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Another swirl of his glass, and he tips back a longer sip of wine. “What makes you think they don’t?”
“Let me tell you about women, Thierry.” At this point, I don’t even know where my head is going on this, but I’m just as intrigued as he seems to be. “Most want the fairytale, with a house in suburbia, and kids, and a man that screams security and infidelity.”
“And what do I scream?”
“Unavailable. Emotionally detached. But also, that you probably love really hard. Harder than most.” Pausing for a moment, I try to ignore the fact that the room just spun in my periphery. “I suspect it doesn’t happen often with a man like you, but when it does, it borders madness. Obsession. Unfortunately, I believe it’s short lived. There’re no guarantees with you.”
“And why do you suppose that is?”
Running my finger over the rim of the glass reminds me of a violent, circling hurricane. Sweeping. Destroying. Him. “Because it’s like any destructive force of nature. Too much creates imbalance. And a love that strong would consume a person. Put everyone around them at risk. Love kills.” I snort and slap a hand over my face.
“This is how you see me?”
“Yes. All-consuming. Dark. Dangerous. Diabolical. Oh, hey! I’m a poet and didn’t know it!”
“You didn’t rhyme, at all.”
“Not all poems rhyme, Thierry. It’s a fact.” I raise my glass in the air, spilling wine into my lap. His shirt. “Shit.”
“Perhaps the extra wine wasn’t a good idea.”
“Probably not. Just like bringing me here prolly wasn’a good idea, either.” On a hiccup, I slap a hand over my mouth again, eyes as wide as they’ll go in all my drunken glory. “Oh, no, I’m slurry now.”
“Why was it a bad idea to bring you here?”
“I didn’ say bad. Jus’ … prolly not good. Here’s a fun fact for you: everyone I’ve ever loved has died. And wha’s the common denom … denomin … ator?” With an unsteady hand, I point to my chest. “I’m shit luck.”
“As I recall, I won quite a sum of money playing bourré in your presence.”
“Yeah, well. You stick with me long enough … you’ll prolly get eaten by a shark, or fall off a mountain. Which’s why you’ll regret making me stay here.”
“I doubt that.”
“You know, you act mean sometimes, but you say nice things. Yerso confusin’.” Head spinning with dizziness, I rest my forehead against the palm of my hand and close my eyes.
“And you’re casséd. Perhaps you need to sleep it off.”
“I think so.” Something slides beneath the back of my legs, and I tip my head back to a sharp jawline, where I tuck my face to block out the room spinning in my periphery. The delicious scent of his cologne has my mouth watering, in spite of the nausea.
One thing I can say about my pathetic experience with men is, I’ve never wanted to kiss one. Not my teacher, the random salesman I fucked. Not even the boys I occasionally gave hand jobs to in the baseball dugout during lunch. I’ve always considered that too intimate for a casual hookup, but right now, more than anything, I want to kiss this man. Those lips. Those delectable lips that shouldn’t belong to a man so hardened and abrasive.
Placing a hand along the edge of his neck, I sit up just enough to kiss his throat, working up the nerve to reach his mouth.
“Céleste …” The warning in his voice breaks through the haze, but it sounds so inviting that I keep going. “Stop this.”
The moment the words pass his lips, they stir the gurgle of sickness already churning inside my stomach. “Oh, God … bathroom. Bathroom, quick.”
He sets me down on the cold tiles of the bathroom, and I fall to my knees as a torrent of vomit spews into the toilet, splashing up over the edges. Another round of heaving sends chunks of noodles and red wine into the pot, looking like a crime scene. I expel every bit of it, but it doesn’t stop the room from spinning, and I close my eyes, wishing I’d just pass out already. Breathing through my nose, I hear the flush of the toilet that I didn’t flush, feel the raise of arms I didn’t command. Cold air hits my skin, drawing my curiosity, but I don’t dare open my eyes.
A muted silence settles over me for what seems like only a couple seconds, until the jostle at my arm has me rising up to my feet, and I’m floating on air, like a dream. Warm water hits my skin, tickling my senses, while gentle hands and soft cotton smooth over my body. I let out a quiet moan of appreciation, and tip my head back toward where the warmth beating against my eyes sends away the ache there. I open my mouth, filling it with fresh warm water, and rinse the godawful taste from my mouth. Twice more clears the lingering acid from my tongue.
The strong flavor of mint burns, as he holds my chin, pouring a small bit of mouthwash into my mouth. I swish and spit it out. When I tip my head forward again, I finally have the courage to look, and I find Thierry standing in the doorway of the shower stall, his dress shirt soaked, tie still wrapped around his neck, undone, eyes so intense on the task of washing me, as if it’s the most important thing he’s done all day.
At the soft feathering of his fingers across my breast, his gaze shoots to mine. Not a breath later, he wraps his palm around my jaw and pulls me to his lips.
The kiss is fireworks and chaos on a hot July night, and the wet spray of water that dribbles between our lips has me sucking it from his skin.
He pushes me away, disgust painted in the harsh edges of his expression. “You frustrate the absolute fuck out of me,” he growls, releasing my jaw. “Savor the kiss, moiselle. It’s the only one you’ll get.”
