“No.” His voice is low and a little rough. “Just listening to you breathe like a total creep.”
I laugh again. More miracles.
“Say something in French for me, Luc,” I whisper, and there’s a beat of hesitation before I add, “Please.”
His body shivers, but stops abruptly, so close I can feel it in my spine. He clears his throat and takes a long, deep breath. And then, softer than I’ve ever heard him speak, he says,“Je pourrais passer l’éternité à te tenir comme ça.”
His shiver transfers to me, but I let it play out, feeling every moment of it.
I angle my head toward him, seeking him in the dark. “What does that mean?”
Luc exhales a laugh into my hair. “It means… ‘No guillotine could take away the head I’m giving you as soon as you let me.’”
I elbow him. “Luc!”
He snickers, making me smile, and my chest hurts in that warm, confusing way.
Luc kisses the back of my head. “Sleep now.” A second later, he adds, in barely a whisper,“Dors maintenant, mon Petit.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Alaina
I wake to warmth.
Not the cheap, scratchy kind from my bus blanket. No, this is the kind that seeps into your skin, settles in your ribs, and dares you to let your guard down, and for the first few breaths, I do.
The bed is so soft, and the covers are halfway kicked off, but what remains is heavy over my legs. My hoodie has ridden up to bunch around my chest, and there’s skin on my skin where there shouldn’t be. A hand. Averywarm hand. Palm flat on my stomach, fingers splayed low across my abdomen like it’s been there all night, holding me together piece by piece while I dreamed of things I’m not allowed to want.
And then there’s the breath, slow exhales, ghosting across the curve of my neck. It tickles, and I shift slightly, then freeze, because that hand is attached to an arm draped over my waist like a damn anchor. And the anchor has a boner.
A full mast anchor, if you will.
And it’s pressed snugly against my ass, even through theblanket that’s somehow managed to wedge itself between us.
I’m in Luc’s bed.
His face is buried against my neck, lips brushing my skin with every breath, like he’s been whispering secrets into my sleep all night. He murmurs something now, a breathy string of French that I don’t catch, but it’s softer than I’ve ever heard him.
Like he’s dreaming of me.
I shouldn’t want this.
I shouldn’t wanthim.
Not when I’m a lie and every heartbeat in his arms is a stolen one.
But I do.
I want to press back into him, to twist around and see his face, reallyseehim. I want to hear him say my name, not the version I’ve borrowed, not the lie, butmine. I want to know what it sounds like in his accent, whispered into the dark as a secret meant only for me.
My fingers twitch, drawn to him like they have a will of their own, and I stroke the back of his hand that’s still on my stomach, just once, a featherlight pass over his knuckles.
He sighs.
Then he kisses my neck.
It’s not a full kiss, more a brush of lips, and so slow it burns. Then his mouth opens slightly, and he nibbles just under my jaw, gentle teeth grazing skin. A quiet and desperate sound escapes me as my hips press back into him instinctively, my body acting before my mind catches up. Luc groans softly, and it hits me like a jolt of ice water—what I’ve just done, what Iwantto do.
