Chapter Text
There's one nice thing Eve can say about her ex Niko Polastri: the man is the entire reason she's here, standing at the entrance to the sultry Sweeties bar at The Standard Hotel, wearing a sleek black mini dress with long sleeves, a heart-shaped open-back design that feels daringly elegant, and sheer tights that make her legs seem endless, on the verge of reinventing herself.
The memory of Niko and the still-fresh psychic wounds he’d left her are like a marching drumline urging Eve forward as she left her flat, Ubered to The Standard, and made her way through the lobby to the lift, heading up to Sweeties on the 10th floor, a bar with a reputation as the unofficial headquarters of London’s singles scene.
Unfortunately, now that she's standing at the entrance, the sight of all the laughing, drinking, dazzling people, dressed to the nines like her, but looking much more at ease about it, has Eve momentarily cowed.
She thinks back to what Niko said the day she discovered he was cheating on her — for the second time: “I do have needs you can’t satisfy. You should really learn to be more adventurous in bed, Eve. You’re like a timid little mouse. It can get really boring.”
Remembering those words, Eve straightens her shoulders, takes a deep breath, and steps inside. She isn't a boring mouse. Or at least she won’t be one anymore. Starting tonight, she's going to be a new version of Eve Park: as bold and elegant as her black dress.
She tries to soak in the beauty of the bar while beelining through the crowded tables, anxious to leave the peculiar spotlight of being the only person standing among a bunch of cozy, seated people. But then she realizes new Eve wouldn’t care if everyone’s eyes flitted to her as she walks across a room. In fact, new Eve would welcome it, because she spent nearly an hour doing her makeup and styling her hair into movie star perfection, and maybe that effort should be appreciated.
She looks up at the bar’s gorgeous glass ceiling, shaded a twinkly blue thanks to the night sky. Real palm trees lined the circular perimeter, fronds reaching toward the stars. They make the bar look like a very urbane urban jungle, which actually isn’t too far off the mark.
Eve's older sister, June, and her friends like to roll their eyes at the entire downtown bar scene, calling places like The Sweeties “meat markets where you go to spend 25 quid on a martini while beating back horny yuppies” (June’s words). They prefer the trendy spots in East London, where the clientele is cooler yet dirtier (Eve's words). Eve thinks The Sweeties is romantic, so it makes sense to come here tonight for her critical but one hundred percent private mission:
I, Eve Miju Park, am going to have my first one-night stand.
She's going to sleep with someone with no strings attached, no stakes or expectations: just one night to do whatever feels right. Eve, the unadventurous bore? She killed her and buried the body.
The gleaming bar is crowded, but Eve manages to slip a shoulder between two men and catch the bartender’s attention. “Gin and tonic,” she says, feeling a sudden rebellious compulsion to do anything that would raise her sister’s eyebrows. By the time her drink comes, she's completed a full three-sixty swivel in her barstool to survey the sea of men for potential candidates.
How exactly does one negotiate a one-night stand? Do you lead with it in conversation so all your cards are on the table (‘Hi, I’m Eve; you might be interested to know I’m trolling for a stranger to ravish me’), or do you hold back, let your intention slip out at just the right moment (‘I see you’re ordering an Uber home; could I interest you in going splitsies back to my place for a wild night of sex’)?
She braces a hand on the bar, taking a fortifying sip of her drink. Even if she makes a complete fool of herself tonight, even if she's roundly rejected by everyone she speaks to, coming here alone at least means June and her crew couldn’t witness her flop, then use it to skewer her for all eternity like the jackals they are.
A whistle cuts through the bar’s ambient noise, followed by a loud, “Now that’s a dress.” Out of nowhere, a man appears and sidles up beside Eve. One look at him and her mind blurts forehead! Probably because his is shiny as a disco ball, framed by waggling eyebrows, and tilted all the way to the side. The next second, she realizes his head is turned that way so he could get a clear view down her dress.
“Thanks.” Eve places a protective hand over her chest and swivels in the opposite direction. Hoping her body language would signal her disinterest, she takes another sip of her drink and studies the empty corner of the room like it is fascinating.
No such luck.
“I’m Raymond,” the man says, jutting out his hand. “What’s your name?”
