“I swear,” I say between harsh breaths as I wiggle.
“Tell the truth, Durand.” His voice is firm, like an attorney in a film, demanding an answer from a hostile witness.
“Never.”
More tickles rain down on me, and he brings his mouth to my ear and whispers something I don’t understand a word of. It’s ridiculous and sounds like “smorgen borgen.”
I can’t stop laughing, and I grab his forearms to get him to stop, but he’s strong and determined.
And merciful too, I learn, when he lets up and laughs. He shouts something to the driver, and the man up front joins in, chuckling too.
“What did you say to him?”
Christian sets a hand on his belly and seems to do his best to rein in his own laughter. “I told him about a shortcut to my house.”
I tilt my head to the side. “And that made him laugh?”
“I told him you were eager to make me an honest man, and that’s why we needed to get there quickly.”
“You’re terrible,” I chide, and then grab his shirt collar and stare at him sharply. “And what did you say to me a few seconds ago?”
He dips his face near my neck and maps my throat with feather-light kisses. “I said, Wait till you try the lingonberry pancakes. They’re delicious.”
I swat his chest. “You are the worst.”
“I know, but you deserved it for mocking me. You can make it up to me . . .” He slips from English to French. “By sucking my cock after the wedding.”
His bluntness turns me on, and so does the fact that he made sure his dirty words were only for my ears and not the driver’s. I thread a hand in his hair and yank him close, and we kiss the kind of kiss that’s required after a filthy comment.
We break apart when the car slows, and we’re in a residential area now. He takes my hand and clasps our fingers together tightly.
“Are you sure you don’t want to stay at a hotel?”
“Is your brother at your house?”
He shakes his head. “He had to go to London on business.”
“I’m completely fine with your house. The hotel seems silly.” Once more, I wonder why he’s concerned about my comfort at his home, then it hits me. I tense, my shoulders tightening. “Would you rather we stay at a hotel?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Since you’ve asked me a few times.”
“I want you to be comfortable.”
“Are you worried that letting me into your home implies a certain level of intimacy?”
He cocks a brow. “What?”
I don’t mince words. “Is your home one of those places that’s just for you? Not for a woman? Something that feels completely yours, and you don’t want to invite someone in?”
He scoffs. “You honestly think after you’ve been to my flat in Paris that I wouldn’t want you in my home here?”
“You’ve asked me a few times if I wanted to stay in a hotel. Yes, I thought that might be the case.”
“My little mermaid,” he says softly, “I didn’t think you’d want that kind of intimacy. That’s why I offered the hotel.”
It’s my turn to scoff. “I can handle the intimacy of seeing your toothbrush and forks.”
He runs the backs of his fingers over my cheek. “I just want to make sure I’m not crossing your lines.”
I roll my eyes. “We’ve already established the rules of the new road.”
“And I aim to follow them,” he says then recaps the parameters we discussed on the phone the other night. “We won’t live together. We’ll see each other more frequently than once a week. But not so much that seeing each other feels like an obligation.”
“Seeing each other should feel like a pleasure,” I add.
“Oh, it will.”
“And photos. We’ll take a few photos, so everything looks real on social media.”
“Preferably photos of you in lingerie?” He arches an eyebrow.
“Oh, shut up. When I take those shots, they’ll be for you only.”
I silence the silliness of this conversation with another kiss. Because that we do without any concerns.
