บททั้งหมดของ Désiré Me 2: บทที่ 111 - บทที่ 120

 DianeÉlise hesitates, looks at me. I give a small nod. She steps back.Then I see Dimitri Ivanov, the man who makes empires tremble, the man who abducted and held me captive, tackle a linen diaper with touching awkwardness. His large hands, accustomed to signing orders or gripping throats, tremble slightly before the tiny fasteners. He speaks softly to the squirming baby.— Gently, little lion. Let me do this. I'm your father, I won't hurt you. There, like this…When he succeeds, after several attempts, in fastening the diaper correctly, he looks up at me, and on his face floats an expression of humble triumph, prouder than when I have seen him conclude a multi-billion dollar merger.— Look, Diane. I did it.— You did it, I say, and a smile I cannot control stretches my lips.He notices this smile. His eyes rest on my mouth, and his own smile softens, takes on a different, more complex em

 Dimitri returns. He closes the door behind him with a definitive click.— He is in perfect health, he announces. All tests are excellent.— That is good news, I say, my voice neutral.— Yes.He walks to the desk, opens a file. The businessman has completely taken over.— Papers are being prepared. His birth certificate. His citizenship. Everything will be in order.— And my name? Will it be on it?He looks up.— You are his mother. Of course.It is not a concession. It is a fact. A fact he can, at any moment, make disappear if he decides to. I know it. He knows I know it.— I would like to go out, I say suddenly. Get some fresh air. In the park. With him. DianeHe closes the file, slowly.— He is too fragile. The outside air is not sterile. In a few days, perhaps.— Am I a prisoner of this room now?

BéatriceThe darkness in the bedroom is a velvet veil, thick, almost liquid. It is perfumed with the faded roses of the wedding bouquet and the warm cedar of the dark wood dresser. I perceive his silhouette near the bed, a larger, wider mass than in the fleeting memories of family gatherings. My heart pounds a rhythm of panic so violent against my ribs that I feel nauseous. Each beat screams: impostor, traitor, unworthy sister. I am a ghost borrowing my sister's flesh, a shadow in her silk dress."You took your time, darling."Lorenzo's voice shoots out in the dark, soft, drawling, imbued with a peaceful anticipation that pierces me like a blade. He has undone his tie, I can guess by the light rustle of fabric. He approaches. The space between us shrinks, charged with an intimacy not meant for me. I lower my head, a reflex, letting the cascade of my hair — Aurélie's hair, a centimeter longer, perfumed with her shampoo — form a curtain between his gaze and my distraught face. Shame is a

BéatriceWhen the ultimate moment finally arrives, after hours that seem like seconds, it is not a violence suffered. It is a summit we climb together, in a panting and perfectly synchronized effort, a fusion so total that it becomes impossible to know where I end and he begins. He sits up, wraps me in his arms, crushes me against him, and murmurs my name – her name – in the hollow of my neck, where my pulse races."Aurélie… My Aurélie…"The pain of the lie, sharp as a shard of glass, mingles, merges, is transcended by a pleasure so intense, so total, so true, that tears spring from my eyes, silent, warm, drowned in the sweat of his skin. My body is shaken by endless spasms, prolonged by the last jerks of his. It is more than an orgasm. It is a collapse.Then, silence. A heavy silence, saturated with mingled breaths struggling to find a normal rhythm, with the overwhelming smell of our bodies, of sex, of crumpled silk, of the now-faded roses. His weight on me is an overwhelming comfor

 BéatriceHe doesn't wait. There are no more preliminaries, no more slow exploration. He enters me in one powerful, deep surge, a movement that sweeps away all resistance, all thought. A hoarse cry escapes my throat, immediately captured by his mouth crashing onto mine. It's not a kiss. It's a taking of possession, a branding. His tongue invades my mouth with the same determined fervor, the same urgency as the rest of his body which begins to move.And he moves.It's different from earlier. Wilder, more urgent, more direct. Perhaps because of the setting – the cold tile, the scalding water, the vertical position giving a sensation of controlled fall. Perhaps because of the harsh light filtering through the curtain, making everything more real, more raw. The water sliding between us transforms each thrust into a multiplied, electric friction, both lubricating and exciting. He takes me with a brute force that should be painful, but only s