The Professor's Wife

**Author's Note:**

This is a rewrite of what was originally called "Musée d'Orsay Encounter." Thanks to whoever said the first version read like a bad movie script (you were right) and that I went overboard with all the French phrases. Guilty as charged.

Tried to make it fun this time. Raw. No bullshit romance novel stuff. Just what might actually happen between two people - messy parts included.

Anyway, let me know if it works better now. Or if it still sucks, tell me that too I guess.

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Chapter 1 - Musée d'Orsay

First time I saw her she was staring at that depressing Degas painting, the one with the absinthe drinkers looking miserable as shit. I was supposed to be sketching random people for my morning assignment but my hand just stopped working when she walked in. Not just cuz she was hot, though she was, but there was something about how she held herself. Sad but fancy, if that makes sense? Like those women in films who've got everything except happiness.

White silk top tucked into navy skirt, perfectly fitted not like the Primark crap the uni girls wear. Her stockings had that line up the back. Weird how that got me. Reminded me of my grandma, which should've been a turn-off but wasn't.

Bloody hell, been staring too long. Back to my sketchbook before security boots me out. Compared to her the other exchange students looked like kids playing dress-up. All Uggs and unflattering Helly Hansen jackets. She wore clothes that were fitted, sexy, like they were expensive extensions of herself.

When her scarf dropped, I lunged for it like some tit, almost knocked over some German tourist. I reckon he must have been a kraut because he was 7ft.

"Entschuldigung," basically sorry in German, grabbing it before it touched the floor. Up close she smelled expensive. Not like Gemma, my ex, who bathed in that sickly Body Shop stuff till you could taste it.

She turned around, looked surprised. 40ish? Maybe? Hard to tell with the classy ones. Her eyes checked me out, just some 22-year-old in jeans that looked okay in my crappy flat mirror but now felt like I'd nicked them from a charity shop.

"Merci," she said, all French and elegant.

"No problem. I mean, you're welcome," I blurted, too loud for the quiet gallery. Some security chap gave me a dirty look. "The brushstrokes are amazing though right? Like how he shows she's sad without making it obvious."

God I sound like a fresher trying too hard. But her eyebrows went up a bit.

"You are student of art?" Her English was perfect but French. Actual French, not the kind from my A-level textbooks.

"Yeah, Cambridge. Semester abroad." I stuck my hand out like a job interview. "James. Jamie to friends."

She hesitated then took it. "Clémence."

My hand was all sweaty. Held on too long til it got awkward, then let go too quick.

"The isolation in this painting..." she began.

"Clémence." Some bloke appeared next to her, grey short hair. Put his hand on her back like he was marking his territory. "We need to find Sophie. Her project..."

"Philippe, this kind student saved my scarf." She nodded at me. "He studies art in Cambridge."

Philippe looked at me like I was shit. "English art student. How... quaint." Sarcastic prick. "And what brings you to our museums? Surely England has pictures in books."

Felt my face get hot. "Not the same as seeing the real thing."

"Indeed." Smug smile. "And your specialty?"

"Contemporary influences of the Impressionists on modern figurative painting." Sounded rehearsed cuz it was. I'd said it at about fifty parties, normally pissed.

"Ah, the Impressionists." He practically sneered. "How very... accessible. Clémence, the children are waiting."

As he stalked off she stayed behind. "My husband teaches at the Sorbonne," she said, sounding half sorry. "Dutch masters. He finds Impressionists a bit... I don't know, sentimental?"

"What do you think though?" Came out bolder than I meant.

She looked at me for a sec, head kind of tilted. "They capture life as it happens. Before it's gone." Glanced after her husband. "I should find my family."

I kept bumping into them all afternoon. Not following exactly. But not not following either. Our eyes met across rooms and there was this... thing. Not just wanting to sleep with her though obviously that too but like she got me. Crazy.

Later on I found her alone by a small Monet. No sunglasses now, just hanging from her pocket. Her eyes looked tired. Real.

"They've gone for pastries," she said without turning around. Somehow knew it was me. "Philippe gets bored with the smaller paintings."

I stood next to her, heart hammering. "You prefer small to big, then?" Realised how that sounded and felt my face go red.

She turned to look at me, different from before. "Sometimes the pieces artists don't intend for everyone hold the most truth." Had a small scar by her eyebrow I hadn't noticed.

