“Actually,” Cillian said, “I didn’t. None of it.”
“That’s unusually charitable of you.”
“Finn thinks we need a bit of a reset, that I still view you as a kid. I think he might be right. He usually is.” There was a slight pause. “Do you think we could do that? You’re staying here, after all. It would be nice if we could get along better. For Finn’s sake.”
“Not for yours?”
“For mine as well,” Cillian admitted. “I guess… I just need to reconcile with the fact that the two of us are very different. I’d like to get to know you better while you’re here. Find out who you really are, rather than who I’ve decided you are.”
They were obviously Finn’s words, rather than my brother’s, but to point that out would be to shove the olive branch he was offering back in his face. “I’d like that.”
“Yeah?”
Cillian sounded surprised. “We could go out to dinner. Just the two of us. Or Finn could come along as referee, if you think that’ll work better. No Laurent, though.”
“No Laurent,” I agreed. “And no Finn. If we need him as a referee, then we’re already doomed.”
“Great!”
The best thing was how genuinely pleased he sounded about it. Maybe there was hope for our relationship after all. I couldn’t dispute that it would be nice to have two brothers I got along with rather than just the one. We hung up soon after setting a tentative date for the reconciliation dinner, as neither of us wanted to push it further.
Buoyed by the warm feelings, I went to find Laurent in the kitchen.
“I heard my name mentioned,” he said immediately.
“Not in a bad way.”
“No?”
“No. Just that you’re not invited to dinner, where Cillian and I are going to put years of bad blood to rest and become like that.” I held up two crossed fingers to demonstrate.
“His idea?”
“I suspect it was Finn’s, but I’m not going to dwell on that.”
Laurent nodded as he finished drying the last plate and put it back in the cupboard. “Sounds like Finn. Do you think it will work?”
I gave the question a lot of thought before answering it. “I would say there’s a fifty/fifty chance. I have to admit it is tiring constantly being at loggerheads with Cillian.”
Laurent turned, his dark eyes thoughtful as he leaned against the counter. “And in the spirit of this new, healthier sibling relationship, will you come clean about our supposed relationship? Because if so, a heads-up would be nice. Unlike the one you never gave me when you came up with the lie. Because I will get flak about it. More so from Finn, but?”
Rather than letting him complete his thought, I gave in to the urge that had been riding me all day, stepping into his space to kiss him. Shock had Laurent go rigid beneath my hands as I pressed my lips to his. His lack of response was in complete contrast to the previous performative kiss where we’d had an audience.
I didn’t quit that easily, though. Keeping one hand pressed to his chest, I slid the other up to his neck, tilting his head slightly to improve the angle at which our mouths met. It helped, Laurent giving in to it when my tongue probed at the tight seam of his lips.
And then it was a proper kiss. Two people exploring each other’s mouths with only pleasure in mind. Two men. That was indisputable. Laurent’s body pressed against mine harderthan I was used to. More muscular. Despite him having shaved that morning, there was also the slight rasp of stubble against my chin as I deepened the kiss. And then there was Laurent’s hardening cock against my thigh.
It should have made me recoil from the kiss and put distance between us. Instead, it made a smug satisfaction course through my body that Laurent was into this, that he clearly found me attractive. He might lie, but his body couldn’t.
When both of Laurent’s hands slid to my chest and applied pressure, I gave in to it, oxygen having become an urgent consideration, anyway. It was difficult, though, to stop the kiss when all I really wanted to do was continue it. Who needed to breathe?
“C’est quoi ce bordel!” Laurent said when I finally relinquished his lips, his eyes wide.
“English,” I urged, my voice husky, and the weight of my body still pressing him against the counter.
“Qu’est-ce que fais-tu?”
“Still French,” I pointed out. “If that’s a question you actually want me to answer, you’re going to have to go with English, so my stupid Irish ass can understand.”
