Liar Liar

by Donna Alam

  Remy follows me to the bedroom, throwing his clothes on the chair next to the door, then dropping his wallet and watch negligently on top. Doesn’t he have a phone? Did it slip from his pocket when he fell from his bike?

  I’d drawn my blinds last night before leaving for work and my bed was freshly made yesterday, which is just as well as I’m too tired to fight with a duvet cover right now. I peel back the bed linens and plump the pillows, savouring the floral scent of my laundry detergent.

  ‘I guess we shouldn’t sleep too long, not unless we want to become vampires or opossums or something. Anyway, I’ll see you in an hour or two. You know, just to make sure you haven’t died in your sleep.’ I straighten and turn quite suddenly, the plea of don’t die in your sleep drying in my throat as Remy stands in front of me, not wearing a towel but rather holding it. I mean, he’s holding it over his crotch, but what it doesn’t hide is the reflection of his ass in my dresser mirror.

  An ass sculpted by squats.

  An ass which, intriguingly, has no tan lines.

  The man lives somewhere sunny, and evidently, near a nudist beach.

  ‘Right, well. Sleep tight!’ I move from the room with the approximate speed of a rocket, banishing the thoughts of his ass, though not the image, from my head.

  I have to! Look, I’m no prude. I consider myself to be very much sex positive, as in I’m positive I really like sex! I like men. And I like sex with men. I’ve just had a lot to deal with lately. I haven’t had the bandwidth to deal with a relationship, not even the fun two hours kind. But right now, none of this means anything. What does matter is the fact that I’ve been tasked with this man’s care, and I’ll be damned if I end up banging him into a coma.

  So I leave the room. For the both of us.

  I need a shower. I’m still wearing my coat, and I have been for hours. Given the temperature isn’t too bad inside right now, I’m kind of baking under the thing.

  Close proximity to a hot guy

  + a flash of his hot ass

  + coat wearing inside

  = Rose needs to shower.

  I strip, ready to brave the kind of shower only my washing machine can provide. Hot, cold, then arctic. But I’ve played shower roulette before, usually when I’ve said something to piss off Sarah. Unfortunately, when I get out, I find my robe isn’t hanging on the back of the bathroom door where it usually is, and when I go to pull another towel from the shelf, there’s only one lonely handtowel left. Damn. Which leaves me the choice of creeping into my bedroom wearing nothing but a tiny towel or my coat. I go with the first option because, ew, and also because Remy should be asleep right now.

  After a stealthy tip-toeing dash along the hall, it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness of my room. Thankfully, he is asleep. I mean, he looks asleep, plus he’s also facing the other way. Which also means he’s facing the dresser mirror, and one flash, inadvertent or not, is enough for today.

  But is it really, my mind supplies, because you hardly complained.

  ‘I’m not about to shove my boobs in his face in repayment for a flash of his ass,’ I murmur to myself.

  Following some stealthy opening of drawers, I pull out a T-shirt and a pair of shorty pyjamas that it’s far too cold for—the laundry gods are not on my side today—and after some circus-worthy contortionist moves, I pull them on without one towel slip. No wardrobe malfunctions on my watch. Images of his butt aside, a cold shower and the thought of a few cramped hours on the wicker framed sofa is enough to make anyone reluctant to bed down for the night. So I putter around the shadowy room, straightening his boots and picking up the remainder of his clothes to slot them into the washing machine. Jeans and socks. No underwear.

  He must have chosen to sleep in them.

  Hm. He doesn’t strike me as the modest type. If you’ve got it, flaunt it, I say. And the man has it. In spades.

  I find myself chuckling as I leave the bedroom, placing his clothes in the washing machine. Then I tiptoe back into the room with a glass of water and a couple of Tylenol, depositing them on the nightstand without once looking at him.

  Because looking leads to other thoughts. And looking can also lead to other things.

  I make my way over to the 50s era dresser, a fabulous thrift store find, and even in the low light I can see my carefully lined eyes are definitely more panda than feline. I begin pulling the hair ties from the ends of my damp and wilted braids. The relief is instantaneous as I unravel them, and the touch fingers on my throbbing scalp sheer bliss. So much so that I don’t quite manage to stifle a sigh of satisfaction that, on reflection, might have sounded a little bit sexual.

  As far as I can remember. It’s been a while, you understand.

  ‘Rose.’

