Weekend in Corsica - D+D Ch. 02

The second installment in the D + D series. Daniel visits Delphine at her vacation home on the island of Corsica. The rugged natural location serves as a contrast to their first meeting in Paris, and brings out something a bit bolder in them both. If you liked "Tuesday in Paris", but wanted a little more heat, this story should deliver.

"Weekend in Corsica" works as a standalone, but if you haven't read the first chapter -- the story of how these mid-life lovers first met -- I'd recommend starting there.

Part 1

His company had a fairly lenient policy on adding personal travel days to international trips, so Daniel didn't even tell his coworkers about the detour he was making en route to the scheduled meeting at the London office.

He just booked his flight and marked the Thursday and Friday beforehand on his shared calendar as "Travel Buffer". He'd see them on Monday, bright and early. He wasn't even presenting, but the client had requested his attendance.

Since their first meeting in Paris the previous November, Daniel had set the red GMT hand of his Seiko 5 Sports to Paris time. Delphine time. Six hours ahead of whatever it was at his home in Croton Ferry. It helped him know when to write or call. He looked down at his watch. 13:00 CET. He felt the plane starting its descent.

The flight from Orly to Calvi--Sainte-Catherine Airport took only one and a half hours. Thankfully, he was able to grab a few hours of sleep on the redeye over from Newark.

Daniel hadn't seen Delphine in person since Paris. What a magical, strange, and charged week that had been. He still couldn't believe that she showed up that first night. That she'd invited him to Corsica. That he'd see her again in a matter of minutes.

He thought about their time together almost every day -- sometimes at random moments, sometimes on purpose. The communications that followed had helped, but hadn't softened the edge of it. He could still remember the feel of her mouth, the sounds she made when he touched her, the shape her body made in the half-dark.

And yes -- if he was being honest -- there was still a part of him that couldn't believe it had happened at all. That she, of all people, had let him in.

Not just because she was beautiful. That went without saying.

But because he'd admired her for so long, from such a distance -- lusted after her, half-invented her in his head -- and then she'd stepped into real life and undone him.

So when he mentioned the dates he'd be in Europe, and Delphine replied "I've got a place in Corsica, if that sounds interesting to you...", he had nearly dropped his phone.

---

Delphine didn't go inside the terminal. Even at an airport as small as Calvi, she had always hated arrivals -- the too-bright lights, the cluster of people holding signs, the awkward public reunions.

Instead, she waited in the car as she told him she would. Engine off, a cigarette burning down to the filter.

She squinted through the windshield. Had she spied Daniel among the people deplaning that Air France jet and walking across the tarmac in a straw hat?

Or maybe that wasn't him. Was he even a hat person?

She lit another cigarette, mostly to give her hands something to do. The house was clean. The sheets were washed. She'd even put on mascara, which she almost never did in Corsica -- though it was part of her uniform in Paris.

Paris had been... surprising. And lovely. And maybe a bit too much.

She hadn't expected to like him as much as she did. Certainly not to want him. But she'd felt strangely at ease with him -- and afterward, even more so. There was no shift. No change in tone. He didn't act like he'd won something. Didn't fawn. Or cling.

That's what she remembered most. Not the sex. The after. And yes, even the before.

He just... talked to her. Like a person. A woman. Not a brand, a photo he'd once bookmarked.

Daniel had messaged her a few weeks ago, casually dropping this line between reports of weather conditions on the Hudson and his latest bike ride: "I'll be in Europe in early May. For work. Would love to see you again if you're around and have time."

She replied immediately -- maybe too quickly? -- with an invitation. Adding "Fly into Orly, then Calvi. I'll pick you up at the airport. Pack a bathing suit."

Part 2

The little Citroën 2CV wheezed and rattled as it trundled along the coastal road, its suspension creaking over each bump like an old dog stretching its limbs.

Daniel, holding a straw hat in his lap, found himself hunching down slightly -- the roof felt too low, the doors too thin -- but the car suited "vacation" Delphine perfectly. A pale blue shell, faded in places, the paint chalky with salt and sun.

Even the slightest incline warranted a downshift to maintain momentum, the gearshift lever sticking straight out of the car's dashboard like a poker. Delphine worked the pedals in sandals, her indigo sarong slipping open just enough to show the taut flexing of the inner thigh of her left leg when she depressed the clutch.

"Don't laugh," she said, shifting up again. "This is my 'island' car."

"I'm not laughing," he said. "I'm just admiring."

"The car?"

"Obviously."

She smirked, then put the car into second gear.

