“La chatte,” I say in French and laugh. “I just offered you my pussy.” I laugh again.
The movement of the bed stops.
“Sebastian?” I wait.
Nothing.
I let out a big sigh and try to remove my shirt, to no avail.Geez, it’s hot in here. “Help!”
“Shh,” Sebastian says.
“You’re still in here?”
“Yes,” he hisses.
“And in such a good mood. Ever heard of the term buzzkill?”
He blows out an audible breath that sounds like he’s emitting steam.
“Are you going to take off my shirt or not? I’m sweating in here.” I sound like a baby, but I can’t bring myself to care.
The bed dips again and a gentle hand pulls my hair where it’s connected to the bracelet. “This is a magnet for hair like yours. Why would you wear it?”
“They’re healing beads. I bought them after you died the first time.” I wouldn’t have remembered I owned them had we not packed to move to America. They were in an old jewelry box.
“I’m not dead,” Sebastian says as he frees my hair and slips my shirt off the rest of the way, exposing my torso and light blue lace bra. Does he remember buying it for me at a boutique in Paris?
Cool air greets me. I brush strands from my face and lower my hands to my bare stomach. “You are to me.” I roll onto my side, facing away from him.
“You’re hurt.” A warm hand touches the side of my back.
I flinch and giggle. “Don’t touch me.”
“You just offered me your pussy and now I can’t touch you?”
Is that humor in his voice?
I peer over my shoulder at him. “I’m ticklish. If you wereyou, you’d know that.” I make a face.
He makes a face back.
I crack up. “Maybe you’re not dead.”
“Don’t move.”
“I wasn’t planning on it.” Like I would leave without my shirt on.
Sebastian strides to the bathroom and returns with a small white box. He pops the top, removing cleansing wipes, two Band-Aids, and Neosporin.
“You can’t touch me with that.”
“You have a long cut that needs to be cleaned.”
“From what?”
“The wall? You were bouncing around with all the turbulence.”
“And now that I’m in a soft bed, the plane is steady. Just my luck.”