"Show me?" I said, then went red. "I mean, your favourites."

She watched me for a bit, thinking. Then nodded. "There's a gallery of sketches around the corner. Not many people go there."

We walked through the museum, chatting about art but not really about art. In the little gallery, we were alone. Darkish, to protect the sketches or something.

"See how he captures her uncertainty?" she whispered, pointing at some Rodin sketch. Just a line showing a woman's back. "The pressure changes when she decides to be brave."

"Like watching something private," I said quietly. My arm touched hers. Neither of us moved away.

She turned to me, close enough I could see where her makeup didn't quite cover a freckle. "You understand," she said. Wasn't a question.

Without thinking I reached out and touched her wrist. Felt like touching a live wire.

She stepped back, but her eyes stayed on mine. Deciding something.

"The maintenance closet." She nodded at a door I'd walked past twice without seeing. "Through there."

Took me a second. Holy fuck. Was she suggesting what I thought? She must've seen it on my face cos she just waited. I nodded. She checked no one was watching then walked straight to it like she owned the place. I followed her in and she closed it behind us.

Chapter 2 - Maintenance Closet

The maintenance closet was tiny. Flickering light overhead. Shelves digging in my back. Mop bucket in the way.

Reality hit me. What the actual fuck was I doing? She was married. Had teenage kids. Old enough to be... well not my mum exactly but definitely not right. But standing there smelling bleach and floor cleaner, my cock was harder than it had ever been.

"Tu es sûr?" she asked. Giving me a chance to bail.

Was I sure? My flatmates would never believe this. Thought about that posh French bird from my Deconstructivism seminar. We'd had coffee last week and I'd spent the whole time trying to look cultured by talking about Sartre.

"Yeah," I said, voice cracking like I was back in school.

She put a finger to my lips. "Quiet. Security." Then she kissed me.

Nothing like I'd imagined. Kinda messy. Our teeth clacked together which hurt. She tasted like coffee and expensive lipstick. My hands went to her waist then down to her arse, squeezing through her skirt. Firm but soft at the same time.

"Fuck," I whispered into her neck as she pressed against me... I was so hard it was embarrassing, straining against my jeans. She felt it and smiled against my mouth.

"Eager," she murmured, her hand going down to rub me through my jeans. "I like."

Outside, a radio crackled. We froze. Her hand on my cock, mine in her hair.

"They mustn't find us here," she breathed into my ear.

Made it better somehow. The risk. The secret. Not some fantasy but something real.

Hands shaking as I pushed her skirt up around her waist. Her thighs were bigger than they looked in the skirt, with silvery stretch marks. Fancy designer black knickers with lacy bits. Fucking hot!

"Jesus," I muttered, dropping to my knees. Floor was hard and freezing but I didn't give a damn. Pushed my face against her inner thigh and breathed in. Smelled like that fishy smell when a woman's turned on. Not like porn where everyone smells of nothing.

"Jamie..." she started to say something but I was already mouthing her through her knickers, feeling how wet she was already, soaking through the silk. She made this noise and grabbed my hair, pulling hard enough to hurt a bit.

I hooked my fingers in her knickers and pulled them down. She stepped out of them, still in those posh heels and stockings. All those life drawing classes, and nothing compared to seeing a real woman's cunt up close.

Nothing like the airbrushed tarts on PornHub. She was real - soft curves, a bit of a muffin top. Fucking gorgeous in a way those skinny birds back at uni could never match.

Her head knocked the shelves. I had no bloody clue what I was doing but carried on anyway.

"Like this?" I asked, circling her with my tongue.

"Bit, fuck, bit softer," she gasped, pushing my head where she wanted it. "There. Right there. Don't you dare stop."

Kept going even when my jaw hurt and my neck was killing me. Not till she shook against me, her thighs squeezing my head, making this muffled sound as she came.

She pulled me up by my shirt, kissing me hard, tasting herself. Her hands went for my belt, fumbling with my zip.

"Shit, no condom," I blurted, panic cutting through everything.

"On the pill," she said, grabbing my cock. "And clean. You?"

"Yeah. Checked after Charlotte. My ex," I added stupidly. Why was I talking about Charlotte now?

She didn't seem to care though. Just turned around, leaned on the shelf unit, and looked back over her shoulder. "Like this," she said. "Now."