Eve’s deep desire for him to go away wars with her silly lifelong compulsion to be nice. “Um...” She twists back to shake his oddly moist hand and searches desperately for inspiration. Her gaze snags across the room, catching on a poster behind the bar.
It’s a vintage cabaret poster, bold and colorful, framed in chipped gold. A glamorous woman in a sequined dress reclines on a cartoonish shark, both of them mid-leap through a stylized wave. At first glance, it’s just a quirky piece of decor, but in the bottom corner, almost as an afterthought, the name “Tallulah” is scrawled in a tiny art deco font, barely noticeable unless you’re really looking. Beneath it, a tagline proclaims: "The Daring Queen of the Deep!"
Eve doesn’t have time to think. “Tallulah…” she blurts out, then glances back at the poster. The next word comes unbidden. “Shark. Tallulah Shark.”
Curse her polite hardwiring that has her sitting here inventing a ridiculous new name instead of dismissing him with something cool and clipped, like, “Not interested.”
But it’s too late now. Raymond gives her hand a little squeeze. He’s much older than Eve, probably well into his fifties and his grin is just a shade too smug to be charming. A massive gold watch gleams on his wrist, and now that Eve squints, his face looks strangely sweaty, like he’s just done a lap around the block.
Is he on party drugs?
Raymond uses his sleeve to mop his forehead and Eve pulls her hand away, resisting the urge to wipe it on her dress. Raymond’s eyes drift down the length of her body yet again. “Well, Ms. Tallulah. Can I buy you a drink? A stiff one?” He grins.
“Oh,” Eve says. “That’s very nice. But, um… no thank you.” Inside, she burns with the fire of a thousand suns. Saying no to anyone, even a stranger, stretches the limits of her bravery.
“Aw, come on.” Raymond leans in closer and Eve scoots back so fast she nearly tips over. “Look at you, sitting there in that dress. Clearly fishing for attention. Well, you caught me. Let’s get you drunk and see what happens.”
Apparently, Eve's going to get a lesson in how not to proposition someone tonight. But her cheeks are burning, because in a small way Raymond is right. She has come here to put herself on display and find someone, just very much not him.
Be the new Eve, she urges herself. Stop prioritizing this stranger’s feelings and tell him to leave you alone. But she can’t. At the slightest provocation, old, sad, doormat Eve has quickly jumped back in charge.
“I’m not trying to be rude,” she says carefully, feeling her heartbeat spike. “I would just like to be by myself tonight.”
Well, shit!
Now that she committed to that, will she have to leave the bar so Raymond doesn’t catch her talking to anyone else later? Her palms start sweating.
“One drink—” he starts.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” comes a voice, tinged with an accent Eve can’t place. “She said no, mate. Get it through your thick skull and leave the poor woman alone.”
Raymond spins to get a look at the woman who interrupted them and without his body blocking the view, Eve gets a clear line, too. Her stomach flips over and releases a conservatory’s worth of butterflies.
Even wearing a look of contempt, the woman on the other side of Raymond is stop-in-your-tracks, tongue-tyingly beautiful. She’s younger than Eve, with a head of honey blond hair, hazel eyes that are currently blazing and eyebrows arched, waiting to see how Raymond would respond. The woman is wearing a dark suit — tailored navy pinstripe trousers and a matching vest — but she took off her jacket and hung it on the back of her seat. She's sitting hunched over her drink in a light blue dress shirt with the sleeves messily rolled back, wearing a dark slim watch that is the antithesis of Raymond’s flashy gold one. The wrinkles in her suit and creases under her eyes give the impression of a weary business executive after a long, hard day at work. Her eyes flit to Eve's for the briefest moment before returning to Raymond, but the charge that runs down Eve's spine is enough to root her to her chair.
Raymond shifts his weight. Apparently, he's going to play the tough guy. "Why don't you mind your business?"
The woman arches a brow, her sharp hazel eyes narrowing. "Oh, great. You're one of those." She rises from her seat so quickly her barstool screeches across the floor. "Let's get this over with. I've had a crap day, and I'd love to kick your ass and still get home before midnight. Come on, then. You're clearly campaigning for Most Punchable Man in the Bar. Let's give you the trophy."
