“Why don’t you sing?” I blurt, and then wonder what the hell is wrong with me.
Levi’s hands leave the keys and he shrugs. “It’s not my thing.”
“Maybe it should be.”
“You like that, huh?”
“Yeah, I like that.” Too much. God, way too much. I’d have to be dead or not into men not to like that. I needed to dial it way back because I was suddenly feeling hot and bothered, but more than that, I was feeling ... well ... things I shouldn’t be for a rock star who drives me mad as much as he makes me weak in the knees.
I cannot do this. I can not feel that way about him. I refuse. He’s a job. I will leave soon with enough money to take care of my family, and I need to remember that’s the reason I’m here. I need to focus on making music and only music with him.
“Brie?”
“Yes.”
“You’re staring.” His lips tip up in the corners, as if he knows what I’m thinking.
“I am not.”
He chuckles, a deep throaty laugh that reverberates through my insides and maddens me to no end. “It’s okay, AFG. You can admit you want me.”
“You’re ridiculous.” I stand and set my cello back in its case and slam the lid. Packing up my bow and rosin in order to make a hasty exit. I’ve had about all I can take from this man tonight.
“Ridiculous doesn’t make me wrong,” he calls, as I walk through the ballroom doors and slam them behind me. It’s true. I had been staring. I’d looked at Levi as if I were seeing him for the first time, and I had no right to look upon him that way.
He is a job. Nothing more.
You cannot lose your heart, Brielle. I tell myself this as I pace the room. Then I realise I am fine. I’m safe, because you cannot lose your heart if you no longer have one.
We should both know that by now.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
LA PETITE MORT
LEVI
I’m fucking ravenous when my hands are too sore to continue. I glance at Brie. Her cheeks are flushed, sweat beads on her brow, and when her eyes meet mine, her lips part, and she exhales as she smiles, spent. I can last all damn night, but I’m not a natural piano player, and I sure as hell ain’t Zed—who masters any instrument he picks up in a matter of seconds. I’ve played piano since I was seventeen, but not well, and not since my days at the institute.
Brie stands and sets her cello into the hardcase she ordered. It makes sense that her instrument would be high maintenance. They make a great pair.
“Three songs in one day, that’s not bad.” I shake out my fingers, stand, and stretch. Her hungry eyes track my movements.
“You are very talented with lyrics.”
“I’m very talented with many things.”
She folds her arms across her chest. It gives me a much better view of her tits. “Really?”
“Uh-huh, there’s my hands—for one—my mouth, my tongue, my cock. Hell, I bet I could even find a use for my feet.”
She laughs. “Oh my God, there is something wrong with you.”
“Yeah, it’s called withdrawal.”
I head out of the room and Brie follows. “Deprivation from what?
“From pussy. What else?”
“Oh.” She teases by pouting her lower lip, but her eyes are hard and mocking. “I guess you are king of pussy no longer then, non?”
I grab her arm and yank her to me, spinning us so her back is to the wall. My hand digs in to the supple flesh of her hip. The other grasps her wrist above her head. I lean in, so my face is just inches from hers. “Don’t toy with me, kitten.”
She raises her chin defiantly and whispers, “Meow.”
I glance at her lips, wonder what they’d look like wrapped around my cock. And then Dog barrels into us. Jumping up and pushing into the space between our legs, driving us apart.
“Monsieur, Mademoiselle, lunch is ...” Margaux trails off as she reaches the top of the staircase and her gaze zeros in on us. “Excusez-moi. It is not important. I come back later. Dog, come here,” she hisses. The furry little cock blocker’s ears prick up, but as usual, he disobeys. “Viens ici maintenant! I will cook you up for supper.”
The idiot mutt just stares at her.
“He seems awfully fond of you,” I say, watching the way Dog glances between us, his head bent low as he whines.
“Just because I feed him, monsieur.”
“Right,” I say, but you could choke a horse with the sarcasm in my voice. I grab his collar and attempt to remove him from between us. He whines and struggles against me, burying his nose in Brie’s skirt. Apparently, I’m not the only one fond of pussy.
