Liar Liar

God, I want it. Want him. This infuriating and frustrating man who will cause me a lifetime of strife and trouble. This man who offers me his love. I want him so badly my heart is fit to burst.

‘Taking a little visit to the promised land.’

I almost laugh. ‘More like trying to distract me.’

‘If by distract, you mean fuck then yes, I am guilty.’

My gaze slides to the tub as I over him more skin to kiss as I give second thoughts to my plan. It’s certainly big enough for both of us. But it would be awkward. And just . . . not how I want this to be. Instead, I turn in his arms as I reach for the hem of his T-shirt. ‘You’ve got an answer for everything.’ I pull the soft cotton up and over his head.

‘That’s what my mathematics teacher said the year I turned fourteen.’

‘Your teacher?’ My scandalised tone is more an act of subterfuge to hide my distress at the sight of his torso. Even in the darkened room, I can make out at least a half dozen shades of blue, green, and red, the contusions and bruising healing at different rates along his sides. It’s not the first time I’ve seen his bruising, and I know his back to be much worse, but it still catches me off guard that his beauty is so marred. I won’t acknowledge his hurt or his suffering. I want only to help him heal. Help us heal.

‘Have I shocked you?’

‘I’m . . .’ I nod my head a little, stalling for time. ‘I’m never ever roleplaying with you.’ His deep burst of laughter resounds through the space, a moment later a groan of discomfort taking its place. ‘Remy.’ I press my hand to the side of his face. ‘Let me love you now.’

I help him with his shorts, sliding the waistband down the long line of his thighs, and watch as he sinks into the scented water, the discomfort easing from his face inch by warm inch. His elbows hook over the sides as he tilts his head back and closes his eyes.

‘Is it good?’ I’m almost reluctant to speak as I press my knees to the folded towel next to him.

‘Oui. C’est bon.’ His eyes close, the heat in the room turning his lashes into spiky half-moons against his cheeks.

‘Français? I hope you’re not trying to trick me like you did back in March.’

‘Ah, March.’ The word rolls from his tongue like a favourite dessert. ‘Where it all began.’ His voice has the kind of quality to it that suggests he’s edging towards sleep. He dips his hand into the water before dragging it down his face. ‘You were my last thought, you know.’ His eyes are still closed, his words spoken so quietly, it’s almost as though they weren’t meant for my ears.

‘Your last thought? You mean the accident?’ If that’s what it truly was as I take the noise from his throat as one of assent. ‘Do you remember what happened?’ I ask, taking care to keep the intense need to know from my tone. I know what he said to the police, thanks to Rhett’s translation. It seems the meathead understands French better than he speaks it. But at least he speaks French. Unlike me.

‘I was . . . happy. Happy to be with you that evening. Happy to be given a second chance. One minute I was almost on deck, and the next.’ He pauses, his chest moving with a deep inhale. ‘The next I was in the water, my head feeling as though it had been split. My life didn’t flash before my eyes, though my mind did find you.’ His hand reaches out, covering mine where I grip the edge of the tub. ‘Worse than the pain was the sorrow. I had lost you, and the bitter taste in my mouth was one of regret.

‘No regrets. We’re here now.’

Remy sighs as I trail my fingers down the centre of his chest, over the hard, ridged planes of his stomach, taking care to avoid the places that might make him flinch. Air leaves his chest again as I trace the same path back, grazing a swirling pattern across his chest. A drop from the faucet hits the surface of the water. Cicadas in the garden begin to sing their night-time chorus. I register the sounds, but I don’t really hear them, aware of little more than the silky-soft feel of him and his deep, even breaths. His knee appears quite suddenly through the mound of bubbles, a surprising glimpse of his wet, bare skin that makes my insides draw tight. He’s a little battered and bruised but so beautiful. And he’s all mine.

His head turns, his eyes open, glittering green now almost midnight.