Her voice is calm and cutting, with a hard-to-place accent — Eastern European, maybe?— like someone who routinely offers people the chance to get their faces rearranged. She gestures lazily for him to bring it on, exuding the kind of confidence that's terrifying.
The room falls silent. All eyes are on them.
Eve, on the sidelines, feels like she's about to sink into the floor from sheer secondhand embarrassment. She has no idea how to defuse this or what to do with her hands, but Raymond looks even more out of his depth. His eyes dart nervously, calculating his odds.
Sure, he's broader, but the woman, now standing, proves to be tall and lean, her posture radiating a readiness to strike.
"Look, I don't want to punch a woman,” Raymond mutters, raising his hands in a half-hearted show of surrender.
The woman lets out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Good news, you won't get the chance. I'll be the one doing the punching. Or would you like to retreat now and avoid embarrassing yourself in front of everyone?" She tilts her head, her tone dripping with mock sympathy.
"Nah, we're good," Raymond backpedals quickly, his hands up in surrender. "Just having some fun, like people do in bars, yeah?"
"Fantastic," the woman says coolly. "Then kindly fuck off as suggested.”
Raymond doesn’t wait to be told a third time. As he hightails away from the bar, a young woman nearby mutters, “What a douche.” And with that judgment rendered, the room dials back to a normal volume.
“Thank you,” Eve says to the blonde woman. She waves Eve off with a grunt and settles back in her barstool, leaning comfortably over her drink, apparently hoping to resume her night like nothing had happened.
Eve stares at her. The adrenaline is draining out of her system, which leaves her feeling hollow. She should have been the one to tell Raymond to fuck off. She should have had the guts, but instead she tiptoed around and this woman had to step in and do it for her.
It hits her like a ton of bricks: from the moment Raymond arrived, she’d been unequivocally mousy.
Exactly like Niko said.
As an introvert, she often had to remind herself to not let speculations and anxieties about other people’s thoughts and feelings derail her life. In general, she's used to it taking a long time for her brain to let go of a hurtful comment. But Niko’s words had far exceeded what any rational person would consider their rightful expiration date. It had been two years since she first discovered Niko was cheating on her, and a year and a half since the second time, which came with his humiliating accusation.
In all that time, Eve hasn’t been able to shake it. On the rare occasions when she goes out with someone new, Niko’s words hummed in the back of her mind, whispering that no matter how well she and her date hit it off, the moment would come when they get into bed and Eve reveals what a disappointment she is.
It’s bigger than sex, though. After more than a year of being haunted by the words boring and timid, it finally hit her that the reason she can’t shake Niko’s words is because deep down, she believes them.
Little did her ex know that she long suspected there is something lacking about her. That when it comes down to it, she simply isn’t very interesting, smart, or bold.
This is the reason she could never move forward in her career, or make a solid group of friends, or keep someone romantically interested, no matter how hard she tries. Niko had no clue he was speaking her secret fear into life, that when he suggested there is something wrong with Eve, she wouldn’t argue but agree. Of course there is.
So it was almost a mercy Niko had the guts to tell her she’s a dud in bed. While surely not the only thing lacking about her, it was at least something she could fix. After months of wallowing, she's finally ready to take the bull by the horns and become someone worldly and exciting. She'd be bold in bed if it killed her. Which, quite honestly, judging by how this night is going, it might.
Eve's now been staring at the blonde woman for an embarrassingly long time, but she didn’t seem to notice, focused as she is on her drink. Eve swallows hard, her mind racing. She’s never felt like this before — this magnetic pull toward a woman. Sure, she’d occasionally noticed an attractive woman, but this? This is different. It’s visceral, unnerving, and yet... thrilling.
What is happening to me?
So Eve summons all her courage and speaks up. “Excuse me. Ma’am?”
Oh, bad start! What am I, twelve? Try again.
“Um, you there, in the shirt. With the… sleeves. I’d like to buy you a drink.”
Surprised, the woman turns to Eve, and there it is again: the electric reaction, lightning through Eve's body.
“Not necessary.” Her voice is gruff. “Sitting next to that guy was ruining my night, too. It was a self-serving act, trust me. Besides, he wouldn’t have fought me. Guys like that fold when challenged. Especially by a woman.”
