved any touch, any validation, was suddenly being promised a banquet beyond his wildest, most fevered dreams. Daily. His throat tightened. "Fifty?" he managed, his voice hoarse.
"Fifty," Odette confirmed, her eyes burning with fierce ambition. "Minimum. Now, this Jamie," she continued, seamlessly shifting gears, her curiosity sharp. "The random user. How old was she? Roughly?"
Paul blinked, trying to focus past the dizzying prospect of fifty mouths. "Jamie? Uh... young. Nineteen? Twenty, maybe?" The memory was a blur of dark hair, frantic energy, and the quick, impersonal pressure.
"Nineteen or twenty," Odette echoed, nodding thoughtfully. Her smile returned, wide and satisfied. "Same as Holly. And Clarissa... what is she? Fifty-five?"
"Fifty-five," Paul confirmed, the number feeling heavy.
"Parfait!" Odette practically purred, settling back against him with a sigh of contentment, ignoring the twinge. "Nineteen to fifty-five. That’s a thirty-six-year age range you’ve pleasured, mon coeur. Thirty-six years!” She squeezed his arm, radiating pride. "That’s a win. A significant demographic spread. Shows remarkable... versatility in your appeal." Her chuckle was light, but the underlying possessiveness vibrated through her touch. "My versatile asset."
Paul lay still, the warmth of her body pressed along his side, the scent of jasmine and arnica thick in the air, the fading ache in his back and jaw a dull counterpoint to the frantic pulse beating in his throat. Fifty. Maria. Isabelle tomorrow. The phantom tastes of Holly, Clarissa, Sandrine, Jamie, the lingering essence of Odette herself on his tongue. The teenage ghost inside him was doing cartwheels, screaming in disbelief. Above him, the lace canopy of the four-poster bed seemed to shimmer in the candlelight, a silken cage draped over a world suddenly, terrifyingly, exhilaratingly expanded beyond measure. His gaze drifted towards the bedroom door, half-expecting Maria to walk in right then, vacuum in one hand, demanding her due.
His gaze drifted towards the bedroom door, half-expecting Maria to walk in right then, vacuum in one hand, demanding her due. The absurdity tightened his chest, a nervous flutter beneath the lingering shock of fifty. Odette chuckled softly beside him, tracing the line of his jaw with a fingertip, reading his expression perfectly.
"You look terrified," she murmured, amusement warming her voice. "Don't worry, mon coeur, Maria’s appointment is scheduled." Her fingertip pressed lightly against his lips. "But it is thrilling, non? The anonymity. The sheer...volume." She shifted, a small gasp escaping as the movement tugged at her soreness. "It reminded me..."
Her green eyes grew distant, fixed on a dancing candle flame reflected in the large, ornate mirror across the room. "That time," she began, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "The blindfold. Weeks ago, after that dreadful case settled. Remember?" She didn't wait for his confirmation. "Nadia was one. You knew her scent, her little sigh when you found the right spot. Clever boy."
Paul remembered the silk scarf biting into his temples, the disorientation. The woman’s hands guiding his head firmly. Nadia's familiar floral perfume, her soft, appreciative noises. He nodded mutely against Odette's shoulder.
"But the other two..." Odette continued, her voice rich with secret delight. "Total strangers. Anonymous. Faceless. You never saw them. Never knew their names." Her hand slid down to rest possessively over his heart.
Her hand slid down to rest possessively over his heart.
"Those other two," Odette murmured, her voice a low, smoky whisper in the quiet room. "The ones you never saw. Never knew." Her fingers pressed slightly against his ribs. "You remember their taste, though? Even blindfolded?"
Paul swallowed, the memory vivid: the utter darkness, the sudden press of unfamiliar hips against his face, the frantic, almost impersonal urgency. "Different," he rasped. "One... sharper? Almost citrusy. The other... muskier. Warmer." He felt a phantom tang on his tongue, a ghost of anonymous need. "They didn't speak. Just... used me. Quickly."
"Exactly!" Odette's voice sparked with fierce pleasure. She pushed herself up again, wincing only slightly, her green eyes blazing in the candlelight. Her gaze locked onto his, intense and triumphant. "Two more. Two completely anonymous women. Faceless mouths you serviced beautifully. Without even knowing their names!"
She held up her free hand, fingers splayed. "Nadia, plus the two strangers. That’s three just from the blindfold night!" Her finger tapped his chest sharply with each addition. "Jamie makes four unknowns. Holly, Clarissa, Sandrine, Maria... Isabelle tomorrow..."
Her voice gained momentum, the calculations tumbling out. "Six knowns already, plus four anonymous... that’s ten! Ten women tasting paradise on your tongue!" She paused, sucking in a sharp breath, her eyes widening as the final pieces clicked into place. "And my own greedy self... plus Astrid! That’s..."
She froze, staring past him at the silk-draped canopy, her lips moving silently. The triumphant energy condensed into pure, focused revelation. Her hand flew to her mouth, then shot into the air, a fist of pure victory. The sudden movement jarred her soreness, but she ignored it, her voice bursting forth, loud and clear, shattering the intimate quiet:
“THAT MAKES THE FULL 22!”