Mister Perfume

Carnal Desire

Mathieu Lewis's point of view

Her.

I thought I had lost her in the anonymity of a single night. A silhouette vanishing before dawn, without a name, without a trace. Yet seeing her now—badge pinned to her jacket, notebook pressed against her chest—feels like a blow straight to the heart.

Our eyes lock, too long, too fierce. The world hums on around us: voices, figures, promises. But for me, everything else dissolves.

The fire is here. Between us.

She holds my gaze, her eyes shimmering with defiance and fear. I want to speak, to tear the truth from her, to understand why she slipped away that night without a word.

My voice trembles only slightly as I ask, “Why did you leave me like that?”

She clutches her notebook, hesitates, then answers with a chill in her tone: “Because, to me, it was nothing more than a night of intoxication. A night without tomorrow.”

Her words cut like a blade. I want to protest, to tell her she lies, that she remembers as vividly as I do. But before I could, Vitale appeared, smiling, a representative from FSJ at his side.

“Mr. Lewis, we must clarify the terms of export,” Vitale says in Italian, his accent rolling.

I grit my teeth. The moment slips away. She averts her eyes, folds herself back into her role. Translator. Professional.

The investors settle around us, their voices drowning in tension. I respond, I sign, I nod. Yet I can feel her perfume, her silence.

She withdraws, feigning the delivery of a document. I watch her vanish into the crowd.

The fire remains. But it is smothered beneath figures, promises, handshakes.

I understand then: this summit will not only decide the fate of my company. It will decide our fate.

.

Hours stretch, heavy with numbers and demands. Vitale speaks of Rome, FSJ insists on guarantees, Suzana translates with icy

precision. I respond, I sign, I nod. Everything is calculated, everything strategic.

But behind the theater, there is her. Sitting a few meters away, notebook clutched, voice steady. Each time she speaks, the burn returns. Each time her eyes meet mine, I know that night was no accident.

I try to focus, but all I hear is her silence. She wants to vanish, to dissolve into her role. I want to hold her back.

At last, the summit ends. Investors rise, shake hands, exchange cards. Voices fade, replaced by footsteps and doors closing.

She gathers her things, her notebook, her badge. She rises, ready to slip away just as she did that night.

I watch her retreat, each step echoing that dawn escape. Anger, frustration, desire surge through me. Not this time.

When she reaches the door, I rise abruptly. In two strides, I am behind her. My hand closes around her wrist.

She freezes. Her body stiffens, her breath halts. Slowly, she turns. Our eyes collide—burning, unspoken.

“You’re not leaving me again,” I say, my voice low and rough.

She stares at me, her eyes bright with defiance and fear.

“It was only a night of intoxication,” she whispers. “A night we must forget.”

Her words strike like a knife. But my hand does not release her.

I lean closer, my voice steady now. “Then why are you still trembling?”

She remains motionless, my hand still closed around her wrist. Her lips part, but no words escape. I see her turmoil, I feel her hesitation. She wants to speak, but the strength eludes her.

I lean in slightly, my voice softer now. “Come have a drink with me.”

Her eyes widen, a mixture of surprise and defiance. She finally catches her breath, and her tone turns sharp.

“You want to get me drunk again?”

I laughed, brief and genuine, a crack in the mask of the CEO. “I never got you drunk, miss ?.”

Silence settles, heavy, charged. She holds my gaze, her eyes gleaming, and I know we can no longer remain strangers.

“So… who are you?” she asks at last, her voice trembling yet firm.

I look at her, and I know this moment is irreversible. To name is to acknowledge. To name is to betray the anonymity of that night.

But I yield. “Mathieu Lewis.”

She inhales, as if the name were imprinting itself upon her. Then she answers, softly:

“Priscilla.”

Our names hover between us, like a promise. Like a burn.

I smile, though my heart beats too fast. This summit was meant to be business. It has just become a story.

“Then, Priscilla… let’s have that drink. We have things to say.”

Night has swallowed the city. The glass walls of the conference center still reflect the fading glow of the spotlights, but the tumult has dissolved. We walk side by side, wordless, toward a discreet bar two streets away.

