French Kissed

by Chanel Cleeton

  I jogged over to the gym, blood pumping, a thin layer of sweat on my body, my mind already clearer. After the overdose sophomore year, my parents had sent me to a “wellness spa” to “solve my problems,” as my father had put it. I hadn’t been big on sitting in a circle and talking about my feelings, but I had discovered exercise as my own brand of therapy. Yoga centered me, kickboxing let me kick some ass, and running allowed me to escape.

  I bounded up the stairs, heading for the weight room. My gym in Paris was one of the fanciest and most exclusive gyms in the world—the kind of place where you would find yourself on a treadmill next to a movie star. This place was the total opposite. It wasn’t crappy, but it was fairly nondescript. The school had worked out a deal for students to use the gym since the International School didn’t have its own facilities.

  I started off on the leg machines first, working through a circuit that had my muscles screaming. I was just finishing up my last set of reps when I saw him.

  Max was on the other side of the room lifting weights while a burly guy spotted him.

  I’d seen him at the gym before, and I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I always had this reaction to him. I was pretty sure all the women felt the same way about the sight of Max’s body lifting weights, his muscles exposed, sweat dripping . . .

  My type might have been Gucci loafers and Rolexes, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t appreciate what was right in front of me.

  I appreciated it a lot. For at least a minute. Maybe two.

  He wore a gray T-shirt with the sleeves cut off and a pair of black shorts that hit him at the knee. His biceps were big and sculpted, his legs muscular. His dark hair fell forward over his brow as he lifted the weight again, and I watched in fascination as his body braced to support itself. Sweat dripped down his face and his eyes blazed with determination. He completed the rep and set the weight down. I froze as his head turned and he caught sight of me.

  A smile spread across his lips and a familiar ache settled low in my belly.

  The smile grew, his eyes on me as he said something to the guy who had been spotting him, exchanging a complicated handshake.

  I waited to see if he’d come over and speak to me, trying to string together a coherent sentence, when suddenly he moved over to a black gym bag against the wall. He grabbed a towel from his bag, wiping his face and grabbing a fresh shirt, this one white. He rose, lifting his shirt up over his head and throwing it into the gym bag, and all hope of coherent fled.

  Abs. Abs everywhere. Work of fucking art, abs.

  Max walked toward me, tugging the fresh white T-shirt over his head, the fabric a curtain coming down on the best show I’d ever seen.

  He stopped a couple feet away.

  “Hi.”

  I forced my gaze up until our eyes met. “Hi.”

  He grinned. “Good workout?”

  Way better now.

  “Yes.”

  His lips twitched. “Are you okay?”

  I froze. “What?”

  “Are you okay?” he repeated. “You’re flushed. Hard workout?”

  He totally knew. “Something like that.”

  His grin deepened, and a dimple popped out. Hello.

  Max shifted back and forth, rocking on his heels, studying me the whole time. I struggled for inscrutable as I stared back at him, even if it was hard to keep my lips from mirroring his in the face of that fucking dimple.

  Who knew a dent in your face could be so lethal?

  “So what are you doing the rest of the weekend?” he asked, his voice distracting me from his smile.

  “Probably just studying.”

  “No hot parties?” he teased.

  “No. You?”

  “Definitely no hot parties.”

  I rolled my eyes. “You know what I mean. Any plans for the weekend?”

  “I’m going shopping.”

  “Excuse me?” I didn’t know a lot about Max, but it was pretty clear that he didn’t care about fashion at all. The few times George had brought him out with us last year he’d made little to no effort.

  “I have the first round of job interviews next week,” he explained. “I need a nice suit.”

  “You have job interviews next week and you waited until now to get a suit?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  I gaped at him. “Because a suit has to be tailored. You can’t just buy a suit. You have to make sure it fits perfectly. You’re cutting it really close. What day are your job interviews?”

  I may have procrastinated with things like studying, but I did not mess around when it came to fashion.

  He laughed. “Why do I feel like I just committed a crime? I’m just going to go to the high street to get a suit. It’s not like I’m going to Armani.”

  Some part of me died a bit when he strung together the words high street and suit.

  “Where are your interviews?”

  He rattled off a list of investment banks that were so impressive even I’d heard of them. Every place where he was interviewing catered to a wealthy and exclusive clientele. There were expectations.

  “You can’t wear a suit from the high street.”

  His gaze darkened, and I knew I’d struck a nerve. “Fleur—”

  “You can’t.” I hesitated, reaching for tact, which had never really been a strength of mine. “I get the money thing, but trust me, you’re entering my world now. I know the type of guy who works at one of these banks. They’re going to judge everything about you. Not just the finance stuff but also how you look. They want someone who is going to fit their brand. They’ll want flashy.”

  The rest—and you aren’t flashy—might have hung unspoken between us, but we both knew it was there.

  “I can’t afford a suit from fucking Armani.”

  I stilled. I’d always assumed Max thought he was above us—the clothes, the money, the clubs. I’d figured he didn’t care and thought it was frivolous—thought I was frivolous—but now, hearing the frustration in his voice, I knew I was wrong.

  He did care.