The house came into view after a switchback -- a stone rectangle tucked into a slope, with shutters the color of sage and a roof of curved terracotta tiles. Nothing flashy. No infinity pool. Just weathered charm and silence, surrounded by olive trees and sun-dried grass. A linen towel flapped lazily on a line strung between two crooked posts.

"I bought this place with my first husband. Back when things were more affordable," she said, easing the car to a stop beside a low wall. "I negotiated for it in the divorce."

They stepped out. The air smelled of dust, citrus, and sea. Crickets murmured somewhere in the dry grass. Inside, the house was cool and simple -- stone walls, whitewashed shelves, mismatched glasses in the kitchen, flax curtains puffing gently inward. Hardly any art on the walls, just old hooks and empty nails, and cracks in the plaster.

She dropped her tote on an old bench by the door. He set his backpack beside it, tucking his rollaboard into the space beneath.

She turned and unbuttoned her shirt -- slowly, casually -- and hung it on one of the pegs in the entry hall. Underneath, she was wearing a black bikini, low-cut and slightly faded, the kind that revealed the tops of her breasts and the lines from where she'd tanned in different bathing suits. A mismatched multi-striped bottom peeked out from above her sarong, curved across her hips just high enough to grab Daniel's attention.

She re-tied her sarong and asked, "You coming?"

"Didn't we just get here?"

"The cove," she insisted. "It's a seven-minute walk down the hill. No one goes there this time of day."

He nodded. "As long as you promise me that you won't trip and fall* getting out again."

"I mean, I can't guarantee anything. Opening the creaky back door, she added, "And Daniel... wear something you can swim in -- or not."

*See "Tuesday in Paris" for reference.

Part 3

They floated in the water for a while, sunlight flickering on their shoulders. Delphine's hair was slicked back, her eyes unreadable behind wet lashes. The hush of the cove wrapped around them like gauze.

Without a word, she swam to him, letting her legs brush his beneath the surface. Her arm circled his waist underwater. She kissed him once -- soft, salt-touched -- and then again, slower.

"You taste like sunshine," she murmured.

He laughed, a little breathless. "You taste like the sea."

She raised an eyebrow, then glanced toward the land. "I'm ready to get out."

They climbed carefully from the water, using the well-trodden steps that had been carved out of the igneous rock in another lifetime. They were both topless, dripping, skin flushed and tight from the cold. The sun baked the flat rock shelf above the tide line. She didn't speak -- just spread a towel big enough for the two of them and made a gesture that Daniel interpreted as: after you.

She joined him, laying back on the towel, arms folded loosely above her head, the front of her body catching the sun. On top of her breasts, her nipples were peaked from the chill of the water, small and firm -- like wild strawberries, he thought. Fraises des bois. Delicious.

He tried to remember the way she'd looked in the half-light of Paris. This was different. Brighter. Realer. No rumpled sheets or dim lamps to filter the scene. Just sun and skin and the impossible clarity of her.

The sun dried the front of their bodies while the towel absorbed the drops that remained on their backs. After a time, Delphine turned over and lay on her belly, looking out at the water. Daniel joined her... their elbows touching as each supported their chins.

Pointing at something he couldn't see, she said, "Nice is about 200 kilometers or so in that general direction."

She moved her arms to her sides, turned her head slightly, and pressed her cheek against the soft warmth of the towel, her head turned to look at Daniel. He naturally mirrored her movements.

There was no urgency. Just quiet.

"Sit up," she said.

He did as told.

She positioned herself beside him demurely, legs angled off to the side, feet extending past the border of the towel. She reached toward his lap, threading her fingers into the waistband of his briefs.

He lifted his hips slightly, not even thinking about it -- just trusting her, the moment, the sun. She worked his underwear down and off.

It had been months since that first night in Paris. There had been lots of messages, yes. Phone calls even. But not this. Not the feel of his skin under her fingers, the weight of him thickening in her palm, the way his belly tensed when she stroked him.

She glanced up at him -- not for permission, not even for effect, but to see him. His eyes were closed, his lips slightly open. Good. She leaned forward, her hair falling down over one shoulder, and lowered her mouth to him.

She started slow, teasing the underside of his shaft with her tongue, reacquainting herself with his shape. His scent. His texture. She loved the way he responded -- not with noise just yet, but with breath. The way he stilled, then swayed. Like a ship adjusting to the wind.

It was unhurried, almost ceremonial -- her lips firm, her tongue tracing along him with quiet precision. They made eye contact now and then, a glint of mischief behind her focus. The sound of the waves blurred into the background. The pressure and warmth of her mouth made it impossible for him to think of anything else.

She tightened her grip slightly at the base, keeping him steady, and let her lips slide down his cock. Not all the way. Just enough to feel his energy shift, to hear the faintest catch in his throat.

