I feel like I should tell him there’s no need to apologise, not on my part, but my mouth doesn’t seem to be working. Be still my beating heart, the man looks like he should be on the cover of a magazine. I’m thinking maybe Men’s Health or something like that, though if there’s a magazine out there called Virile and Manly, Remy could be their poster boy. Or maybe it could be a tattoo magazine, if they do them, because the man is inked. Swirls of black and blood red roses, patterns and whirls cover his upper chest, cresting his shoulders and traversing halfway down both arms. He is a study in deliciousness, his body made of strong lines and ridges, and those muscles that look like handles at his hips. Well, they were sure made for handling.
He was easy on the eyes fully dressed, but now? This is like being offered a cake with a cookie inside. I can’t seem to stop looking at him. But as his fist tightens around his shirt, I find my manners again.
‘Your . . . your shirt. Of course! Here I am, watching you like a starving man staring at a sandwich, when you’re probably worried you’ll catch a chill! Here, let me put it in the washing machine.’ I step forward, grabbing the balled-up shirt from his hand when he dips his head, his lips suddenly just a breath away from my ear.
‘Es-tu mouillé aussi? Are you wet, too?’
I shiver as I straighten, something hot and heady suddenly coursing through my veins. ‘I’m sorry,’ I find myself whispering as I tip my head to look at him. Like a moth around a flame, I’m unable to pull away. ‘Mouillé. I think you said that twice. But I still don’t understand.’
‘Demandez-moi . . . Ask me if I’d like to find out. I must’ve hit my head very hard, Rose. I’m not normally so forthright. Or honest.’
‘I wish I knew what you were saying.’ I hear the longing in my own voice and immediately feel embarrassed. But not for long, not as he reaches out to take a lock of my hair between his fingers.
‘J’aimerais . . . I wish I could tell you. God knows, you are tempting.’
‘Well, it’s been a long night,’ I begin, stepping away as I remind myself the side of this conversation I don’t get might not be as inviting as it sounds. Maybe he’s complaining. Maybe he’s unimpressed. I suppose there’s only one way to find out. ‘In a few hours, I’ll be able to call my friend, Amber. She speaks French. I was thinking she might translate for us.’
‘J’espère que votre . . . I hope your friend is broadminded.’
‘Again, I don’t know why I’m telling you this. It’s not like you understand. Which is maybe just as well, or I might be about to say something completely inappropriate. Something like, I think this is where I get you into bed.’
His response is as slow and as sweet as spilled honey, and I’d be tempted to sell a kidney just to understand what he’s says as he answers.
‘C’est probablement la meilleure offer j’ai eue toute l’année.’
5
Rose
‘When you smile like that, it doesn’t matter what language you speak. I probably wouldn’t hear the words anyway.’
‘Pour mémoire . . . For the record, I said that’s probably the best offer I’ve had all year. So show me the way to this bed, and I will show you anything you like because I liked how you looked at my cock earlier. Did you know you almost licked your lip when you saw how hard I was? I don’t like to be boastful, but it’s worth taking a look at. In fact, the only thing to make it look better would be to see it wrapped in those pretty lips of yours.’
‘That was a whole lot of sexy. You know, you talk, and it hits me right in the feels. And when I say feels, I mean . . . well, you don’t need to know where I mean.’
‘Dans la chatte?’
Wait, doesn’t chatte mean cat in French? Does he think I’m talking about a cat? Or, ohmygod, could chatte also mean pussy? And if so, is he piecing this together somehow? I take a deep, cleansing breath and push my mind on to more sensible things.
‘I think we both need some rest, but you especially. With Amber’s help, we can talk about, well, everything, but later.’ But