  And it hit me then that it must be hard to be at a school like the International School, where guys were peacocks who flaunted their money and their families’ power like brightly colored feathers designed to draw females in.

  And it worked. Constantly.

  For Max, it was all a game for which he didn’t have the tools, and he had no hope of getting them. No wonder he sat out.

  “It doesn’t have to be Armani,” I responded, my tone softer.

  “Don’t feel sorry for me,” he warned.

  “I don’t.” I flashed him a killer smile. “I’m the Ice Queen, remember?” I whispered playfully. “I don’t feel normal human emotion.”

  He shook his head, the smile returning to his lips, some of the tension easing from his brow. I liked that I could do that.

  “You’re a handful, aren’t you?”

  “Are you just now figuring that out?” I teased.

  This time he gifted me with another flash of his dimple. “No, I’ve been paying attention for a while.”

  Something warm wound its way through me.

  I could play the whole, “Ohmigod, he likes me, he really likes me” game, but that wasn’t my style.

  I’d modeled, even done that stupid French rap video—which, while it had seemed like a fabulous idea at the time and had definitely succeeded in pissing off my parents, wasn’t something I was super proud of—so I got it. I was hot. Guys liked hot. Whatever. But right now, with the look in his eyes and the words coming out of his mouth, there seemed to be more. And that was definitely new.

  “I’ll go shopping with you.” The words escaped my mouth before I even realized it.

  Max was quiet for a beat. “Why?”

  “Because it sounds like you need help, and believe it or not, if there’s one thing I’m excellent at it’s shopping.”

  He laughed. “True.”

  “And you need me.”

  “Really?” he dr
awled.

  “Absolutely.”

  He sighed. “I’m going to warn you . . . I hate shopping.”

  I grinned. “Somehow I already knew that.”

  “And I hate trying on clothes.”

  It was too much to resist. Something sparked inside me, and I let it flame.

  “I’m sure I can help with that,” I teased.

  His eyes widened, and his voice turned husky. “Could be fun.”

  The spark turned into a full-on blaze.

  “Oh, it will be,” I promised.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Max

  “This is not fun. You lied.”

  Fleur glared at me. “It would be if you weren’t so grumpy.”

  “You’ve dragged me to six stores, we still haven’t found anything, and you promised me food two hours ago and haven’t delivered. I ran five miles and strength-trained for an hour today. I’m hungry.”

  “After you find a suit,” she sniped.

  Jesus, she was bossy.

  “I’ve found lots of suits. This one’s nice.” I held up a gray one, my eyes pleading with her to just decide so we could be done.

  She shook her head. “It doesn’t send the right message.”

  “What message is it supposed to send? It’s a fucking suit. Newsflash, it can’t talk.”

  She smirked at me. “Actually, you’re wrong about that. If you think clothes don’t speak, then you’re missing the whole point of fashion.”

  My head throbbed, my stomach growled, and I swore my calf was cramping. I considered myself to be in pretty good shape, but shopping with Fleur was something else entirely. She was like an invading general, marching from shop to shop, dragging me along with her. I wanted a beer, I wanted food, and I wanted to sit the fuck down.

  “What does my outfit say?” she asked.

  “Have you been listening at all? Deaf to clothes over here.”

  “What does my outfit say?” she repeated, hand on her hip, foot tapping against the ground.

  Cute and annoying at the same time.

  “That you always get your way? That you’re hot?”

  Her eyes narrowed like she knew I was just throwing shit out there. “What part of my outfit says that?”

  She was right. I wasn’t describing her outfit; I was describing her.

  I sank down onto one of the sofas in the store, something the shop had graciously provided for men luckier than me.

  “Take pity on me. I haven’t eaten in hours. Haven’t had water. I don’t know what a fucking pinstripe is, have no preference on double-breasted versus single-breasted. I’ve never worn a suit in my life. Where I’m from, you wear a suit when you go to court, get married, or go to a funeral, and that’s about it. I’m trying here, but I lost my will to live like two hours ago, and I’m sorry, I have no fucking clue what your outfit says other than that it makes every guy who sees you”—including me—“want to take it off.”

  She laughed, not one of the laughs she employed like another piece of her armor, but a real laugh, one that had her shoulders shaking.

  “Fine. No more shopping. I have a feeling this will be our lucky stop anyway.”

  I closed my eyes and offered a silent prayer to the heavens. “Thank you.”

  She giggled—actually giggled—and the sound skipped through me, leaving a trail of want in its wake. It was a feeling I’d been fighting all day. I’d never really hung out with Fleur one-on-one without distractions, but she was fun to be around. She had a quick sense of humor, and despite everything people said about her, she wasn’t dumb.

  “What about this one?” she asked, holding up a gray jacket.

  I shrugged. “That one’s nice.”

  Her eyes narrowed as she looked at the jacket again and back at me. “I think you might need something with a little more presence. A classic black suit gives a more powerful image. You want to walk into the interview like you own it.”

  She put the jacket back on the rack.

