“You’re not serious,” Laurent said, his voice dripping with cynicism. “Remind me at what stage in your relationship your parents knew about Finn?”
Finn shifted uncomfortably. “He has a point. You didn’t tell them about me until we got back together.”
Laurent picked up the thread. “So it would be ridiculous for you to demand Mac tells them so soon in our relationship just to prove something.” He plucked the phone out of my hand and sent it spinning back across the table. It had enough momentum behind it to slam into Cillian’s chest.
“Good point,” I said, slightly shaken by how close I’d come to falling into Cillian’s trap and claiming a man I’d only met a couple of weeks ago was important enough to me I needed to inform my parents about him, simply because Cillian had dared me to. I’d been with Katrina a few months and never discussed her with my parents—a fact that in hindsight I was extremely grateful for.
I blamed the golden tendrils of relief coursing through my body for my next move as I twisted to face Laurent, my wordsstill for Cillian. “You want proof? How’s this for proof?” Hooking an arm around Laurent’s neck, I dragged him closer so that our faces were mere inches apart, giving him time—albeit only a few seconds—to yank himself out of my grasp if he really wanted to.
Maybe it wasn’t long enough. Maybe he didn’t realize my intention. Or maybe he was fine with it. Any or all of those things could have been true. It didn’t matter. In true Cormac King style, I’d made an impulsive decision and now I intended to see it through to its bitter end, whatever the consequences. And if that required kissing a man, kissing Laurent, that’s exactly what I was going to do, and only he could stop me.
He didn’t stop me.
His lips were surprisingly soft beneath mine as I lowered my mouth to his. If I’d ever thought about kissing a man, I would have predicted it would be harder, all sharp edges and stubble. But Laurent was freshly shaved, his skin baby-smooth, and his response to being kissed nothing but gentle. And he was responding, the kiss something happening between two people rather than a thing I was forcing upon him.
After only a few seconds, I forgot I was kissing a man, and just kissed. My tongue automatically sought entrance, and Laurent obliged. The first slide of his tongue against mine had me tilting my head to get a better angle, to get closer, to taste, to conquer, to savor.
It was Laurent who drew back first, reality slamming into me with all the velocity of a freight train as I turned my head to find Cillian staring at me. “I thought it was bad enough,” he said, his voice dripping with an acidic waspishness, “when I had to watch him kiss my boyfriend.”
“Ex-boyfriend at the time,” Finn corrected.
“But now I have to watch him kiss my little brother,” Cillian continued. “Who’s next on your list?”
Laurent propped his head on his hand and offered Cillian a sickly sweet smile. “I don’t know. What’s your father like? Is he hot? How about your other brother?”
I was still stuck on the previous snippet of information. “You kissed Finn? You’ve never mentioned that.”
Laurent waved it away with a flick of his hand. “It wasn’t worth mentioning.”
“Thanks,” Finn said drily. “Always nice to be completely disregarded.”
Laurent turned to his friend with a smile on his lips. “You’re welcome.” I studied him while his attention was elsewhere. There was no evidence of him being at all phased by what had just happened between us. However, his lips were slightly swollen.You did that.Yeah, I had, and I wasn’t sure how I was supposed to feel about it. Disturbed, pleased, or just downright confused. Or maybe I wasn’t supposed to feel anything. If that was the case, I’d already failed.
Chapter Eleven
The bar we’d chosen—or rather Laurent had chosen, my knowledge of Paris still limited enough that I hadn’t had the chance to visit places enough times to have preferences—was quiet enough that we could talk without raising our voices. We’d found a booth at the back, Laurent choosing to sit next to me rather than opposite, just as I had at dinner.
The meal had ended more harmoniously than it had begun, the kiss doing what nothing else had, and shutting Cillian up. As soon as we could, we’d made our excuses and left.
“Are we going to talk about it?” Laurent asked, cutting into my reverie.
“Talk about what? What a dick Cillian is?”
He laughed. “Definitely not. I already knew that.” His gaze fastened on my face with all the intensity of a heat-seeking missile. “The kiss.”
“Ah, the kiss.” I took a long swallow of my beer, my intention to enjoy a drink, but to stay mostly sober, ruling spirits out. “If you’re expecting an apology?”
“I’m not.”
“No?”
Laurent shook his head. “Your reasons for doing it were clear. Better that than call your parents and lie to them.”
I winced at the memory of how close I’d come to doing that for no other reason than to prove a point to my brother. “What is there to talk about, then?”
“You seemed pretty into it.”
I forced myself to meet Laurent’s gaze without looking away. “I’m an excellent actor. It would hardly have been convincing if I’d thrown up in a sick bucket afterwards.”