  I turn my head over my shoulder, the sound of my name in the dark a pull I find hard to resist. ‘Sorry,’ I whisper. ‘I didn’t mean to wake you.’

  The bedlinens rustle, one muscled shoulder and arm revealed. ‘Venez ici.’

  I find myself moving across the room, unsure what it is in his tone that draws me to him.

  ‘What is it?’ The floor is cool under my bare feet, but the rest of my body is burning as Remy reaches out and takes my hand in his much larger one. I know I should pull away, maybe offer him the water and pills? I know I shouldn’t be standing here gazing at him like he’s a pastry just waiting to be nibbled. But he just looks so tempting. So inviting. Is he looking at me like I’m looking at him? Like he could do with a little comfort, a little company? It strikes me that he and I, we’re alike. Life has treated us harshly, dealt us a rough hand. And maybe we could both benefit from this moment, a human moment of reassurance and faith.

  ‘Vienz . . .’ His free hand pats the mattress heavily. ‘Come lie with me. I promise your virtue is safe.’

  He tugs on my hand as he moves across the bed, making room. I don’t put up much of a fight, crawling in as he pulls back the duvet a little.

  ‘C’est bon . . . That’s good. Don’t worry, despite my big words, I find I can barely lift an eyebrow. Don’t tell. It’s a secret. I don’t want to ruin the image of Frenchmen everywhere.’

  His murmurs are comforting as I settle myself on the pillow with my back to him. And it seems like the most natural thing in the world as his arm wraps around my waist.

  ‘This is nice,’ I whisper, resting my arm across his as he pulls me closer still. ‘We all need a little hug sometimes.’

  ‘Et parfois . . . And sometimes we need a little more.’

  At that moment, I make another discovery. His underwear is neither in the machine nor on him.

  ‘Peut-être le matin . . . Maybe in the morning. Sleep well, Rose.’

  6

  Rose

  You’d think I’d have moved vite!

  Quickly!

  That I’d have jumped out of that bed like a ninja once I realised the man next to me was naked. Not only naked but sporting a little action in his non-existent pants.

  Yep, the man had a little wood. A little action in the baguette department.

  And oh, I planned on it. I planned on laying very still, maybe allowing myself just a tiny snuggle into my Remy scented pillow, at least until he’d fallen asleep when I’d creep out of the bed, removing myself to the sofa. I planned on it, just as I planned on waking him up every couple of hours to make sure he didn’t die from a brain haemorrhage or slip into a concussion-induced coma.

  I planned, but I failed.

  I mean, not entirely. He’s not dead. But he is up.

  Let me clarify. He’s not out of bed. He’s just up.

  And hard. And pressed against me as his mouth plays some sort of enchantment against the soft skin behind my ear.

  ‘Bonjour, Rose.’

  If I could bottle his voice, I’d be able to sell it as an aphrodisiac.

  ‘M-morning.’ I release a long, shuddering breath, absorbing the feel of him. The softness of his lips is contrasted by the delicious friction of the hair on his t
highs behind mine.

  ‘Aves-vous rêvé demoi? . . . Did you dream of me?’

  I exhale a breathy sigh, fighting hard to retain my senses. As if his deep voice and accent weren’t hard enough to resist, his touch is nothing short of unravelling.

  ‘J’ai fait . . . I did. I dreamt I was inside you. Tell me I can make my dream real.’

  ‘Yes.’ Yes to all of it—yes to his husky whispers and yes to his lips as I turn my head into the pillow, giving him better access to my neck. The sibilant whisper of the cotton sheets is overlaid by my quiet gasp as his hand slides under my T-shirt to cup my breast.

  Yes. Oh, yes . . .

  ‘Embrasse-moi . . . Kiss me. Give me your mouth, Rose.’ His rasping demands find my ear, his teeth closing on the sensitive lobe and giving it a sharp tug. The pressure resonates between my legs. My body opens, arching into his hand, and the movement earns me a low growl of his approval. ‘J’ai envie de toi . . . I want you.’ Remy grinds against me, his head falling to rest against mine. ‘Ta peau est si douce . . . Your skin is so soft. I want to kiss every inch of it. Taste it with my tongue.’

  As his hot breath blows against my neck, the thought arises that what we’re doing is wrong. Not wrong exactly, because I can’t remember wanting anything like I want this, but it’s risky. For him at least. I bring my hand to the back of his head in an attempt to get his attention, tightening my grip on the silky strands in a very poor attempt to stop him.