“Come, Dog,” she says, as she slides out of my grasp and walks towards the staircase. I have no idea if she’s addressing me, or my mutt, but we both follow.
In the kitchen, Margaux has laid out wine, several different cheeses and cold meats, and a baguette. I snatch up a chunk of crusty bread; it’s hard, not soft and fluffy like at home. It doesn’t melt in your mouth, but I’m pretty sure there’s a Brie in my kitchen that I could pair it with who’d melt just fine. Assuming my dog doesn’t cock block me again.
Margaux slaps my hand away as I reach for the brie—the cheese, not the woman—and mutters something in French that I’m fairly certain is the equivalent of calling me a pig, because it sounds exactly like pork without the “K”.
Angry French Girl laughs. “ Oui, c'est un très beau cochon.”
“Oui, mademoiselle. Si beau.” Margaux gives one of her belly shaking chuckles, and I glare. Why the hell did I pick France of all places to get lost in? Not that the view isn’t stunning, I note, as Brie leans across the island to grab a slice of bread, her cleavage on display. Fuck. Now I’m hard.
“You wanna get out of here?” I blurt, and both women turn to look at me. “I mean, after we eat.”
“Don’t you have the entire world looking for you, Monsieur Rock Star?”
“Fuck the world,” I say, taking a gulp of wine.
A smile plays on her lips. “Where would we go?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. That’s the beauty of it.”
She raises her brow in challenge, as if she isn’t sure whether to take me seriously. I’m not sure either. I don’t even know where that came from. “Okay.”
Wait. “Okay you’ll come?”
“Oui.” She shrugs.
“Oui.” I nod. Yes! Fuck yes. And if I have any say in the matter, she’s gonna come all fucking night.
“I DON’T KNOW” TURNS out to be a vineyard just outside of Nimes, a three-hour drive from my chateau. I pull the repaired and technically-now-mine—thanks to a lengthy and expensive conversation with the rental company—Ferrari 458 Spider into the lot and look at Brie. Her long chocolate hair stands up in all directions thanks to me driving with the top down and the wind that whipped it all around us no matter how she tried to tame it back with a braid. It’s perfect. She’s perfect. And though I haven’t had a drink since lunch, I feel a little buzzed as the afternoon sun beats down on us. Buzzed and thirsty, and like I want to fuck.
“That was some drive,” she says, finally smoothing her hair down in the mirror. I wanna grab her hands and beg her not too, but I climb out of the car instead, so I won’t look like such a fucking creeper.
“Yeah, I need a drink.”
“I’m beginning to wonder why you don’t just have it inserted into your arm via an intravenous injection.”
“You think they do that here?”
She laughs and climbs out of the car. “Come, mon petit alcoolique, we will get you your precious liquor. Though I doubt they have whisky here.”
“Mon petit means little, right?”
“My little, oui.”
“That’s funny.”
“What is?” She turns, folding her arms against her chest. I’m beginning to think it’s not a defence mechanism, and that she just likes to push her tits up and watch me drool like a fucking puppy over a new chew toy.
“Well, you remember that time that I had a casting of my cock at the house, don’t you? And then there was the day I caught you watching my sex tape.”
“What is your point, Levi?”
“My point ...” I say, stepping closer and getting all up in her personal space. She glances up at me with those big doe eyes. I tuck a wayward hair back behind her ear and her lips part as I lean in and whisper, “Is that you know full well that there’s nothing petit about me.”
Her breath is shaky as it rushes from her lungs. I step back with a smirk and a challenge in my gaze. “Now, are you coming or not?”
“WE ARE DRUNK,” BRIE says, leaning her head on my shoulder as we sit at the bar. “I have not been drunk for a very long time.”
I don’t know how many wines we’ve had but we’ve tasted them all, walked the vineyards until dusk, had a little dinner, and finished off several bottles since revisiting the bar.
“You are drunk. I, on the other hand, am not buzzed, not even a little bit,” I lie, because one of us has to be the responsible adult here.
