“You speak French?” My mouth parts, but I’m not sure what to say. “Ehrm. Yes?” “And you never thought to tell me?” “I’m . . . sorry?” “Not forgiven.” She drags me to the edge of the foyer for a kiss that melts every worry our confusing conversation’s caused. “French on your tongue makes me want to do filthy, filthy things to it.” Oh Christ. Heat floods me. My tongue. Beatrice. I’m aching for it. “I—yes, let’s. Absolutely. Let’s go.”