“Oh, okay,” Eve says. “Great.” She's smiling and nodding like the woman just said something terribly agreeable instead of outright rejecting her.
Oh, God! She rejected me.
Confident the blonde already turned back to her drink, Eve looks down at the bar and widens her eyes in silent horror at her reflection in the brass.
“Uh,” the woman says. Eve's head snaps up. The woman was, in fact, still watching Eve. Her hazel eyes track from Eve's frozen face to her hunched shoulders. “Okay. Yeah, you know what? I’ll take that drink. Thanks.”
She will?
“Bartender!” Eve calls, a little desperate. The bartender is heading to the other side of the bar, meaning Eve has to wait in excruciatingly awkward silence next to the woman if she doesn’t make this happen now.
Thankfully, the bartender stops and nods. “Another gin and tonic?”
“Yes. And a—” Eve glances at the woman.
“Vodka, neat. Whatever’s cheap works.” When the bartender shoots off, the woman turns back to her. “I’m Villanelle, by the way.”
The way she says it and then watches Eve, as if waiting for some reaction, throws her a bit, but she smiles anyway. “I’m—”
“Tallulah. Yeah, I heard. Kind of impossible not to, sorry.”
Oops! Do I correct the lie and look like a weirdo?
A thought occurs to Eve: It might not be too late to make this night what she wants. Maybe Eve can still be who she wants. Which, to be clear, is anyone other than the old Eve. “That’s right,” she says, settling back in her barstool. “Tallulah Shark.”
Villanelle’s mouth quirks. “What brings you out among the goons and buffoons tonight, Tallulah?”
“It’s the two-year anniversary of the night my ex-husband cheated on me,” Eve says, shocking herself. It turns out Tallulah is forthright.
The bartender slides their drinks across the bar. Villanelle picks up her tumbler and tips it in Eve's direction. “Well. Cheers, then.” Villanelle slips off her barstool, nodding toward the crowded tables. “Come on. A table just opened. If that’s the reason you’re here, you’re clearly looking to tie one on. Been there myself. We can’t have any more jerks bothering you while you’re on a sacred mission to wipe some fucker from your memory.”
She takes off without waiting for Eve, just scoops her jacket and marches in the direction of a small table in the corner, nearly hidden under the fronds of a sweeping palm. Eve doesn’t think twice. Given the choice between sitting alone at the bar — technically, what she'd come here to do — or remaining in the cocoon of this strangely acerbic woman, Eve chooses the cocoon.
She drops into the chair across from Villanelle, who rests her elbows on the table, leaning over to tip her drink at Eve's. “A real toast this time. To fresh starts.”
Eve clinks her glass, feeling the butterflies swoop and dive. They're now separated by nothing more than a small circular table, so Eve can see the tiny details of her face: the dark lashes tipping toward her brow, the amber ring around her pupils, the Cupid’s bow of her upper lip, topping her wry smile. Eve shifts underneath the table, her knee sliding against Villanelle's, rubbing the smooth fabric of her pants. Eve jerks it away and takes an overlarge sip of her drink.
“So,” Eve says, once she's drained the gin and tonic. “Do you come here often?”
Villanelle doesn’t seem the type, but what if The Sweeties is her routine hookup spot same as everyone else?
Villanelle pauses midsip and grins, teeth dazzling. Eve realizes what she just said and can actually feel herself turning red. “That’s a pickup line, isn’t it?”
“One of the oldest in the book. You know, if you leave now, I think you can catch up with your friend Raymond.”
Eve groans, covering her face. “I was genuinely curious!”
Villanelle's smile remains wolfish. “No, I come here never. But it’s only a few blocks from my office, and I had a long day at work. Needed to drown myself in vodka somewhere within stumbling distance. Voilà, The Sweeties.” She glances around. “Turns out this place is a scene.”
The bar had grown even more crowded since they left, and the overflow miles around them, people waiting their turn. One guy in particular seems oblivious to their presence behind him. He keeps edging so close his butt brushes Eve's arm. Villanelle eyes him disapprovingly.
“Working on a Saturday, huh?” She has to be what, an investment banker? A lawyer like June’s boyfriend, Ben? Some high-stakes corporate job with no work-life balance. She looks the type.
