Page 41 of The Mountain
“We should get some lube too,” Liam comments casually, his shoulder knocking against mine. “Just in case.”
Putain de merde. I tug at the scarf wrapped around my throat, then unzip the top portion of my coat as fire rushes through my veins.
I’d originally been thinking of Lily when I made the plan to come here. Thinking of the sounds she and Eddie had made on theother side of the bathroom door last night and of Matty’s furious frown as he muttered about keeping Lily safe. And perhaps, perhaps I’d been hoping that maybe things with her and I might progress to a level where we might need them.
It had certainly been the focus of my late-night fantasies when I went to sleep last night.
I stare at the bottles of lube, ears ringing as my heart rate ratchets up to what must surely be an unhealthy level. I’ve never done that with a man before. In truth, I’ve only ever had sex with a woman once, and it hardly counted—a rushed, embarrassing moment after a party in my first year at Oxford. She hadn’t come—hadn’t even faked coming. I’d been so drunk, I’d vomited on the carpet of her bedroom directly after.
She hadn’t asked for my number and I don’t blame her.
“I’ve heard silicone is best for anal,” Liam continues, tilting his head toward mine, his voice low, breath hot against the side of my neck.
I bite my lip, hard enough to taste copper, and stifle a groan.
“I bet you’d feel so good inside me,” he continues, and now I know he’s trying to kill me.
I look at him in astonishment, my throat bobbing. His gray eyes are blazing as he stares back at me, full of challenge and dark promise.
“Is that… you’d let… you want…?”
Liam is so commanding, so dominant. I’d always assumed he’d want to top.
“With you?” He gives a one-sided grin, eyes sparkling. He’s close enough to me now that I can feel the heat of him against me, can feel the back of his hand brushing against my own. “Hell yes.”
“Can I help you boys?”
Liam and I step apart guiltily, as if we’d been caught committing some crime, rather than shopping together.
An elderly shopkeeper is staring at us, bushy brows dipping over a hooked nose, the pharmacy’s logo emblazoned on his polo shirt. His sharp gaze roves over the pair of us, then lands pointedly on the locked cabinet at our backs with narrow-eyed disapproval.
“We’d like to buy some condoms,” Liam says easily, shoving his hands in his pockets. “And a bottle of lube.”
“Is that so?” The man folds his arms over his chest, mouth flattening into a grim line. He doesn’t move to unlock the case, just stares baldly at me, then Liam, then back at me again.
“Do you have the key?” Liam asks, and somehow his voice is steady, expression serene. I know mine wouldn’t be. Not the way my heart is pounding, cheeks burning, lungs constricting.
“I do.” The man seems to roll the answer on his tongue, like he’s debating even telling us this much. “Don’t know that I’ll be using it though.”
“Excuse me?” Liam squares his shoulders, his chin lifting, but this time I see the faintest hint of color on his cheeks. “Why not?”
The old man sneers and clicks his tongue. “I think you boys know why.”
Nausea twists in my stomach, familiar and carrying with it the weight of every past slight. Every time a teacher or a friend’s parent made some well-intentioned comment.
Where are you from? Paris? Really? But where are your parents from? I heard black people get cold easily—you must find it hard studying in Switzerland. I have to say, when my son said your last name was Lafosse, I was expecting someone French. Doesn’t the Lafosse family own that pharmaceutical company. Oh—that’s your family? Really?
“…it’s my God-given right,” the old man is speaking to Liam, his face reddening enough that it’s almost purple. “Protected by the constitution. Probably not something you’ve heard of over in China…”
“I’m from New Zealand,” Liam retorts flatly.
The old man shrugs, unperturbed. “Same thing, innit? Just a bunch of foreigners. Can’t even speak English properly.”
“It’s actually my first language.” Liam’s lips quirk with a hint of cold amusement, even as his jaw ticks with anger. “And I’m not Chinese. For the record.”
Under other circumstances, maybe I would laugh about this. But it’s hard to find entertainment under the glare of the shop’s bright lights, with this geriatric bigot standing between us and something so embarrassingly simple as condoms and lube.
The old man shakes his head. “Can’t hardly understand a word you’re saying with that accent. But I’m not opening this cabinet and that’s final. I don’t stand for sinning. Won’t have a part in it.”