I pushed inside her slowly, watching myself disappear into her, nearly losing it right then and there.

"Oh fuck," I gasped when I was fully in. The heat. How tight she was. Nothing like awkward hookups in uni bedrooms. I was gonna embarrass myself in about ten seconds.

"Move," she told me, pushing back.

So I did, holding her hips, watching myself slide in and out of her. The wet sounds seemed too loud. Couldn't help the groaning in my throat.

"Quiet," she reminded me, reaching back to touch my face. "They'll hear us."

Bit my lip trying not to make noise. Each time I pushed in, she bumped the metal shelving, making it rattle. A bottle of cleaner fell off, hit the floor with a bang.

We froze. Footsteps went past the door, then away.

The close call gave me this rush of adrenaline. Started moving again, faster now, one hand going around to find her sweet spot. She was gonna come again, could feel it in how she gripped me.

"Not gonna last," I admitted, voice all tight.

"S'okay," she breathed, showing me how to touch her. "Just don't stop that."

Kept going, holding back my own orgasm by thinking about cricket stats. Anything. Focused on my fingers on her, her breathing getting all ragged. When she came again, I let go, pushed into her as deep as I could, coming so hard my knees nearly gave out. My spunk dripping out of her pussy.

For a bit we just stayed like that, her back against my chest, both panting. Then reality came crashing back. An announcement echoed through the museum: fifteen minutes till closing.

"I must go," she said, fixing her skirt. Button missing from her top. No idea when that happened. She tucked it in, hiding the gap. "My family..."

"When can I see you again?" Sounded desperate. Felt desperate.

She hesitated, then took a card from her bag. Had an address. "Tuesday. Three o'clock." Pause. "If you want."

"I want," I said.

She checked the corridor was clear before going out, transforming back into fancy museum lady like magic. I waited five minutes before leaving, still buzzing with what just happened.

Chapter 3 - Tuesday's

Six Tuesday's later I was lying on a fancy bed in her secret apartment, a "pee-ay-tear" she called it, used for "writing and reflection." Yeah right. My wrists were tied to the headboard with her stockings. First time she suggested it I was surprised, not my usual fantasy. But watching her take control, seeing who she really was when she wasn't being Professor's Wife, changed everything.

She was on top of me naked. She had me inside her but wasn't moving, just squeezing me which was driving me crazy.

"Not allowed to finish till I say," she told me, pinching my nipples. "Understand?"

I nodded, trying to think about anything else. The ceiling. Traffic outside. But then she started moving, lifting up till I nearly slipped out, then sinking back down super slow.

"Fuck, Clémence," I groaned, pulling at the stockings around my wrists. "You're killing me."

She laughed, real laugh from her belly. "So dramatic." Her accent made it sound sexy not insulting. "You can take it young man."

Light coming through the curtains made everything golden. Not like the harsh lights in the closet. At 46, she'd finally told me after I guessed 38 and she laughed her arse off.

She sped up, chasing her own pleasure. Her body moved against mine, head thrown back, legs shaking. She touched herself.

"Let me touch you," I begged. "Please."

She untied one of my hands and I reached for her, feeling her respond. She moaned, moving faster now.

"Now," she gasped. "With me."

Didn't need telling twice. It hit me like a express train, as I lost control. She followed right after, her body clenching around me as she came with a sharp little cry.

She collapsed on my chest, both of us sweaty as hell. Wrapped my arms around her, feeling her heart going crazy against my ribs.

"Back to Cambridge next week," I said after a bit, watching her face.

She nodded. Not surprised. We always knew there was an end date. My semester finishing, her going back to her life of dinner parties and gallery openings.

"Make today count then," she said, kissing my chest. "Got something for you."

From this old desk in the corner she got a package all wrapped in fancy tissue paper.

Inside was a man's silk scarf, blues and greys that looked like that Vermeer painting in the museum.

"To remember," she said, dragging the scarf across my chest, down my stomach. "Bit of me to take back."

"Don't need this to remember," I said, pulling her close again.

"I know," she said, gasping when I sucked her nipple. "But need to give it. Makes it real."

Later in the shower she said, "You should draw me sometime."

"Already have," I admitted, watching soap run down her back. "From memory."

"Your teacher must wonder about your interest in older women," she said, raising an eyebrow.

"Says my work's better now. More feeling." Stopped. "He's right. See everything different because of you."

