Paris was dressed in gray today. Fuzzy clouds of cool shades hazed over the sun, blocking out the rays and warmth, and droplets had been falling since the early morning. Glazed puddles pooled in the streets, accompanying the cars and bikes that were on their way to work.
Marientte, however, was on her way to the nearest cafe. It would be warm and quiet there, with hot drinks and free Wi-fi. The city was already quiet today though, as if the rain shrouded it with a calming peace. The humidity could be better. Marinette's bangs gently clung to her face, framing her eyes and so she kept her lids low, loosing any specific train of thought to flow with the stone sidewalk as she made her way.
She closed her clear umbrella, the expensive one her mom had ordered from Japan for her 15 birthday, and shook out the drops under the cafe's front door shading. Strapping it close, she gripped the polished material of the door handle and stepped into the blends of coffee beans and mint teas.
She was right, nice and warm. And pleasantly empty. The rain and early hours must not be able to secure many customers.
There was a whole row of empty stools at the window, save one man at the second to the end, so she placed herself in one, two seats away, and order a simple hot coffee, with hazelnut, just as she liked it.
After the moment of ordering coffee, Marientte's morning went surreal. It's was sweet and quiet, like a dream with no sound.
A fever had been coming over before that day, and so she had placed her head down to rest against the counter and onto hrr sketchbook. But she didn't wake up until the stranger at the end of the stool had woken her up, in concern.
He was very handsome, and very kind. She really liked his hands as well. His hair was a soft graident of black and this beautiful blue, the color a renaissance artist might have painted a fairy-tale lake in a fantasy world. But he was real. And so was his pleasant charm and genuine personality. It would be good to mention that he was also 26.
Marientte was just turned 17.
But a conversation continued over many coffees, into late morning, and somehow the day become colder and the rain became stronger. He had walked her home, and through the beginning storm, her umbrella couldn't have shaded both of them very well.
She invited him in to dry his clothes.
Her family owned a bakery, and also a coffee maker. She brewed one up and took Monsuir Couffaine's coat to the dryer upstairs. She invited him up there too.
Her clothes were wet as well, her white blouse with cute little frills clung to her skin, giving more than just hints of color to where her pink bra was, and her thin, delicate pink skirt dripped onto the floor. Her thin pigtails were wet along with the red ribbons that tied them, sopping and sticky to her neck and shoulders.
Monsuir Couffaine, or Luka, he insisted, lean against the shut door of the laundry room, a small window let in barely any light from the darkened sky. Marientte put Luka's coat into the dryer. She offered to put his shirt, but he declined.
Of course, how improper it would be for an older man and teenage girl to be alone and half naked while her parents were out of town on a small and well-deserved vacation.
A crack of lighting broke a settling silence in the small room.
Marinette began unbuttoning her blouse.
With a mysterious and questioning look, Luka wanted to tell her to stop, but the porcelain, thin fingers opened the buttons and the way she peeled the wet fabric off of her creamy skin put him into a curious trance.
She tossed her blouse into the dryer, and as if there was no one else in the room, she casually turned away and began removing her shoes, to her wet socks, and then began slidding her skirt down.
"Marinette, wait." Luka began feeling uncomfortable. A beautiful, but much too young girl, presenting her self. He didn't want to do soemthing they both would regret.
She gave him a quick soft glance, and then turned on the dryer. With the rumbing and the rain now pouring outside, there wasn't any room for silence anymore.
"I know what I'm doing is wrong," Marinette stepped in front of him. "But. . . I want to be close to you."
Cautiously she put her hands up and Luka met them with his own, interlacing fingers. Despite their age difference, they both could feel this powerful connection between them. Neither of them had felt this passion. It was constricting, in a bittersweet way.
Luka gentely came to rest his forehead against hers, a small and very cautious smile playing on his lips.
"Marinette. . . you know you're a funny girl?"
Those words made her jerk slightly and a rising blush overtook her sweet cheeks. She ducked her head lower. He took one hand away to bring it under her chin to raise it up slightly. The invition of her parted pink lips was almost devilish.
"What I meant to say was, you're a stunning girl. Any boy is going to be lucky to be in your mere presence." He couldn't help a glance downward to her blossoming breasts hiding beneath her thin bra, the soft curverature of her supple skin, hips formed and her thighs sweetly blushed. He couldn't help being attracted to her.
"But I'm not a boy anymore Marinette."
She looked down, lashes feathering over her blue-bell eyes. She was thinking consideratly.
Despite what he had just said, Marinette tilted her head upwards, her feet on its tip toes, and brushed her lips gently across his.
He didn't move, as though a curious deer had come up close to him and a single moment would make her scurry away. He looked into her eyes.
Since he didn't make any initial response, she decided to do it again, with slightly more pressure. And he returned it, just barely pressing back against them, soft and warm. Though gentle, the tender heat flushed down into their bodies from it.
They looked at eachother for a moment, through the gray dark that had grown and the fluctuating light.
Luka might have stuttered a word or two, but he quickly unlaced his fingers and made his way out into the storm, his coat left in Marinette's dryer, and her heart fluttering like a bird's.