  “Since you don’t care about single-breasted versus double-breasted, I’m just going to go with single-breasted.” She made a face. “Double-breasted has a tendency to look a little tacky if it’s not done really well.” She flashed me a blinding smile. “I want you to look like you were born to wear this suit.”

  I shook my head, fascinated by the intensity with which she approached shopping.

  “Why do you care so much?” I asked, my tone more curious than anything else.

  “Because it’s important. You said you need this job, right?”

  I nodded.

  “So I’m helping. It’s not a big deal. Shopping isn’t exactly a hardship.”

  Maybe she didn’t mind the shopping, but it was a big deal. It was really nice of her to help me out. Maggie had always said Fleur was loyal, but I hadn’t believed her until now. I got it. Fleur was loyal, and the fact that she somehow counted me in her list of people to take care of was surprising.

  “I’ll take you to dinner after to make up for the torture,” she promised. “You can even pick the restaurant.”

  I shook my head. “Only if you’ll let me pay. Seriously. You’re doing me a huge favor here, and even though I’m giving you shit, I really appreciate it.”

  “It’s a deal. Are you ready?”

  I forced myself to smile. “Let’s try on some suits.”

  ###

  Fleur

  I shifted the suits to my other arm, the heavy fabric weighing me down, the long trouser legs dragging on the floor slightly. If we were in a fancier store, a normal store, there would be someone to do this for me. I knew I was being a snob, and I wasn’t trying to be, it was just hard when we had such different views of normal. We came from totally different worlds, and while I’d grown somewhat used to that with Maggie, it was different when it was a guy. There was ego involved, and male pride, and a whole lot of things that made it a tricky situation to navigate. I’d compromised by going to the high street to save his budget, with the caveat that I chose the stores. So far the selection hadn’t been bad.

  I’d promised Max this was the last stop, but I hadn’t put a limit on the number of suits I wanted him to try on. He was in the dressing room with number six now.

  Part of the problem was his budget, the other his size. Most of the stores we’d gone to carried suits cut for European builds, not bulk. With his short time frame, custom made wasn’t really an option, especially when he couldn’t afford it. And off-the-rack was turning into a challenge.

  Luckily, I’d never found a fashion challenge I couldn’t overcome.

  I headed back toward the dressing room, three more suits in hand. He’d found a nice dress shirt that worked, so that was one problem down. Shoes and suit remained. Somehow I was guessing he had big feet.

  I rapped on the door. “I found a few more.”

  Muffled sounds and thumps came from the other side.

  “We’ve been here an hour,” he grumbled.

  I bit back a smile. So he was back to being surly. It was kind of cute on him. Most guys would be bitching a hell of a lot more than he was after being dragged all over London shopping. And his complaining was pretty funny, although I’d never admit it.

  “Just a few more,” I cajoled. “One of these suits is really good. It’s a classic black . . .”

  “I’ll try it on if you’ll stop referring to things as ‘classic black.’ Black is black.”

  This time I did smile. “Can I come in?”

  I didn’t wait for a response. I turned the knob, opening the dressing room door, and I froze.

  Holy fuck.

  Max stood in front of me in one of the suit trousers I’d picked, white dress shirt unbuttoned, trousers open enough to see a hint of the top of his black boxer briefs, giving me one hell of a show.

  Gah.

  Neither of us spoke.

  I stared at that exposed patch of skin—tan, smooth, muscular—and warmth began to seep into me. I didn’t think, I just moved. I walked the rest of the
way into the dressing room and closed the door behind me, locking it with a click.

  I dumped the suits on the chair in the corner of the room and then my arms were around his neck, my lips on his, and his hands cupped my ass as he pulled me up against him—hard—and I lost myself to pleasure.

  ###

  Max

  She kissed me like she had to kiss me, like she was made to kiss me. She kissed me like she wanted to take, and I gave her everything.

  French spilled from her lips in a rapid tumble I couldn’t even begin to decipher, and my heart turned over in my chest.

  Her mouth pressed against mine, her tongue grazing me before I opened and tasted her heady and sweet flavor, our tongues tangling, bodies plastered against each other. She wrapped her arms around my neck, pulling me closer, her body fitting perfectly against mine. Her breasts rubbed against my chest, her hands traveling to the front of my shirt. She pushed aside the fabric, her palms flat against my skin. I was so hard already, but the second her hands touched my abs, just above my hips, my cock jerked.

  She stroked my skin, exploring my chest until her hands drifted lower and lower, pushing the shirt off my shoulders with an impatience I easily matched.

  My hands came up from the curve of her ass to the small of her back, reaching under her top to stroke at the smooth skin hidden under her clothes. I didn’t care that we were in a dressing room, didn’t care that she was Fleur, that she would likely crush my heart under the heel of one of her thirty pairs of shoes.

  I wanted her. Fuck the rest of it.

  Her hands moved up from my abs, tracing the planes of my naked chest, reaching higher to stroke the muscles on my shoulders and back. Someone moaned, the sound lost between our mouths. I wasn’t sure who it was, wasn’t sure where she ended and I began. My hands roamed higher, teasing her back, my fingertips grazing the lace around the strap of her bra, higher still until I held the back of her neck, stroking and teasing a shiver out of her.