  ‘We really shouldn’t be doing this. Not for forty-eight hours the doctor said.’

  And I do get his attention. The kind that makes me feel like I’m losing my mind as he squeezes my ass, sort of low and dirty, settling the hard length of his cock between my butt cheeks

  ‘Je . . . ta tête,’ I whisper. I’d meant it as a warning. It sounds more like an invitation.

  ‘Ta tête . . . My head? Which one.’ A filthy-sounding chuckle reverberates against my skin.

  Yeah, I kind of guess where he went with that one.

  ‘But the doctor . . .’

  ‘Le médecin qui . . . The doctor who looked down your cleavage when your coat gaped? He probably got his degree from a counterfeiter. Trust me, I know exactly what will make me feel better.’

  ‘We shouldn’t,’ I whisper as his hand moves down my thigh, his calloused fingers adding another level of deliciousness as he lifts it over his. I find I’m barely able to retain my train of thought let alone try to convey the risks sex might have on his health.

  ‘J’ai hate. J’ai besoin de vous.’ I need you. I can’t wait. His tone is dark and delicious, and it doesn’t matter that I don’t exactly know what he’s saying because my body understands his need, and my ears know praise when they hear it.

  His hand slips between my body and the mattress, palming my breast and banding my back to his chest as his other hand slips into my pyjama shorts.

  ‘Oh my God.’ My body bows, the sensations overwhelming as his long fingers swipe through the slickness between my legs.

  Everything inside me clenches, my heart beating wildly as he begins to pet and tease the buds of both my nipple and clit with the sweetest percussion.

  ‘Vous êtes si belle . . .You’re so beautiful. So wet for me. I can feel you pulsing against my fingertips.’

  I’m no stranger to coming by hand, usually by my own hand, but never has it felt so intoxicating. Every swipe and circle, every press and pet makes me feel like I’m being peeled open, my every whimper and tremble exposing me shamelessly.

  ‘C’est ça . . . That’s it, beautiful girl. Take it. Take it all. I can’t wait to taste you.’ His is so voice low and tone fervent, yet I’m unprepared for the intensity as his fingers thrust inside, his thumb unrelenting on my clit.

  ‘Oh, God,’ I whimper as I buck up into his hand, chasing the sublime sensation. It’s been so long, and this feels so illicit, his hands working under the covers, slipped into my clothes. Sensation layers upon sensation—his accent, his praise. The way I’m captive to more than just his commands.

  ‘Pouvez-vous entendre ca? Can you hear how wet you are for me? How much you want this.’

  Sensations swirl and coalesce as I’m driven on by words I don’t understand yet recognise, unashamedly grinding against his hand. Elastic snaps against my stomach and his fingers appear above the covers, the evidence of my arousal glistening there.

  ‘Tu es délicieux.’

  I need no translation as he brings them to his mouth to lick them clean.

  As his arm lowers, he pulls the hem of my T-shirt up over my head, dropping it to the floor and deftly rolling me under him.

  ‘Maintenant,’ he growls, pressing himself between my legs. ‘Now. I need you now.’

  His body over mine . . . it’s no less than perfect. The angles of his shoulders block out the light spilling from the hallway, the weight and feel of his solidness over me.

  ‘Parfaite.’

  His thumb grazes my nipple, sliding back and forth over the sensitive peak, leaving me a desperate, whimpering heap.

  ‘Yes, perfect.’

  We need no common language for Remy to discern the effect he has on me. I tremble as his gaze falls over me. With the barest and most teasing of touches I melt.

  Oh, the relief—the absolute relief—as he greedily draws my nipple into his mouth. Matching his hunger, I wrap my legs around his waist, my hands in his hair as my cries ring through the air.

  He’s touched me, his fingers have been inside me, yet I’m somehow shocked when his mouth meets mine. Maybe my shock stems not from the kiss, but the way that he kisses. The intensity. The sense that he’s all power and command restrained, and I know at this moment, he’ll fuck like he kisses. There’s nothing tentative in his most thorough of applications as he presses me into the mattress. He swallows my carnal groan, everything speeding up in that instant. Hands grasp, tongues thrust, fingers biting skin. Our mouths fused, and our minds deaf and blind to anything but this. But then my body mourns the lack of his as he suddenly pulls back, rising before me on his knees. And, oh my God, is he beautiful. My gaze follows the bold curve of his shoulders down his muscular arm—deltoids and triceps, oh my!—my attention drawn to the ladder of abdominals with the movement of his hand. The long powerful line of his thighs and that delicious V, lower still to where his cock stands proud. Proud and so vulgar and so beautiful.