“Give me your keys. I cannot allow you to drink like this. I mean ... drive.”
I chuckle. “I am fine. I can drink and drive like a fucking pro.”
“Yes, and that is why your very expensive rental car ended up parked inside your house,” Brie slurs. She’s cute when she’s drunk—unguarded—as if she removed the stick from her arse.
“It wasn’t my house, it was my gate. And you need to quit talking to Margaux so much.” I finish off my wine and attempt to set the glass back on the bar. It takes a bit to locate the right bar through my merlot-coloured glasses because there’s more than one. Brie grabs hold of my wrist and steers it in the right direction.
“You are too drunk to drive, and I am not getting in the car with you. Also, you are not allowed to leave me here.”
“So, what the hell are we supposed to do?”
“We spend the night.”
I swivel on my stool to face her. “Together?”
“Non. Not together. Séparement. Different rooms.”
“Fucking killjoy.”
I slide my credit card over the bar and the waiter swipes it and hands it back to me along with the case of wine I apparently purchased. It’s heavy, and I’m way too drunk to be trusted with several glass bottles all at once, but I man up as we walk up the narrow path to the office.
Once inside, I set the case of wine on the counter and declare, “Your finest room, Gaston.”
“It’s garcon, you idiot, and it means boy,” Brie says, shaking her head. “Gaston is a made-up character in a Disney film.”
“Oh shit, sorry. I don’t speak French.” The man looks at me with a raised brow and Brie covers my mouth to keep me from speaking.
“Un touriste typique. Il ne parle pas grand-chose, sauf stupide,” she replies in her usual rapid-fire French. I understood tourist and I’m pretty sure she called me stupid in there somewhere too. They both laugh. He looks at her. Really looks at her, and I have to fight the urge to beat his fucking head in because it seems the French just have this way of studying a woman as if she’s a delicacy. And yeah, okay, she might just be that, but if she’s not fucking me, she’s definitely not fucking this dickhead. Right? Except, she smiles back, and I don’t like the looks they’re exchanging.
“Comment puis-je vous servir, mademoiselle?”
I frown at Brie, “Did he just ask if he could service you?”
She rolls her eyes and gives me a look that pretty much says. “The adults are talking now,” before turning back to the jackarse behind the counter. “We need a room.”
“Juste une?”
“Deux.”
He taps away at his keyboard and frowns. “Je crains qu'il ne nous reste plus qu'une seule chambre pour la nuit.”
“Of course you do.” Brie sighs. “Fine, we’ll take it.”
“And we need your finest champagne brought to the room. Two bottles. And strawberries, with chocolate,” I say, because this guy is really pissing me off with the way he checks out Brie’s cleavage as I hand over my card to pay for the room and she signs the paperwork.
“Of course, monsieur.” The man takes the paperwork from Brie,
“Putain de rock stars,” Brie mumbles as she heads out of the office. I snatch the room key from the attendant, pick up my box of wine, and follow her out. The path to the cottages is dimly lit, and despite Angry French Girl and Flirty Desk Clerk, my buzz hasn’t died yet. I haven’t felt this fucking Zen in a long time. Long before Ali, long before Taint ever stepped out of the Ryan’s family garage. Funny that I should be feeling Zen now while the evil harpy at my side calls me names and drains my bank account dry.
Brie glares at me. “What?”
“Nothing. Just, I like France.”
She rolls her eyes and snatches the room card off the top of my precious cargo. “Everyone likes France. You’d have to be British or dead to not like France.”
“You know what else I like?” I glance up at the rolling clouds blotting out the stars overhead.
“Non. But I am certain you are about to tell me.”
“I like you. Even though you’re angry, and French, and kind of stuck up.”
“I am not stuck up. And what is wrong with being French?” The sky opens up, a deluge, a cleansing, and she shrieks, but I simply stand there and tilt my head up to it. Cold, fat drops spatter my face, drip into my eyes, and land on my tongue. Brie covers her hair with her hands, not that it does her any good. “What is wrong with you?”
