Page 54 of Closer

She’s shaking now, because spring is even slower to start here than at my chateau, and the rain is freezing. Her hair is plastered to her head, her clothes glued to her body and her nipples stick out against the wet fabric, and from the way she looks at me—a combination of awkwardness, trepidation, and lust—I’d be willing to bet her clothing isn’t the only thing that’s soaked.

“We should go inside,” she shouts over the rain.

“We should.” I nod, but neither of us move. Cold droplets pat down all around us, freezing, but she just stares, and I stare, and it’s as fucking weird as it is awesome.

“I like you too,” she says finally, blurting it out all at once, as if she was daring herself to do so. “Even though you make me want to strangle you. Even though you’re brash, and rude, obnoxious when you’re drunk—and you’re always drunk—you’re completely inappropriate ninety-nine per cent of the time, and you stare at me as if I’m wearing nothing, and I’m yours to look at ... I like you too.”

I don’t know what the hell to make of any of that, except that Brie wants me, but she turns on her heel and slowly walks away, and I have no choice but to follow.

She slides the key into the lock and pushes into the room. It’s small, cosy, and most importantly, it’s dry. There’s a medium sized bed—all the beds are small in France—and two big winged-backed chairs in front of the fireplace.

There’s also a bathroom, and Brie disappears inside and closes the door. A beat later, the shower is running. I set the sodden box by the door and move about the room, trying to warm my blood after the early spring rain. I might have even followed her into the bathroom, if she hadn’t locked the door. Instead, I empty my pockets and set my wallet on the nightstand. I find two thick terry towelling robes in a tiny closet, and strip off my sopping clothes. I throw on the robe as I grab the remote and try to figure out how to operate the fireplace with no instructions and all the buttons in French.

Eventually a gas flame burns in the hearth, and by the time Brie steps out of the bathroom in nothing but a fluffy towel, her skin all pink from the scalding hot water, the room is warm too.

“Found us some robes.”

“Merci.” We share a long look. It’s loaded because I want her, she wants me, and we’re both naked right now save for some terry towelling. A knock on the door startles us both. Brie grabs the robe off the bed before disappearing into the bathroom again.

I pull back the door. It’s the desk clerk. His hair and uniform are peppered with rain, and he looks at the closed bathroom door as he wheels his little cart in.Creepy fucker. “Bonsoir!”

“Hey,” I say, deliberately using English despite this being the one word I do understand, because I know that pisses off the French. “You can leave it there.”

“Oui, monsieur.” He pops the bottle of champagne and sets it back in the ice bucket. Then he steps away from the tray, and glances toward the bathroom door as Brie opens it. She’s no longer in a towel.Thank fuck. But knowing she’s naked under that robe doesn’t help. My cock wants to say hello. I’ve never been backward about my intentions with any woman I’ve wanted to fuck, and it’s not like I’d try to hide my boner—it’s not like I could even if I wanted to—but this is awkward as fuck because this arsehole won’t leave, and I don’t like the way he’s staring at her.

“Bonsoir, Mademoi—”

“Okay, we’re good here.” I push him towards the door.

“Merci,” Brie calls, and I turn my head and glare at her. I don’t tip the arsehole either. I slam the door and stride back to the tray. There are strawberries, and chocolate, but also bread and cheese. Of course there’s fucking cheese. It’s as if the French can’t go a single meal without it.

Brie has already poured herself a glass and picks up a hulled strawberry. She doesn’t dip it in the chocolate but nibbles it slowly, from the wrong end. I pick up the champagne and pour myself a glass.

“That was rude,” she says coolly.

“So was the way he was ogling you.” I down my champagne and set the glass on the tray.

“And what if I enjoyed the idea of another man ogling me? The same way you like to think of all of those women fucking your sex toy and watching your videos online.”

I grin. “I knew you were jealous. Don’t worry, I’ll send you one.”

“I don't know why I bother talking to you.” She slams her glass on the tray and throws her hands up. “Tu es méprisable!”

Brie heads to the door, and I don’t know where she thinks she’s going dressed like that but it’s certainly not back to that douche in the office. I stalk behind her, hot on her heels, and when she’s close enough to the door, I reach out and grab her wrist turning her towards me.

She lets out a soft cry, but it isn’t one of pain, it’s another kind of anguish. It’s need. “Please let me go,” she begs.

I study her face. “I don’t think you want me to let you go.”

“You’re wrong.”

I let her wrist slip free of my grasp and search her gaze. “Prove it.”

“I do not have to prove anything to you.”

“Then quit looking at me like you want me to fuck you, because it’s torture,” I snap. A week worth of pent-up frustration, of wanting this woman who refuses to give in, and never backs down. “It’s fucking torture the way you look at me.”

“Torture?” A crease forms between her brow. Fuck, she’s hot when she’s angry. “What the hell are you talking about?”

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