When up-and-coming model Isabelle meets talented but jaded photographer Milo, sparks fly despite their age difference. Their romance becomes the talk of the New York City fashion scene, fueling rumors and speculation about their scandalous affair. A...
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Isabelle couldn't believe how perfect her first real date with Milo had been. They had gone to a cozy little Italian restaurant in the West Village, where they shared a bottle of red wine and laughed over a plate of spaghetti. Isabelle had felt an instant connection with Milo, as if they had known each other for years instead of just meeting for the first time.
As they walked through the quiet streets of the Village, Milo had taken her hand and pulled her close. Isabelle felt her heart race as he leaned in to kiss her. Their lips met in a soft, lingering embrace, and Isabelle knew she was falling for him fast.
She loved how she felt when she was with him. There was no other way to explain it, except complete.
She somehow felt lovelier when held in his gaze. And the attraction was palpable. She had never experienced anything quite like that. She didn't know whether it was real or because it was him or because they already slept together once, but she didn't care. She wanted to bask in the sunshine of his love forever and ever.
Throughout the night, they almost didn't break contact, whether it was their fingers or knees, or gaze. It was intoxicating more so than the overpriced bottle of red wine they shared. They talked about nothing and everything. She shared tidbits here and there about her life, how she got into modelling. He talked about photography. His childhood. She understood that there was something all at once similar and different about him. His view on life, was magically balanced. There was a groundedness to him that she yearned for, and she wondered what he saw in her. Not in the negative, self deprecating way, but she wanted to know what it was that she had that he saw.
She knew he saw something, because she felt it. It was the same thing that she saw that first moment they lay eyes on each other.
When the waiter came with the bill, he took care of it with a black American Express card and Isabelle pretended not to notice. She knew he was rich, but it felt a little unstable to think about just how rich he may have been.
They left, and without a question drove in silence to his apartment.
There, once they slowly got through the door. The walls now starting to look familiar, Isabelle dropped the leather jacket in her hand on the ground, and he pressed her against the wall in the same way as the elevator, but now they had time. And now they were alone.
And they savoured every single moment. Just a little drunk, Isabelle thought this is as good as it gets. Ever better than last time, because now she wanted him, in a way that felt safer. Knowing that just maybe he wanted her too.
And when they finally got to his bedroom, and when he was inside of her, and she thought she might cry, and they looked each other in the eyes, he kept saying.
This is what it feels like, seeing what she was feeling - nodding - looking into her eyes.
This is what it feels like when you actually like someone.
