Chapter 29 #2
Burning alive would have been less of a torment. Bastien tipped his head heavenward, uttering a silent curse, and it was then that he noticed the sky had started thundering. A drop of rain fell on his cheek. Merde.
“We better hurry.” He pushed his thoughts to the furthest crevice of his mind, picking up his pace. “It looks like it’s about to—”
A sharp sound split across the darkness overhead. Then the shower of April rains pelted them like hail.
“Great.”
· · ·
An hour later and sopping wet, Bastien was praying the door to the abandoned house would open soon.
He had left Celine in the car—where the rain bucketed down on her—arms crossed and staring daggers at him, while he struggled to work the broken door handle.
To his amazing luck tonight, the roof had been stuck when they had gotten to the car; so they had driven with nothing to cover them all the way to the Latin Quarter.
But Bastien wasn’t dwelling on the fact that the new leather seats were soaking up the rain, or that the floor of his car was flooded, the water slowly spilling through the outlines of the doors.
He felt drunk—drunker than Celine was—as if he was floating above Paris, seeing everything from an out-of-body perspective.
Driving in the rain had actually been a respite—cooling him to his bones.
The door finally gave way under a violent kick.
“Took you long enough,” Celine spat when he returned to the car.
Her hair was sticking to her face, the finger waves drooping and the gel melting in the rain.
Her cosmetics had pooled beneath her eyes, streaking her cheeks in twin, black smears.
She looked like a wet cat. Still, Celine refused to budge.
“Carry me, if you must,” she demanded, turning her nose up in the air.
Adorably drunk Celine was gone it seemed, replaced now by grumpy Celine.
The rain continued pouring on them.
Bastien narrowed his stare at her. His entire body was vibrating with tension, much like the clouds overhead. If he touched her again…
“Well?” Celine pressed.
With no other option, Bastien picked her up, closing the door to his car with his knee.
He nearly slipped on the water that dripped on the floor as he swept up the stairs in the dark, all the way up to the attic, and set Celine down on the old divan.
She jumped to her feet the second he released her, whining about the wretched state of her dress.
“Can’t you see I am dripping?”
Bastien squinted at her through the darkness.
His own hair was dripping right into his eyes, he was himself dripping all over the place.
His shoes squeaked, his shirt and pants were sticking uncomfortably to his skin, his car was still outside, looking like a sunken ship, and Celine had the audacity to complain about her dress.
Bastien swiped his hair back in frustration.
Drunk Celine was a self-entitled brat.
“I’m sorry,” he snapped, “that my foresight failed me tonight and I didn’t bring an umbrella. You can just—” Bastien blinked, adjusting his eyesight. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Celine’s arms were bent backwards, to the thirty star-shaped buttons along her spine, as she flicked the first few open. “The dress is wet,” she slurred. “I need to take it off.”
“No.” Bastien rushed to take hold of her arms, even as one of her wrists, slick with rain, slipped his grasp.
“What’s wrong with you?” She whacked at him with her free hand. “Unhand me right now.”
“You are not getting undressed here.” Not in front of him at least. This night had already tested his self-restraint to its limits, Bastien couldn’t take a moment longer of her drunk teasing.
He was sure Celine had no idea what she was doing.
Had she been sober, there would be a glowing red hand print on the side of his cheek by now. “Remember? You hate me.”
“Well,” Celine said testily, “I hate this dress more at the moment. You can wait your turn.” And with that, she performed a sharp pivot, trying to get away from him, when her heel slipped on the water that had pooled on the floor.
Bastien reached out to hold her, but the patch of floor where he was standing was wet too. He teetered backwards onto the divan, hauling Celine along with him.
Oh, this night couldn’t get any worse.
Celine plopped on top of him quite gracelessly, her arms flailing awkwardly until she pressed her palms on his shoulders, and straightened up.
Her dress clung to every single curve of her body in a deliciously torturous way and Bastien—Bastien was trying not to breathe, for the fear that the slightest movement would press their bodies closer.
“This is all your fault,” she muttered.
“I beg your pardon!” A self-entitled brat indeed. “I’ve been breaking my neck here, carrying you around and listening to your whims. If anything, it’s your fault.”
“You could have just helped me with the dress,” she went on, as if none of his words had made it through to her. They probably hadn’t, because the moment Bastien relaxed his spine thinking she was finally done, she started unbuttoning her dress again.
“Celine,” he hissed, pinning her hands down.
“Wow, you’ve gotten awfully serious tonight.” Her expression was unreadable. “A few weeks ago you wouldn’t have minded me getting naked. What happened?”
“You’re drunk,” he pointed matter-of-factly. “And I am not in the habit of leering at drunk girls. If you don’t mind now—”
As he made to get up, Celine pushed him back down with unexpected precision.
“I’m not that drunk,” she murmured, shifting on top of him.
“I think you stole a kiss from me earlier.” A pink flush gleamed on her cheeks.
Bastien wasn’t sure whether it was caused by the alcohol or their current predicament.
His questions evaporated and his breath hitched when Celine placed the tip of her nail under his chin, lifting it. “I want it back.”
“Not tonight,” he said roughly.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “You made it very clear that you don’t love me.” Celine’s hands roamed his chest in painfully gentle movements. “And I happen to hate you. So what’s one more kiss?”
Her palms pressed hotly to his shirt—still wet, still clinging to his skin—that it felt as though there was no barrier between them.
Celine undid one of his buttons, exposing the hollow of his collarbone.
A thick fog settled over his thoughts as she shifted on his lap again, drawing out a sigh from his lips.
Bastien squeezed his eyes shut. Karma is real, I get it. Lesson learned. It can stop now.
Sneaking his arm beneath her legs, Bastien lifted Celine from his lap and plopped her into the cushions.
“I remember telling you once, you make too many assumptions.” He pushed his hair back and got up. “Hate me all you want, but I still have morals. I won’t kiss you like this. Lay down. I’ll make a telephone call and be right back.”
· · ·
When Bastien returned, a candle in hand, he nearly tripped over Celine’s discarded heels by the threshold.
Looking up, he found her dress a few steps away—a sad mass of soggy sequins—forming a puddle on the floor.
Her chemise was crumpled right next to it.
Celine herself was lying like Snow White on the divan, wrapped warmly in Bastien’s jacket (to his relief), the only article of clothing that had remained dry.
“Preparing for Prince Charming to come find you?” Bastien asked as he entered the room proper.
Celine cracked an eye open, looking miffed. “Well, you don’t want me. A girl has to keep trying.”
He kneeled in front of the divan, settling the candle down, and produced a silky handkerchief, dabbing it gently around her face.
Celine whacked his hand away. “Let me be!”
“If you want Prince Charming to give you a kiss you can’t look like a goblin.” To his distress, she kept fussing about. Sighing, Bastien rose, got on the divan, and caged her body between his knees, pinning both of her wrists above her head. “Will you sit still?”
“I thought you had morals,” Celine pointed out vacantly. “But I suppose it is fine when you get on top of me,” she added bitterly. “Isn’t it?”
“This is for your own good,” he said. “Now shush. I need to concentrate.”