“Nothing,” I shout over the torrent. It’s soaking us through now. The button up she has tied over her dress sticks to her skin, and her mascara runs. I want to kiss her, but I don’t because she tilts her face up to the sky and laughs.
The box in my hands is heavy as hell, and it’s getting wetter by the second, which means it will likely start falling apart soon, but I don’t dare fucking move because I’ve never seen her free like this. I doubt she’s ever been free, not like this. She wipes the water from her eyes, smearing mascara onto her cheeks. I wanna rub it off. I wanna touch her, but I’m carrying a box of wine, and when she finally looks at me, her laughter dies away.
She’s shaking now, because spring is even slower to start here than at my chateau, and the rain is freezing. Her hair is plastered to her head, her clothes glued to her body and her nipples stick out against the wet fabric, and from the way she looks at me—a combination of awkwardness, trepidation, and lust—I’d be willing to bet her clothing isn’t the only thing that’s soaked.
“We should go inside,” she shouts over the rain.
“We should.” I nod, but neither of us move. Cold droplets pat down all around us, freezing, but she just stares, and I stare, and it’s as fucking weird as it is awesome.
“I like you too,” she says finally, blurting it out all at once, as if she was daring herself to do so. “Even though you make me want to strangle you. Even though you’re brash, and rude, obnoxious when you’re drunk—and you’re always drunk—you’re completely inappropriate ninety-nine per cent of the time, and you stare at me as if I’m wearing nothing, and I’m yours to look at ... I like you too.”
I don’t know what the hell to make of any of that, except that Brie wants me, but she turns on her heel and slowly walks away, and I have no choice but to follow.
She slides the key into the lock and pushes into the room. It’s small, cosy, and most importantly, it’s dry. There’s a medium sized bed—all the beds are small in France—and two big winged-backed chairs in front of the fireplace.
There’s also a bathroom, and Brie disappears inside and closes the door. A beat later, the shower is running. I set the sodden box by the door and move about the room, trying to warm my blood after the early spring rain. I might have even followed her into the bathroom, if she hadn’t locked the door. Instead, I empty my pockets and set my wallet on the nightstand. I find two thick terry towelling robes in a tiny closet, and strip off
my sopping clothes. I throw on the robe as I grab the remote and try to figure out how to operate the fireplace with no instructions and all the buttons in French.
Eventually a gas flame burns in the hearth, and by the time Brie steps out of the bathroom in nothing but a fluffy towel, her skin all pink from the scalding hot water, the room is warm too.
“Found us some robes.”
“Merci.” We share a long look. It’s loaded because I want her, she wants me, and we’re both naked right now save for some terry towelling. A knock on the door startles us both. Brie grabs the robe off the bed before disappearing into the bathroom again.
I pull back the door. It’s the desk clerk. His hair and uniform are peppered with rain, and he looks at the closed bathroom door as he wheels his little cart in. Creepy fucker. “Bonsoir!”
“Hey,” I say, deliberately using English despite this being the one word I do understand, because I know that pisses off the French. “You can leave it there.”
“Oui, monsieur.” He pops the bottle of champagne and sets it back in the ice bucket. Then he steps away from the tray, and glances toward the bathroom door as Brie opens it. She’s no longer in a towel. Thank fuck. But knowing she’s naked under that robe doesn’t help. My cock wants to say hello. I’ve never been backward about my intentions with any woman I’ve wanted to fuck, and it’s not like I’d try to hide my boner—it’s not like I could even if I wanted to—but this is awkward as fuck because this arsehole won’t leave, and I don’t like the way he’s staring at her.
“Bonsoir, Mademoi—”
“Okay, we’re good here.” I push him towards the door.
“Merci,” Brie calls, and I turn my head and glare at her. I don’t tip the arsehole either. I slam the door and stride back to the tray. There are strawberries, and chocolate, but also bread and cheese. Of course there’s fucking cheese. It’s as if the French can’t go a single meal without it.
TAINTED: THE COMPLETE DUET Page 41
