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sucking her lips, licking her face. His erection became insistent. He almost forgot his intentions to remain civil. She was still too serene, just slightly off-balance. He wanted to see her quiver.
    —Come, he said, taking her hand.
    Amélie surveyed David’s bedroom with a kind of detachment that, given the circumstances, seemed almost incongruous. The satin finish of the walls was anachronistic and in bad taste, like a miniskirt worn by an aging woman. They were white, painted in a slapdash manner disregardful of the delicately sculpted moldings. Yet despite the recent affronts to it, the room managed to retain the opulent and comforting atmosphere of a Haussmann-era building.
    David began to undress her. Halfway stripped of all her clothing, Amélie felt her desire and self-assurance abate. She was in a tight spot.
    By dint of his gradual, solemn plucking of her petals, David would soon reach her old-fashioned bra, and her panties’ loose elastic waist. She cringed, insecure in her body. He was bound to be disappointed.
    Distrustful and skeptical, she nevertheless noted David’s eye growing misty with wonder as he uncovered her shoulders, breasts, hips. He persisted in this miraculous absence of any critical sense, repeating: How beautiful you are! at each glimpse of flesh. Relieved, she stopped thinking. She was naked, he still fully clothed. She felt she had a considerable advantage. Heedless as a schoolgirl, she leaped upon the bed and, as at the movies, waited under the sheet’s tent for the performance to begin.
    Now it was David’s turn to strip. He did it abruptly, as if eager to get it over with. Big and impressive, he had kepton his briefs. The combination of these two elements tickled Amélie’s funny bone. She was convulsed with laughter, but repressed it by tightening her jaws. She needed a whiff of derision so as to mentally step away from her raw female nature, unable to produce a sentimental alibi, stirred by this body, virile to the point of caricature, and bursting with the kind of powerful sexuality that impeded sublimation, or the tempering of the crudeness of flesh.
    The alchemy was undeniable. She put up the rampart of irony, keeping herself from observing David’s prick for fear of growing too fascinated. But she was curious to discover the modulation of his caresses, the shape assumed by his desires, the compatibility of their senses.
    He lay down next to her, taking her in his arms. Surprised by a tenderness that did not seem to go with his athletic build, Amélie felt his penis hard against her thigh.
    —Do you want me to switch off the light? he inquired thoughtfully, hoping she would not insist on it.
    —No, she answered.
    She wanted to gauge his desire, to check it in his eyes. In the darkness he could have cheated, remained lucid while propelling her into a perilous whirlpool of emotion. Worse still, he might make violent, spiteful love that she’d mistake for passion.
    —Any music? she inquired hesitatingly, inhibited by the aural precision of the sheet’s rustle, the rubbing of their bodies, and the squelching noise of saliva in her mouth. David switched on his night-table radio.
    She smiled, her equanimity restored. Lying on his side, David stroked her with stubby yet agile fingers. He was telling her how soft her skin was, how much he wanted to touchher buttocks, spread her thighs; crude words entangled with those of affection. Amélie moaned under the touch of these unfamiliar hands, while the swirling of her belly followed the inflections of his deep gravelly voice. He continued. He wished her warm, open, receptive of his intentions:
    —Touch yourself, my love. Spread your little pussy for me. Show me how you make yourself come.
    David had fantasized watching her finger-fuck herself as soon as he caught sight of her in the gas station. He had summoned in his mind the freedom of her gestures, her reserves of boldness. He envisioned becoming the prying spectator of her