The place is hushed, bathed in amber light. Conversations around us are indistinct murmurs, but for me, there is only her.

She holds her glass between her hands without drinking. Her fingers tremble faintly, but I see it. She wants to shield herself behind silence. I want to break it.

“Do you still think about that night?”

She lifts her eyes, startled. Her gaze catches mine, hesitant. “I try not to think about it,” she says at last.

I smile, bitter. “And yet, here you are. Sitting across from me.”

She inhales, her shoulders tightening. “It was a mistake. An intoxication. Nothing more.”

I shook my head slowly. “No. It wasn’t anything. You know that.”

Her silence is heavy. She looks away, but I feel the tension in her breath. She wants to deny it, but her body betrays her.

“You left before dawn,” I say. “Without a word. You made me believe I had to forget.”

She closes her eyes for a moment, as if my words struck her. “Because I was afraid,” she whispers. “Afraid it would become real.”

I remain frozen. Her voice trembles, but it is sincere.

“Real,” I repeat softly. “That is exactly what it was.”

Our glasses sit untouched, forgotten between us. The bar fades away. There is only that night returning, burning, and this present moment consuming us.

“Then say it, Priscilla. Tell me you felt nothing.”

She fixes her gaze on me, her eyes shining with a light I recognize. She does not speak. But I already know the answer.

I place my hand gently over hers. She flinches, but does not pull away. Her glass remains motionless, trapped between her fingers.

“I don’t know what I feel,” I murmur, “but since that night… you have stayed anchored in my mind.”

She slowly lifts her head. Her eyes catch mine, hesitant, almost incredulous. “In your mind?”

I nod, never breaking the gaze. “Yes. And more than that. I desire you, Priscilla.”

Her breath falters. I feel the tension in her wrist, the warmth of her skin beneath my hand.

“What I felt with you… I cannot explain it. But I desire you too much. I still want to see you tremble in my arms.”

Her lips part, but no words come. She stares at me, as if my words have opened a fault she cannot close.

The bar dissolves around us. There is only this burning silence, this truth I have laid between us.

Finally, she turns her eyes away, but I see the flush on her cheeks, the tightening of her fingers. She struggles. She wants to deny it.

But her body speaks for her.

“So that’s it? You want to make me your s****l object?”

Her voice lashes out, sharp, but I feel her trembling. She wants to push me back, to test me, to force me to face my own desire.

I remain still, my hand still resting on hers. I do not look away.

“No, Priscilla. I don’t want to reduce you to that.”

I pause, my breath heavier.

“What I felt with you… it wasn’t only desire. It was a fire. A truth. You marked me. And I cannot erase it.”

She frowns, but I see her lips tremble. She wants to believe me, but she resists.

“You speak as if I were an obsession.”

I smile, bitter. “Perhaps you are. But not an object. A presence. An imprint.”

I lean closer, my voice lower now, almost a confession. “Yes, I desire you. But I desire you whole. Not to possess you. To find you again.”

Her gaze clings to mine, burning, fragile. She does not answer at once. But I know my words have touched her.

Our eyes hold, suspended, as if time itself had stopped around us. The bar vanishes, the voices fade, and there is only her.

Her eyes shine, hesitate, but do not flee. I feel her breath, quick, fragile, and I know that if I move, everything will change.

Slowly, I lean in. She does not retreat. Our lips brush, hesitate for a heartbeat, then meet in a kiss that consumes.

Her mouth opens beneath mine, our tongues searching, finding, entwining with an urgency held back too long. The taste is that of the night we shared, returned intact, burning.

My hands wander, linger on the curve of her face, the warmth of her neck. She trembles, but she does not push me away. Her fingers clutch at my jacket, as if she needs to anchor herself to me.

The kiss deepens, becomes more sensual, more true. Every gesture is a confession, every breath a promise.

When at last our lips part, I remain close, my forehead resting against hers.

“This is what I feel,” I whisper. “This is what I can't forget.”

She closes her eyes, her breath uneven. And I understand that, despite her words, she is as much a prisoner of this fire as I am.