Liar Liar

‘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 not about pussies or dildos. Never those. ‘When we’re not feeling so . . .’

‘Corné?’

‘Did you just say horny, or am I losing my ever-loving mind? You know what?’ I press both hands to my head as I turn from him, then close my eyes and take a deep breath. ‘Don’t answer that.’ Then as fast as my tired legs will carry me, I leave the room, his deep chuckle following me. ‘This way,’ I call over my shoulder. Then add in an undertone, ‘There’s no sense in being ridiculous without an audience.’

‘Il est verrouillé? It’s locked?’

It doesn’t take a French speaker to guess what he’s asking me as I rattle Sarah’s bedroom door.

‘What a bitch,’ I grumble, swinging around and giving the door a kick with my heel. ‘She put a lock on her door and didn’t even ask.’

‘Un colocataire? A roommate? Ah, that makes sense.’

‘It’s my security deposit that’ll pay for that,’ I complain. ‘Why’d she need a lock on there anyway? It’s not like she could’ve anticipated I’d be letting a strange Frenchman sleep in her bed tonight, is it?

‘J’ai vu . . . I’ve seen your sofa. No one over three-foot-tall could get any rest there.’

‘It’s fine. I’ll take the sofa. I shouldn’t sleep anyway. Not if I’ve got to check on you every two hours.’

‘Tu ferais ça . . .You’d do that for me?’ Remy reaches out, his thumb smoothing the crease between my brows. ‘I didn’t think there were people like you in the world anymore.’ His hand cups my face, those unusually green eyes of his suddenly so intense. ‘You take me to the hospital. You stay with me. You bring me home like a lost puppy. And now you want to give me your bed? Non, chérie.’