Villanelle rubs tiredly at her eyes. “If it wasn’t my dream job, I’d have quit ages ago. Oi,” she barks suddenly, just as the hovering guy knocks Eve's arm. “Watch it!” The guy glances back at them sheepishly and moves away.
Eve leans over and braces her elbows on the table. “You really have no fear, do you? You just say whatever you’re thinking.”
“Sorry. Born this way, as my mum likes to say.”
“Your mum, far away in… Russia?”
Villanelle's mouth quirks. “Here in the UK. I was born in Russia, and we lived there until I was five. Then we moved here and settled in Norfolk.”
“Ah.” That explains her accent. It’s sharp, like a Russian melody woven with the crisp cadence of an English country lilt. Russia meets England. Wholly unique and beautiful to listen to.
Villanelle sighs. “Yes, I’m one of those classic British Russians you see everywhere. My childhood home was a small cottage on a farm, and we ate nothing but fish, chips, and hearty stews growing up.”
“Be careful or I’ll believe you.”
“Norfolk tried its damnedest to make me a farm girl, I’ll admit, but I guess some Russianisms stuck. Mostly, my mum’s slang and my dad's taste for vodka.”
“For what it’s worth, I think your bluntness is kind of amazing.”
Villanelle drains her drink and drops it on the table. “Yeah, well, please inform my colleagues. Pretty sure it’s shaved years, if not decades, off their lives.” She copies Eve, leaning over and placing her elbows on the table, lacing her fingers together. Their clasped hands are mere inches apart. Eve could easily lift a finger and stroke the back of her hand.
Is her skin soft?
She has long, elegant fingers. The sudden vision of her hands moving roughly up Eve's stomach to cup her breasts send a stab of electricity through her. She crosses her legs tighter under the table.
“So what, then?” Villanelle’s gaze grows more intense. “You’re not in the habit of speaking your mind? A woman with a name like Tallulah Shark, who goes out to celebrate dumping her ex, wearing that dress… I smell bullshit.”
Eve glances down. “You like the dress?”
Technically Raymond liked it, too, but the compliment is different coming from Villanelle.
Their eyes lock across the table. Villanelle clears her throat and half stands, shoving back her chair. “Yeah, well.. You want another drink?”
“I thought you were trying to get home at a reasonable hour?” Companionship aside, Eve would feel bad if she ruined Villanelle’s night after Villanelle had saved hers.
She shrugs. “One more won’t kill me.”
“Then I’ll have what you’re having. Vodka.”
Villanelle's eyes jump to Eve's , and she looks like she wants to say something. But all that comes out is, “Be right back.”
Eve watches Villanelle elbow her way through the crowd and make it to the bar in record speed, laughing to herself as Villanelle flags down the bartender’s attention ahead of half a dozen people who turn to her in outrage, which Villanelle roundly ignores.
Without anyone nearby to judge, Eve lets herself study her, lingering over the lines of her body, her face in profile. Her shirt is tucked smartly into belted navy pants that are fitted enough to show— oh! Her ass is round and firm, the kind that suggests she's no stranger to lunges at the gym.
Eve bites her lip.
Who am I right now?
She never lusts like this. She hasn’t even realized she was capable of it. She’s never had this kind of visceral reaction. And to a woman?
The thought jolts her. It’s not like she’s never noticed women before, she’s just never let herself linger on the thought. But now? The heat pooling in her stomach, the way her pulse races—it feels completely new. Daring. Exciting.
Is it Villanelle’s brashness Eve's responding to, her body soaking it up and reflecting it back like a mirror? Or has she simply morphed into a caricature of a sex-deprived woman? Either way, it feels good, like someone has flipped a switch to remagnetize her, the sudden buzzing attraction proof that she's very much alive. Even better that Eve thinks Villanelle is so wildly out of her league: she can simply sit back and admire her for admiration’s sake.
Eve's still contemplating this when Villanelle turns, two vodkas in hand and Eve's chest warms at the thought that Villanelle is making her way back to her, out of all the people in the bar. She slides Eve's drink to her.
Eve grins and sips her drink. Villanelle’s eyes follow the drink to Eve’s mouth and she smiles guiltyly. Her eyes are such a warm, rich hazel. It’s amazing how much she could convey with them. Now they radiate a sly, amused knowing.
