Page 71 of The Last Kiss

“No one sleeps straight after dinner, ma petite.”

“I thought the French ate late?” I ask. “Isn’t that a European thing?”

He nods, his smile telling me he’s pleased I know this. “Yes, nine.” A shrug, but I’m looking on aghast.

“Nine! I’d be passed out in hunger on the floor.”

“Our workday is entirely different. Well, how we run things is. I guess in the cities things have changed, maybe to keep up with the modern world, but the flow of our life will never change entirely. You have to remember it’s so hot in the summer. We work early, then break, work again late afternoon, and then eat our meal late.”

“Still going to bed on a full stomach. My Nana said you should always have three hours before sleep,” Samantha tells him.

“Believe me, there is plenty of time before the end of the meal and sleep.” His eyes are on me and I light into a slow but steady bonfire. One puff of wind and I’ll be burning like a beacon in the sky.

I am more than happy to occupy that time before dinner and sleep with him.

“Our evening meals are different to yours too. A meat-based dish, something simple, followed by a salad, then a coffee, and a small slice of something sweet to finish off.”

“What? You don’t have your salad with your main meal?” Samantha blasts.

Henri looks repulsed, a grimace turning his kissable mouth down at the edges. “Why would you want to mix all your flavours? The salad is to palate cleanse, to savour.”

I want him to savour me, and I’m pretty sure we should be getting home now. Home. Funny word. It’s ringing with a different note in my head. I glance at the time on my screen. “It’s midnight!”

“Do you turn into a pumpkin?” He smirks and Samantha chuckles. I throw her some major side-eye. Back off bitch.

“No, but don’t you have to get a train in the morning?”

He waves his hand dismissively. “Whenever.”

God, I hate the little tightening in my stomach.

“So not first thing?”

His eyes meet mine. “Non, unless you want me to?”

I think we both know the answer to that. I down my coffee in one. He’s right, it’s perfect, but I can think of other things equally perfect, and I can definitely think of things to do to fill three hours before sleep.

Sleep is for the weak anyway. I can sleep when he’s gone.

The thought hits me in the stomach but I ignore it.

The Tube takes forever. I bounce my legs the whole way. The walk to the apartment is a sprint. Neither of us talking, fingers tightly bound. It’s a race to satisfaction.

We burst through the door. “Cat,” I shout as I start peeling off my wet clothes.

Henri launches through to the kitchen, mutters to the cat, blasts some biscuit into the bowl like bullets against china and then races back. Hands reaching for my face, clutching me in close and tight, pressing his mouth to mine. I tug at his shirt, fingers quicker at the buttons as I throw it to the floor in record time, and he cages me against that warm and smooth olive skin. “We should have come home hours ago. Just given Paige her present and left. What a waste,” I mutter with small kisses, pressing one after the other on his lips.

“Plenty of time.” He hauls me up and steps for the bedroom, kicking the door shut on Barney.

Hours later I’m fulfilling my new favourite role in life as a jumper across Henri’s chest. His fingers are dancing that path down my spine that makes sleep impossible, although I think the coffee might have put paid to that anyway.

We lay in silence listening to the odd car rumble down the road, distant from our cocoon of satiated safety.

“Are we leaving this to fate again?” I ask his chest.

I know he’s going to want eye contact for this, and the fact I know that fact is life altering. He lifts me as expected, hand cupping around my ear. “Do you want to?”

“Do you?”