She hadn't exactly been a nun since that week in November. A few dates, a kiss here or there. But none of her suitors made her want to be here, doing this.

No, there was something different about Daniel. Not because of how he looked or how he touched her. More about how he saw her. Like she was whole and complicated and not something to be solved -- or a picture to be framed.

She pulled back, licked the tip lightly -- a tease -- then looked up at him, letting her lips part just slightly, the tip of his cock resting against them.

She'd dreamed of this exact moment. The slight curve of his cockhead on her tongue. The way he twitched when she flicked him just beneath the head. The sweet tension in his thighs as he tried to hold back.

"I've wanted this since Paris, you know." she murmured.

She took him again -- deeper now, letting her throat open, her jaw adjust. Her free hand slid up along his thigh, slow and firm, anchoring him. She sucked once, slow and deliberate, then again -- building a rhythm, but not rushing.

Her lips slid lower, her free hand gently cupping his balls. She hollowed her cheeks, her tongue working in slow, deliberate time beneath him. Her hunger was quiet but firm -- not frantic. She wanted to memorize this. To leave nothing unexplored.

She picked up her pace -- not faster, just steadier -- each stroke settling fully before the next began. Her lips sealed tight. Her tongue worked in subtle counterpoint to her mouth. She could feel the tension coiling in his torso. He was close. Would he warn her, or would he just let it come?

A different man might have pulled back or tried to take over. But Daniel -- Daniel just kept breathing through it, holding her hair back from her face, fingers gentle at the crown of her head.

She flattened her tongue and took him a little deeper, then pulled back slowly, dragging her lips along the length of him with just enough pressure to make him twitch. Then again. And again.

He let out a low, broken sound.

She smiled around him, and felt the ache between her own legs growing, but this was his moment. And it thrilled her to give it.

A few more strokes. One long suck. Her fingers tightened slightly, holding him steady, and then --

He came.

Hot and deep, his cock pulsing against her tongue. She stayed with him. Didn't flinch. Just held him there, mouth soft but sealed, as he spilled himself into her. She swallowed without thinking.

When it passed, she lingered, letting her mouth go slack around him before pulling back gently. Then she kissed his hip -- for no reason other than it felt right. Like a punctuation mark. Then she sat back on her heels, wiping the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand.

She stood, wrapped her sarong loosely around her hips, and gathered her bikini top from their pile of clothes.

"Come," she said, glancing over her shoulder as she walked away. "There's more to see." Daniel reluctantly snapped out of his reverie, collected his clothing, dressed, and followed her.

Part 4

The air inside the house was cooler now -- thick stone and tile soaking up the afternoon shade. Delphine lit a cigarette and left the back door open, letting in the dry air and sound of cicadas. She crossed barefoot to the fridge, poured two glasses of water, and set one on the counter for him.

"I think I'm going to get cleaned up," she announced, her voice low and quiet.

She led the way to an old tiled shower, tucked behind a narrow wooden door off the main bedroom. The walls were uneven, the water temperamental. The light through the small window in the bathroom caught her skin in a way that made him dizzy. She turned beneath the stream and tilted her face upward, letting it soak her hair.

For Daniel, it was impossible not to watch her through the glass. Water rolled down her breasts, collecting briefly in the curve beneath them before trailing across her stomach. Her pubic hair lay darkened, matted from the spray, framing her slightly swollen folds.

He stepped in behind her, wrapped his arms around her waist, and kissed her shoulder.

"Mmm," she said, eyes still closed. "I like the way you touch me when you think I'm not paying attention."

He turned her around, moved her to the far wall, and dropped to his knees.

She looked down, confused for only a moment -- then leaned back against the tile, lifting one foot onto the built-in seat.

He kissed her thigh. Then again, higher. His hands found her hips, guiding her gently forward as he buried his face between her legs.

His mouth found her sex. The scent was a heady musk edged with salt and sweat. He licked slowly, deliberately, holding her steady as her fingers found his hair and held on tight.

She didn't speak, not at first. She just breathed, shallow and fast, as Daniel's tongue circled her clit, then dipped down, drawing her open again. His nose pressed against her, his chin slick with her wetness.

"Encore...", she whispered, breath catching.

He sucked lightly, then flattened his tongue and pushed up again, swirling and pressing, until her hips began to grind. Her legs trembled.

Daniel took in the sight of her -- flushed and wet, her inner lips glistening, parted with arousal. He leaned forward, running his tongue along her slowly -- one long, upward stroke that made her hips twitch.

She made a sound -- not quite a moan, not quite a sigh -- and reached down to stroke his cheek.