“Any-way,” Villanelle says, drawing it out. “On to more important things. I’ve told you about me. Now I want to know everything about you, from the day you were born to the moment you walked into this bar. The good, the bad, the ugly, the exes. Unpack yourself, Tallulah Shark. I’m prepared to be fascinated.”
Eve laughs to cover the sudden sharp ache.
Eve Park, the bore.
She wants so badly to impress this magnetic stranger. But obviously, her real life wouldn’t cut it. A wild hare struck her. “You mean...you want to hear how my parents conceived me on a motorcycle tour around America, and my mom gave birth to me at the mouth of Niagara Falls?”
Villanelle’s eyebrows shoot up. “Really?”
Eve’s heart races. Just like that, she’s fascinating. Sure, she’s lying, but what does lying matter on a night she’d specifically carved out to be a blip in reality, an island of time disconnected from every other day? She will never see Villanelle or any of these people again. She can do anything. Why not try on another life for a few hours?
“Wait until you hear about my siblings,” she says, settling back in her chair. “I’m the oldest of six, and one of them is an honest-to-God international spy. Another knows Oprah.”
She proceeds to talk more in one straight shot than she ever had in her life. She tells Villanelle story after story. Turns out it’s much easier to talk when she’s pretending to be Tallulah. During one stretch she runs out of ideas and has to borrow plotlines from the first book that comes to mind, a popular children’s fantasy novel about dragon hunters (one of the hazards of being a children’s librarian), simply praying Villanelle hasn’t read Charlie Cooper and the Hunt for the Mystical Dragon’s Egg. Mostly, though, she finds herself telling her true stories, with the edges blurred — her past actions more heroic, her comebacks wittier, Eve the star of the shenanigans and her siblings the sidekicks, all the ways she wishes life had gone. It’s exhilarating to be on this side of the storytelling for once.
Unsurprisingly, Villanelle is not a passive listener. She bursts in with questions, forces Eve to stop when she laughs so hard she shakes the table, and makes Eve pause mid sentence so she could go fetch another round, then another. Time dilates into a warm fuzzy stretch until before Eve knows it, the lights have dimmed and the crowd has thinned to them and a man who fell asleep in his barstool, snoring like a bear.
“Shit.” Villanelle wipes her face and glances around. “What time is it?”
Eve points at Villanelle's watch to remind her she is wearing one, and Villanelle jerks it to her face, then blanches. “Do you want the truth, or—” she grimaces. “A lie that makes you feel better?”
Eve sighs and leans back in her chair, feeling the fabric of her sleek black dress cling to her. Villanelle clears her throat, dropping her eyes. “Honestly,” Eve says. “Give me the beautiful lie.”
“Come on.” Villanelle rises to her feet and extends a hand. “I’ll walk you out.”
Eve seizes her hand and Villanelle yanks her with more strength than Eve expected. Instead of stopping upright, Eve sails forward so fast she has to grip Villanelle’s shoulders so she doesn’t end up flush against her.
“Whoa there,” Villanelle murmurs, looking down at the small space between them. She dips her head, her nose brushing Eve’s.
“Sorry.” Eve releases her and steps back. “Lost my balance.” She turns to pick up her purse and shivers, a full-body reaction to having been that close to Villanelle. When she turns back, Villanelle is holding up her navy suit jacket.
Eve shakes her head. “I’m okay—”
Villanelle shakes the jacket so the sleeves dance. “Come on. I can see your goose bumps.”
Obviously Eve can’t tell Villanelle the goose bumps are the result of meeting the mere tip of her nose, so she dips inside the jacket. Villanelle drapes it carefully over Eve’s shoulders, letting it trail like a cape. It’s shot through with her scent, which has to be an expensive perfume: subtle but playful, not just woodsy cedar but notes of something sweeter, like berries.
Everything about Villanelle is a mix of unexpected things. Eve takes a deep breath and wraps the jacket tighter. Villanelle tips her head in the direction of the door, her eyebrows raised in question.
Eve’s heels make quiet clipping sounds as they stride across the empty lobby. The inside of The Standard is all marble floors and ornate brass-piped ceilings, like a cross between a cathedral and a fancy, old-time bank. Eve sighs.
