Page 81 of The Mountain
“It’s not…” Antoine casts a look over his shoulder, then switches to French. “You’re not regretting what we did last night? If anything made you uncomfortable…”
Oh, my sweet, sweet Antoine.
I turn to give him a grateful smile, rising to my toes to press a kiss to his cheek, lips brushing stubble and warm skin. “No,” I assure him. “No, it’s not that. I promise.”
He presses his lips together, nostrils flaring as he lets out a breath. “Okay. C’est bon.”
“I loved what we did last night,” I tell him, whispering conspiratorially, feeling suddenly shy even though it’s just the two of us in the kitchen. “Really loved it.”
Antoine flashes me a smile, green eyes sparkling with satisfaction. “Good.” His eyes dip down my body, a slow, lingering perusal that has my blood heating. “That’s good.” His voice is lower now, a raspy rumble that has me recalling how he looked last night, how he sounded. The way our bodies felt together, all of us.
“There is something I want to talk to you about,” I say, my gaze dipping to his chest. To the tight-fitting sweater stretched over muscle. It looks soft and warm and expensive, and I have a sudden urge to press my face against it. “To all of you guys, actually.” I lift my eyes to meet his own, and force myself to smile—a tight, nervous-feeling smile. “It’s nothing bad, I promise.”
At least, I hope it’s nothing bad. But maybe it will be to them. Maybe they’ll hear my plans and wonder what on earth I’m thinking, planning a future with the five of them when maybe they only ever wantedthis. A season. One winter of fun and flirting and lovemaking.
Maybe it’s just the convenience of it, with all of us living together and working together. Maybe what we have isn’t enough for them to fight for. To work for.
To travel all the way to New Zealand for.
Maybe they don’t want to commit to a life of endless winters. Maybe they don’t want to commit to me.
“Ma puce,” Antoine murmurs. He cups the side of my face, his palm warm and smooth against my skin as he lifts my gaze tomeet his own. From where I’d been staring unseeingly at the counter, at the half-made salad and unwrapped garlic bread.
It’s a plea and a question, but I shake my head. As tempting as it is to tell him first, to confide in him before the others, it doesn’t feel right. Not for this, anyway.
“It’s nothing,” I say instead. “Nothing.”
Except even as I say it, I know that isn’t true. What happens at the end of this conversation, it’s everything. I don’t think I’ve ever cared about something so much in my entire life.
Antoine lifts a brow, lips pressing together, but doesn’t argue. Just rubs his thumb gently along my cheek, then dips his head to press a soft, lingering kiss to my mouth. It starts out sweet, almost teasing, but then he makes a sound against my lips, his fingers tightening on my jaw as he deepens the kiss, hungry and demanding.
I find my body going slack against his, my lips parting as his tongue delves deeper, opening for him, chasing the wine-flavored kisses until I’m panting.
“Fuck. That’s hot.”
Liam’s voice has us pulling apart in surprise, like two teenagers caught making out in class, and Liam chuckles.
“Putain de merde,” Antoine grumbles, shooting Liam a narrow-eyed glare, but there’s no heat in it.
Liam smirks, then reaches between us to pour himself a glass of wine.
“Dinner smells good.” Liam closes his eyes as he brings the glass to his lips. “What are you guys making again?”
“It’s just meatballs.” Antoine gives a dismissive wave of his hand, his nose wrinkling slightly. “Nothing fancy.”
Liam and I exchange a look, and Liam’s lips quirk up in amusement. Liam and I might have both grown up with somewhat privileged lifestyles, but it’s become very clear since we started eating together that Antoine is accustomed to a whole other level of living. In fact, the first time we went to the Christian Center to collect groceries, I was pretty sure Antoine was going to pass out from embarrassment.
“This wine is nice,” Liam continues, gray eyes flashing mischievously as he glances at Antoine for a reaction. He swirls his glass for emphasis, then takes another sip, cringing slightly at the bitter taste.
I press my lips together to keep from laughing. It’s not good wine. Not at all. In fact, it’s decidedly bottom shelf.
Antoine stares at Liam in mild disgust. “Tu te fous de moi, mon chou. This?” Antoine raises his glass pointedly. “This is barely better than cooking wine.” Antoine takes a sip, then shakes his head. “Absolument terrible.”
I laugh and Liam lets out an amused huff, his eyes turning up at the corners.
“One day, you’ll come to Paris and I’ll show you what good wine is,” Antoine continues, apparently oblivious that Liam is just trying to get a rise out of him.
Liam’s eyes narrow, and I swallow another mouthful ofabsolument terriblewine to hide my smile.