"Ouai," she breathed.

He licked her again, even slower this time, circling her clit, then flattening his tongue and dragging downward to her entrance. She opened to him, warm and slick, her taste already rich and turning darker, deeper.

He slipped a finger inside.

She gasped -- not in surprise, but in release. He kept licking while stroking her gently from within. She adjusted her hips, pushing toward him. Her grip in his hair tightened.

"Un autre," she said, voice rough with need.

He eased in a second finger, slowly, letting her body take it. She pulsed around him, muscles clenching, then yielding. He curved his fingers slightly, searching for that soft ridge just behind her pubic bone, textured differently than the rest. When he pressed, she exhaled -- not sharply, but with a sound that told him he'd found something. His mouth stayed on her clit -- firm and rhythmic, giving her no reason to come down from where she was rising.

Delphine began to shake. Her breath caught. Her spine arched.

And then: "There," she whispered. "Yes, there--"

Her orgasm came in waves -- deep, cresting, spreading through her until her limbs softened and she fell still.

"God, you're beautiful," he murmured.

She pulled him up by the shoulders, kissed him hard and messily, then pressed her forehead to his, moving them both back into the spray of the showerhead.

"Well, I don't know if I'm any cleaner," she whispered, "But I am a lot wetter."

Part 5

The next afternoon, they found themselves lying on a pair of lounge chairs in the shade. Delphine wore one of his shirts, oversized and half-buttoned, her legs tucked to the side. Daniel had a paperback resting on his chest, opened and laying flat, cover side out.

She broke the silence. "Can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"When we were in Paris... the condom," she said, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. "You brought one. Had it ready. But you haven't mentioned it since."

He turned his head to her, thoughtful. "I brought a few, actually. Because I didn't want to assume. But I figured it would come up again... eventually."

"It's coming up now," she said with a soft smile. "I'm clean, by the way. My last panel was this spring. I get tested every year. And after every partner..."

He nodded. "Me too. I had a full screening in February. And... I've had a vasectomy. A few years ago."

Her eyes widened slightly. "Really?"

He shrugged. "Long story. Practical decision. No regrets."

She was quiet for a moment, watching a leaf dance on the breeze.

"I trust you," she said finally. "And I want to feel you. All of you."

He reached over and took her hand. "Then we're in agreement."

She climbed into his lap slowly, deliberately. "So maybe I keep the shirt on," she whispered, "and nothing else."

Part 6

On the third day, after a simple dinner of pasta and fresh vegetables Delphine had bought at the market the day before, they sat in the living room.

The windows were open. The sea was just a hush in the distance. Daniel took in the room -- the half-filled bookshelves, the sagging wicker chairs. No juncture of walls, floor, or ceiling seemed to have a precise 90-degree angle.

"You've come here alone all this time?" he asked.

She shrugged. "I like being alone. But not all the time."

He nodded, not answering. But his gaze lingered.

"You ever think about what your life would've been if that modeling scout hadn't stopped you?"

"Yes, from time to time. Not because I wish it -- but because it reminds me how random it all was... is."

She topped off her glass from the small pitcher. A pause.

"There's a version of me who never got 'discovered'. Maybe she's teaching literature at a lycée in Saintes. Or curating a secondhand shop. Or writing bad poems under a pseudonym." Then, with a shrug, "And maybe she's just as happy."

Delphine curled her legs beneath her on the couch, glass in hand. The condensation beaded and ran over her fingers. She took a slow sip of the ice-cold tinto de verano -- red wine cut with citrus soda -- and looked at him.

"I've been meaning to ask you... in those months before we met in person, when it was all just DMs... did you ever... fantasize about me?"

He looked down and after taking a beat, said "Yes.", extending the word into two syllables.

"Did you ever, you know..."

"Yes, I touched myself," he said promptly, answering her unfinished question. "Sometimes in the mornings, after seeing a post of yours. Sometimes at night, I'd imagine your thighs around my face. Or being inside you, slowly. But more than that..." He trailed off.

"What. What did you imagine?"

He looked at her. "That you looked like you do right now. Natural. Gorgeous. That you had a few freckles on your stomach and a little scar on your hip. That you'd taste like..."

She leaned forward and he caught a glimpse of her breasts through the V of her shirt. "Show me," she said. "Show me what you did, thinking of me."

He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again. She was still there, still watching. He stood, undid his shorts, and sat down again. Began to stroke himself -- slowly, shyly, then with purpose. She sat and watched.

He hesitated, and in the pause, she'd leaned back. She began to unbutton her shirt -- a soft, oversized linen thing she'd thrown on over a similarly unstructured skirt.