“What?” Villanelle glances over as they walk.
“I just love this place. It’s so romantic.”
It’s funny, but as they near the large glass doors that separates the hotel from the street, Eve realizes she’s happy. Almost giddy. Even though she didn’t succeed at the one thing she came here to do, there is something about the last few hours spent talking, being the sole focus of someone’s attention, that left her feeling the way she hoped a one-night stand would: confident, interesting, and liberated. In an unexpected way she’s leaving with exactly what she came for.
Is it possible to have an emotional orgasm?
Villanelle stops by the glass doors and shakes out her hands, which, if Eve didn’t know she isn’t the type to get nervous, she’d call a nervous tic. “You calling an Uber? Want me to wait?”
Eve shakes her head. She’s already eaten up so much of her night. There is no way she’d continue to impose. “Don’t worry about it.” She tugs off Villanelle’s jacket and lets it hang off the hook of her finger. Villanelle shrugs it back on and pauses, head tilted. She smiles. “It smells like you now. Flowers and lemons.” She taps a finger to her temple. “Strategic thinker.”
Eve cracks a laugh. Flowers and lemons, meet woods and berries. A veritable forest between them. They stand looking at each other for a moment.
“Well...” Eve rocks on her feet, awkward again.
“Right.” Villanelle rubs her jaw. “So, did it work?”
“Did what work?”
“Did you forget about him? Your ex?”
Eve smiles. “Yes. Thank you. Quite a charitable service you provided.”
“Well, then.” Villanelle steps close and cups a hand to the back of Eve’s head. “Good night, Tallulah.” She presses a quick kiss to Eve’s cheek, her lips there and gone.
Maybe it is the alcohol, or the intoxicant of being stood up for and then listened to, but before her mind could catch up, her body is reaching out for something Eve has no business hoping for.
“Villanelle.” She takes a deep breath and pulls Villanelle's sleeve, turning her back around. And then everything happens quickly: Eve brings her hands to cup Villanelle’s face, Villanelle's eyebrows lift in surprise, and Eve kisses her, tasting the warm softness of her mouth. She pulls away and looks up, heart drumming, waiting for Villanelle’s response.
Villanelle blinks at Eve for an excruciatingly drawn-out moment and then bends down, wraps her arms around Eve, and pulls Eve to her with a grunt, canting her mouth over Eve's in a wordless yes.
Villanelle’s hand finds the back of Eve's head as she chases her mouth, deepening the kiss. More, Villanelle's touch says, and the next thing Eve knows, Villanelle's bracing an arm against her back to keep Eve close, her other hand tangling in Eve's hair.
Villanelle's tongue in Eve's mouth shoots white-hot electricity through her, all the lust that had been simmering all night boiling over, and Eve thinks that Villanelle would kiss like this. Exactly how she talks. Eve wraps a leg around Villanelle's knee, urging her closer, every inch of her skin charged, nearly tortured with sensation. Villanelle kisses her back so hungrily Eve has to break away to gasp for air.
I did it: I became a different person.
Old Eve, who never would’ve kissed someone with such abandon in a public place — especially a woman — had burned to ash, giving rise to a new Eve whose only care is kissing this brash stranger as much as she can before she leaves. The thought of who she used to be barely registers as Villanelle’s lips press harder, her hands firm and sure on Eve’s waist.
The clack of approaching footsteps on the marble floors, however, work like a bucket of ice. Eve wrenches back from Villanelle, managing to say, “Public,” even in her breathlessness.
Villanelle nods, agreeing with Eve's good sense, then immediately tosses it aside, kissing Eve so fiercely she tips backward.
Villanelle's eyes are molten when they part. “What do you want to do?” she whispers.
Well… I am Tallulah Shark tonight.
So Eve answers honestly, pressing the words into the column of Villanelle's throat. “I don’t want to stop.”
“Mmm,” Villanelle humms, and Eve feels the vibration against her lips. Villanelle wrenches back from her, casting a sweeping gaze around the lobby. Eve feels a momentary disappointment at the new space between them that ends when Villanelle’s eyes fall back on her, burning with a question.
“Then please tell me,” she says thickly, “that you want to get a room.”