‘J’aimerais . . . I’d like very much to see exactly what it’s concealing. The little I’ve seen so far, including when you embarrassed the poor doctor, makes me wonder if you’re some kind of dancer. In a club, perhaps? And speaking of concealment . . .’ He taps the tabletop, a smile catching at the corner of his mouth. ‘I’m as hard as this wood just thinking about what’s under your coat. I did warn you God wouldn’t welcome my confessions.’
Tapping the table? Maybe he’s hungry. Any food that’s currently in the fridge has a white sticker slapped on it with Sarah’s name scrawled across it. Let’s just say I’m not big on grocery shopping, but I know there’s a little leftover Chinese takeout he can have.
‘I’m sure I can offer you better than this.’ I move to the table, leaning across to take Remy’s cup when he also grabs for it, which somehow results in him wearing the contents.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I say as he jumps from the chair, pulling the damp fabric from his skin. I round the table, dish towel in hand, and begin to blot the liquid, following the damp slashes down. ‘I told you the coffee was terrible. You could’ve just poured it down the sink instead of wearing it, you know?’ I rub one spot of the garish fabric a little vigorously. ‘Do you know what else is terrible? This shirt. And coffee brown does not help its appearance at all.’
My hands still as, under the towel, Remy’s body becomes rigid. My head also appears to be level with his junk.
‘Ton toucher n’aide . . . You touch doesn’t help my hard-on either.’ He catches my hands, stilling them by pressing them against the flat planes of his stomach. ‘Would you like to come up here?’ His smile turns mischievous. ‘Bien sûr . . . of course, you’re also welcome to go in the opposite direction.’
I don’t know what he said. I only know it sounded sexual. Again. But it’s the nature of the French language. ‘You could make something as ordinary as ordering a baguette sounds sexy.’
‘Baguette?’ Along with his curious tone, Remy quirks a brow.
Guess where my eyes go.
Yep.
Down.
And he’s hard—through the hem of this God-awful shirt, the man has a little French stick action. Little? He probably needs planning permission for an erection that size.
And yes, my eyes are still glued to his crotch. I’m likely drooling, looking at him like I’d slather his baguette in butter and lick it clean. But in less crazy news, I slide my hands from under his, then straighten and pull away.
‘I almost got down on my knees. Like praise the Lord, I’ve been saved!’ I find myself waving my hands in the air like a Baptist on Sunday, acting about as crazy as I feel. It defuses the heat of the moment as Remy begins to chuckle. But Lord, even the deep sound of his laughter is sexy. I’m totally having a moment here as the sun streams through the kitchen window and bathes this god of a man in a golden light.
‘Si tu étasi . . . If you were on your knees, it wouldn’t be God I’d be praising.’ So damn sexy as, with a gruff chuckle, his fingers move to the hem of his shirt. ‘Ce n’est pas . . . This isn’t an invitation, by the way.’ He flicks a button loose.
And another.
And another.
And all the while, I’m watching. And also torturing the dish towel in my hand.
‘À moins . . . Unless you want it to be.’ His tone is low and husky, and then because God is loving and benevolent, and probably thinks I deserve reward for my ridiculousness, Remy slips the shirt from his shoulders, balling the monstrosity in one fist.
‘C’est trop mouillé . . . It’s too wet.’ His murmur is accompanied by an apologetic shrug.
I feel like I should tell him there’s no need to apologise, not on my part, but my mouth doesn’t seem to be working. Be still my beating heart, the man looks like he should be on the cover of a magazine. I’m thinking maybe Men’s Health or something like that, though if there’s a magazine out there called Virile and Manly, Remy could be their poster boy. Or maybe it could be a tattoo magazine, if they do them, because the man is inked. Swirls of black and blood red roses, patterns and whirls cover his upper chest, cresting his shoulders and traversing halfway down both arms. He is a study in deliciousness, his body made of strong lines and ridges, and those muscles that look like handles at his hips. Well, they were sure made for handling.
He was easy on the eyes fully dressed, but now? This is like being offered a cake with a cookie inside. I can’t seem to stop looking at him. But as his fist tightens around his shirt, I find my manners again.