Page 40 of Rosé with My Fake Fiancé
“I feel for Sara,” he says. “It’s tough when you feel like you have few options for where to live, and none of them are good.”
Luc tells me about apartment hunting in Paris and moving out of his grandmother’s place while I start to prep dinner. Two minutes later, I get a message from Sara.
Sara
I’m fine. I’m headed back to the (shitty) apartment. I’m going to look at listings. Tessa, have a great date with Luc and we can talk in the morning.
I put my phone down and try to let go of my worry over Sara and focus on Luc. Fortunately, that’s easy because Luc turns on the charm, probably to help me distract myself. An hour later, Luc and I are dining out on my patio. I’ve made a risotto with peas and pancetta, which I serve with roasted vegetables. We have fresh glasses of chilled white wine, which we sip while we eat. Having him in my kitchen was fun. I feel at home when I cook, and I was in a great mood from seeing Luc again. Music was on, I swayed while I cooked, and Luc’s gaze gradually shifted from amused to appreciative to hunger.
Even after a delicious meal, the hunger is still there. It feels like a first date, but really, it would be—what? Our ninth if we go by meals, our sixth if we count the days on the calendar?
Never mind that we’ve already had toe-curling, hot sex.
Our feet are up on the balcony railing, and we’ve opened a second bottle of wine. The music’s still playing in the kitchen through the open doors, and Luc softly hums with it. We’re sitting close, his warm toes touching mine and contrasting with the cool metal, and my smile feels dopier, more love-sick when I look at him.
Love-sick?
Ugh. The word is a better fit for a teenager than a grown-ass woman.
“I had an interesting phone call today,” I say, swirling my wine as the sky fades from blue to pink. I tell him about my call with Yumi. “What do you think?”
“Sounds petty and manipulative, and I love it. Would I rather punch him in the nose? Sure. But this won’t get me arrested.” Luc stands, retrieving his phone from the kitchen island. “This is selfish, too,” he tells me. “I want photos of us.”
He takes several pictures of just me until I cross my eyes and stick my tongue out at him. Then it’s sunset and selfies, each one pressing us closer together. I love the way I fit under his arm, and I momentarily forget about the camera and close my eyes, running my nose up the collar of his shirt to his neck.
“Tessa,” he says, and it comes out rough and gravelly.
I tilt my head up to look at him as he tilts down, and our lips come crashing together. Luc’s arm tightens around my waist, his mouth working mine open and sweeping in with a groan. God, he tastes good, like the crisp wine we’re drinking and the warm summer air.
Luc takes the glass out of my hand and, without removing his mouth from mine, places it on the table. Both hands come up into my hair as he walks me back into the apartment. A few steps in, my heels hit the couch, and Luc catches me, breaking our kiss to lay me down and cage me in: hands in my hair, legs between mine, and cock so deliciously hard beneath the denim of his jeans.
Now that we’re horizontal, with the press of Luc right where I need him, the pace slows down. Luc’s leading, and while the weight of him makes me want more, faster, harder, now, I can practically hear him remembering that there’s a reason he didn’t want to kiss me.
I half-expect him to stop, but he doesn’t. It’s slow and languid, and while he traces parts of me with his fingers like he’s cataloging my contours, his hands don’t wander south.
Not even to my ass, and I want to ask if he’s feeling okay. But not enough to stop the kissing.
My hands can barely move, so focused on keeping him here and not letting him pull away. I moan when Luc shifts, and the pressure of his cock against me rubs just right, but I also love the flex of muscle and the heat of his skin under my grip.
I don’t know how long we kiss. I haven’t made out this much—or dry-humped like this—in at least twenty years. It shocks me that I’ve forgotten that such a simple, relatively chaste thing could feel so good.
But eventually, Luc pulls back. “I should go.” The words are muttered against my ear, the breathing ragged and the tone reluctant.
“Stay,” I plead. I don’t want this to end, and I know that a build-up like this can only lead to something even more amazing than the night we’ve already spent together.
Luc kisses me again, and I think for a moment that I’ll win, but then he pulls away. “I have to go,” he says. “Our flight is early in the morning, and I need to take care of my grandmother.”
I’m tempted to offer him my guest room, the couch, to ask for just five more minutes like a child, but I don’t. Luc leans down quickly, surprising me, putting us nose to nose. His eyes are wide open, feral, and his lips kiss-swollen. “Don’t ask me to stay, Tessa. Don’t beg. Just ask me another question.”
I could easily ask him for something else. Ask him to date me, ask him to be my boyfriend, whatever would change his mind and make him stay.
But even I can realize that I’m so full of sexual frustration right now that I might make a promise I can’t keep.
Instead, like a coward, I say, “Five more minutes?”
There’s a flash of hurt in Luc’s eyes and a pang of guilt in my chest. He hides it quickly, though, and presses down, giving me a quick, chaste kiss.
“I’ll text you in the morning when I’m on my way to the airport. I’ll come see you next weekend, ma chouchoute. And every Sunday until you tell me to give up.”