  And so big.

  I don’t realise I’ve pushed up onto my elbow until I’m reaching for it. He’s so hard, like satin over steel as my thumb caresses his silken head, he exhales a wholly masculine groan.

  ‘You’re huge.’ I’m certain I don’t mean to sound so awe-filled. This isn’t the first time I’ve had a cock in my hand, but it’s easily the loveliest. And the longest. Fullest? To put it another way, this man wins the Rose Ryan Prize for Penii.

  ‘J’aime ça . . . I like that a lot. But if you keep doing that while looking at me as you are, we’re both going to be very disappointed.’

  ‘I wish I understood,’ I murmur, taking him in my fist. Then suddenly I do as he releases a long, measured exhale, almost arching into my hand.

  ‘Like that?’ I tighten my grasp, running my hand from root to tip.

  ‘Plus fort . . . harder.’ His words are taut, his gaze glued to my bare breasts as he covers my hand with his. But in a sudden fit of daring, I pull my hand from under his.

  ‘Let me watch.’

  Head lowered, he stares up at me through thick, dark lashes. My heart moves into my throat. Was that too bold? Too forward? Was it lost in fucking translation?

  ‘Aimes-tu regarder . . . You like to watch.’ His sudden smile is a study in sinfulness, and he moves so fast, I find myself squealing as he reaches for the hem of my pyjama pants, whipping them off and leaving me feeling thoroughly undignified with my toes around his ears. ‘Bon . . . Good. So do I.’

  I don’t have time to cogitate his expression as, palm flat against the pillow, he presses me back with a kiss. A hungry kiss. A
thorough kiss. The kind that fries my brain, melting me across the bed.

  ‘Touche toi . . . Touch yourself for me, darling. Make yourself come.’ With his words, he lifts my hand, pressing it between my legs as he kisses me again, coaxing my fingers to begin.

  My eyes flutter closed. I’m so turned on, I’m almost embarrassed to let him see just how much. But they don’t stay closed for long. Not as cool air settles between us as he pulls away. Not as he exhales. Groans. Not as the rhythmic sound of skin on skin fills the room.

  Oh my. That looks so at home in his hand.

  On his knees between my open thighs, his gaze settles on where my hand rests between my legs.

  ‘C’est ça . . . That’s it. So beautiful. I was right about how you’d look touching yourself.’

  His gaze is so focussed and the cadence of his voice so rich and deep, I find myself teasing a finger along my crease. My tremulous whimper joins his praise, the digit dipping inside as I gather my own arousal and roll it across my clit.

  If he says anything else, I don’t hear it, lost to the sight of him taking his cock firmly in his hand. A vein stands to attention in his forearm, the muscles of his thighs and abdomen taut as his hand moves from root to crown, twisting his fist a delicious amount. Delicious for the both of us. His attention is so focussed, his expression a mixture of agony and relief as his hand repeats the action.

  I find myself lost in the moment, my fingers beginning to work slickly. My breathing is rapid and my moans unrestrained as I watch the man above me take pleasure in himself. Take pleasure in watching me.

  ‘You’re so big and so hard.’ I feel like a goddess under his attentions, my words unrestrained.

  ‘C’est tout pour toi . . . This is all for you. To fill you. To fuck you.’

  ‘I want to feel you inside me.’ I roll my lips inward to stem the expulsion of my thoughts. My hips begin to jolt as though electrified as my orgasm builds, teetering just beyond my reach.

  ‘Jouir pour moi . . . Come for me, beautiful girl. Come for me and I’ll give you everything.’

  ‘Oh, God. Don’t stop—don’t stop talking,’ I whisper, giving over to the acute surge of my desire. No doubt I’ll regret my filthy stream of consciousness later, but for now, I can’t stop the words spilling from my mouth as he watches me with an intensity that makes my vision more than a little hazy. ‘Yes, don’t stop watching me. Don’t you dare stop touching yourself. You’re so damn delicious, and I’ll be so, so sorry if I fuck you to death.’