She didn't say anything, just kissed me, water maybe hiding tears.

When I was leaving for the last time, she put the scarf around my neck, fingers touching my throat.

"Philippe's got one like it," she said, smoothing the silk. "Suits you better though."

"Au revoir, mon cher," she whispered against my mouth.

Walking back to my student housing, her smell was all over the scarf, all over me. Tomorrow's plane would take me back to a life that seemed both less real and more real after knowing her.

Chapter 4 - Memories

Ten years went by.

Got my degree, starved in London for ages surviving on Tesco value beans and my flatmate's leftovers, then got lucky when some posh gallery owner saw my paintings - women's legs in stockings mostly. The pervy bastard paid top dollar, which was bloody brilliant for my bank account.

Now I was in this fancy London gallery, everyone sipping cheap wine from plastic cups pretending it was vintage Bordeaux, nodding at my paintings like they understood what the fuck they meant. My agent was chatting up buyers, spouting absolute bollocks about my "process." My girlfriend worked at the gallery, busy schmoozing some rich collectors with more money than taste.

New people wandered in. Nearly dropped my glass.

Her hair was shorter now, bit of grey in it. Still gorgeous though. Her husband still looking down his nose at everyone. Hand on her back just like that first day, the controlling wanker.

I ducked behind a pillar, heart going mental like I was 22 again. Why was she here? London's a long way from her Paris stomping ground. Had she seen the exhibition flyer? Known I'd be here? Was she stalking me? Was I secretly hoping she was?

Her husband got stuck talking to some Royal Academy bloke about brush techniques or some such bollocks. She wandered over to a painting called "Museum Memory." Woman's reflection in a mirror, wrists tied with silk, looking free not trapped. About as subtle as a brick through a window, that one.

Watched her looking at it, tilting her head like she used to. Her fingers touched her throat, where I'd given her a love bite years ago on a Tuesday afternoon, that she'd had to hide.

My girlfriend appeared beside me. "That woman really connects with your work," she said. "Should talk to her, might buy something."

"I... maybe later," I managed. Smooth, Jamie. Real smooth.

But couldn't stay away. Found myself drifting over, using my champagne glass like a shield.

Clémence was alone by a smaller piece.

"It's about memory," I said quietly, standing next to her. "How touch stays with you."

She didn't turn straight away. "The artist captures intimacy well." Accent exactly the same. Made my knees go a bit wobbly still. "Like he knows his subject's cunt properly."

"He does," I said, heart pounding. "She taught him to see different."

Now she turned. Lines around her eyes, but same eyes. Museum eyes that had seen me, really seen me, when I was just another English student pretending to understand Derrida.

"The artist has matured," she said carefully. "Still something young and passionate there though."

"Some subjects do that to you."

Our careful conversation hung in the air between us like the world's most pretentious game of verbal Jenga.

"Clémence!" Her husband's voice cut through the gallery noise. "Time to go..."

She nodded, still looking at me. "Visiting Tate board," she explained. "Philippe's advising on their Dutch collection." Of course he bloody was.

"How long you in England?" Loaded question. About as subtle as my paintings.

"10 days." She took a business card from her bag. "Business and pleasure."

Our fingers touched as she passed it to me, same electricity still there after all that time. On the back, her handwriting: "Tuesday, 3pm." Some things never change.

"Clémence." Her husband appeared, nodding at me. "Interesting work. Bit derivative of Schiele, but contemporary." Derivative. The prick.

"Thanks," I said, barely looking at him. "Your wife's got a good eye."

"Indeed," he said, not really interested. "Though she likes the Impressionists. Always liked the sentimental."

Clémence's mouth curled up. "Not sentimental. Just alive in the moment."

As they left, she looked back once. Ten years of Tuesdays in that look, what we'd had, what we might still have. My cock apparently didn't care that we'd both aged a decade.

My girlfriend came back. "How was it?"

I put the card in my pocket. "She is interested in my work..."

"Right," she said, not believing a word. Women always know.

Tuesday, three o'clock, I'd find out if memory was enough to keep what we had alive or if, like those Impressionist paintings she loved, we'd just caught a moment that couldn't last.

Also needed to figure out how to ditch my girlfriend for the afternoon without looking like a complete bastard. Or maybe I was just a complete bastard. Funny how life has a way of putting you right back where you started, just with better clothes and more expensive wine.