"I want to know," she said, already at the third button down. Her collarbone caught the amber light. "Because maybe I imagined you, too."

Daniel moved to the low chair across from her and said "Sometimes I thought of you watching me. Like this."

She undid another button, the last one.

He could see her breasts fully now, framed by her open shirt. She drew one foot up on the couch cushion, her bent knee hiking her skirt up on that side. She reached her right hand through the arch of her raised leg and let her fingers settle on the cotton thong she had put on after they went swimming in the morning.

"Like this?" she said, pulling the thin fabric away from her gently.

He nodded. Each of them alternated looking at what the other's right hand was doing with glances at their face.

"I'd think of you, holding yourself open for me. Wanting to feel me on you -- and never looking away."

While her middle finger held the fabric aside, her index finger moved to her wetness. She traced her damp opening slowly, and then held one of her lips open. Not just to entice -- but as if to say: This is real. You imagined it. Now it's here. I'm here. For you.

He stood and moved closer to her.

She shrugged her shirt off and shifted to her knees on the rug.

"Here," she said softly, pressing her palm to her heart.

He quickened his rhythm, focusing on the underside of his cock near the head. His orgasm arrived with a gasp, arcing onto her neck and breasts. Her eyes watched it until it stopped.

He sat down. Legs loose, hand slack, heart still thudding somewhere near his throat.

Something about the way she had looked at him during the act had cracked him open. She'd watched him without blinking. As if she'd been waiting to see what he'd actually do.

And then she had touched herself. Not for him. Not exactly. More like... beside him. With him.

He watched as she wiped herself off with the napkin that had been under her drink -- not embarrassed, not self-conscious. Just practical. Then she kissed him. A simple thing. Closed-mouth.

He wanted to say something -- anything -- but his brain felt like it had been wiped clean. All that was left was this warm, humming blankness.

He looked at her, standing there as she put her shirt back on, lighting a cigarette with one hand and brushing her hair back with the other.

He put his shorts back on and thought: This might be the most intimate thing I've ever been part of.

She rose and stood near the open window, backlit by the fading light, one hand resting on the frame, the other holding her cigarette. Her shirt still partially undone. She wasn't looking at him.

He crossed the room and wrapped his arms around her from behind -- gently, so she could step away if she wanted. She didn't.

She leaned into him, just slightly, and took another drag. The smoke curled above them. The sea was a hush below.

He kissed her shoulder -- once, just beneath the curve of her neck -- then rested his forehead there.

"Thank you," he said.

Not because it was good. Not because it turned him on. Though both were true. But because she'd given him something so unfiltered, so intimate, it felt like it needed acknowledgment.

She didn't say anything right away. Just exhaled slowly.

Then, finally: "You're welcome."

Part 7

On Sunday morning, the Citroën 2CV was waiting outside for them like a sleeping insect, its faded blue carapace peppered with dents earned over a long life.

She had called it her island car -- something she'd fallen in love with during a photo shoot years ago, then brought back to the island and kept there ever since. She drove it rarely these days, but refused to part with it.

"Everyone buys new Porsches," she'd told him once. "I wanted a simple car that smells like sunshine and cigarettes."

"You drive," she said, handing him the keys. "Unless you're afraid of an old girl's temper."

He turned them over in his hand. "The car or the passenger?"

She smirked. "Both."

Daniel climbed into the driver's seat, pushed in the clutch, and started the engine. She explained the inscrutable shift pattern to him, and then he eased the car into gear. The 2CV stuttered backward, then forward as Daniel fumbled then found his way, the wind rushing through the rolled-back canvas roof as they descended toward town.

She lit a cigarette and tucked one bare foot beneath her. He glanced sideways, amused.

The market was already alive by the time they arrived -- sun-faded umbrellas, the scent of rosemary and fish, little kids darting between old men with cigars. They parked beneath a fig tree.

Even covered by sunglasses and a wide straw hat, Delphine glowed. Though her fame had not carried quite this far, many of the locals seemed to know her.

He carried a woven basket. She pointed to things.

They bantered over tomatoes, picked olives from wooden bowls, sniffed at wheels of Brocciu. At a bakery stand, he bought them two small almond pastries and held one for her to bite as she adjusted her sunglasses.

They didn't talk much on the walk back to the car. Not out of awkwardness -- but something gentler. A rhythm falling into place.

As he started the car again, she reached over -- not for the radio, but his thigh. Her fingers rested there as the car bounced down the dirt road that headed back to the house.

Corsica didn't feel like Paris. But the quiet between them did.

She didn't say another word. She just left her hand there. That was enough.