Page 31 of The Pairing

When I take his hand, it’s smudged with ink from his sketchbook. His skin burns hot against my palm.

“One more thing, though,” Kit says. His thumb presses into the back of my hand. “Is that star ofFatal AttractionGlenn Close?”

I turn to look, and Kit takes off toward the bar.

“Ah, finally!” Fabrizio sings when I board the bus late the next morning. “Our little conquistadore!”

Orla shoves the clipboard at me.

“Go on, we haven’t got all day.”

“Be kind to my Theodora,” Fabrizio says. “It is not her fault. She is in love!”

“I’m not—”

“I am always so happy when my guests sample the local cuisine on their own,” Fabrizio says, winking lavishly. “And when it becomes love! Orla, do you remember the German girl two summers ago, who tried to tell us to leave her in Barcelona with the sailor? Ah, they are married now!”

I push on down the aisle, accepting a round of applause from the Calums and envious but not unfriendly looks from Dakota and Montana. At my seat, Kit is against the window wearing a patterned terry button-down and very small matching shorts.

I heave my pack into the overhead, grab the nearest small item from the outermost pocket, and chuck it at him.

“Ow,” Kit says as a jar of pomade hits him in the arm. He pulls out his headphones. “Good morning.”

“Morning!”

I’m wearing my most shit-eating grin as I flop down next to him and Orla whisks us away from Bordeaux.

“So.” Kit’s tone is light and indecipherable. “How was Florian?”

“He was . . .” I hold a pause to build suspense. “Surprising.”

“In what way?”

How to explain it? Kit and I may have set the terms of a sex competition yesterday, but we haven’t yet laid out rules for talking about sex with each other. We’re friends, though, and the last time we were friends, we told each other everything.

What happened with Florian was, we went back to his apartment to share another bottle from the château. Then he took me to his bedroom, showed me the contents of the top drawer of his dresser, and asked me if I would use it on him.

“Surprisingly well prepared,” I say, thinking of the supple leather harness he buckled around my hips, the vial of oil he poured over my fingers. “I mean, I knew he had the knees for it, but I didn’t think he had the range.”

Kit’s eyes widen incrementally. “You mean he let you—”

If anyone would know, it’s Kit.

“That wasallhe wanted.” A strange, small part of me almost wishes Kit could have seen how nicely my hand fit between the two dimples at the small of Florian’s back. Kit is the only one who could truly appreciate how my technique has improved. “I guess you could say I hadn’t pegged him for it.”

Kit’s expression of covetous wonder twists into a grimace.

“Not a pegging pun.”

“He took it really well,” I go on, all eyebrows. “Such astrappingyoung man.”

“You should be banned from sex for that. You should have to become a monk.”

“Score’s two to one,” I say, cheerfully ignoring his disdain. “Advantage me.”

“I hope you’re enjoying yourself,” Kit says, taking out his book. “It won’t last.”

It’s two hours to our next stop, Saint-Jean-de-Luz, a fishing commune on the southwestern coast of France near the Spanish border, so I decide to catch up on my most pressing notifications.

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