Page 70 of Saint Céline
“That people should be careful when they question your choices.”
She was closer than she knew.
I stepped nearer, not enough to crowd her, just enough that she had to decide whether to hold her ground.
“You dislike being owned,” I said softly, my voice low enough that it carried an edge of something darker, something that lingered on the memory of her thighs trembling around my shoulders in the dark of Thad’s bedroom.
Her eyes sharpened. “Most people do.”
“No. Most people dislike admitting how badly they want to belong to something.”
“I belong to myself,” she said.
It was a beautiful lie. It wasn’t false in the simple sense. She wanted it to be true so badly that, for a moment, even I almost respected the effort.
I let my gaze drop briefly to the empty place on her wrist where Thad’s bracelet used to be. “And yet you keep testing how much of yourself you’re willing to give away.”
Her face hardened at once.
“I didn’t say anything wrong.”
“You never have to. That’s what makes you unbearable.”
I laughed quietly, and something in her expression shifted at the sound. She liked it.
“Miss Astoria settling in?” I asked, letting the conversation drift while my mind lingered on the image of her spread open and gasping beneath me.
The change in subject caught her off guard. Her guard slipped for half a second, and there she was again, softer before she could stop herself. “She screamed for breakfast at seven and then sneezed into my mouth. It’s been fun.”
I laughed properly this time, and her face changed with what looked almost like surprise.
“That sounds like a successful adjustment.”
“She’s a nightmare.”
“You adore her.”
Céline looked away toward the windows.
“Yeah, I do,” she said, quietly.
For a moment, I imagined her in the dorm that morning with the cat curled against her chest, hair unpinned, face softened by sleep, before she remembered who she was supposed to be. The thought made the desire I had been holding at bay surge sharper. I wanted to see her like that again, unguarded, undone, the way she had been when my tongue had driven her over the edge while her boyfriend slept obliviously beside her. I wanted to take her further, to have her in ways that left no room for pretense.
“What?” she asked.
“You look different when you talk about her.”
Her expression closed immediately.
She turned toward the door, but she did not leave.
I lowered my voice, letting it drop into something quieter, more intimate.
“Your friends know.”
Her hand stilled on the strap of her bag. For the first time all afternoon, her expression truly changed. “What?”
“Sophia and Anya,” I said. “They know something happened between us.”
