7. Ryan
Ryan
At six fifty, I’m staring into the fogged bathroom mirror, wondering what the fuck I’m doing.
Having dinner at my neighbor’s house can’t hurt, even if I find him an annoying mix of weird and sexy.
I’m in a new country, and for the past week, I’ve done nothing social, unless you count having the townsfolk stare at me with disdain every time I walk over there.
And while, sure, I’m not planning on staying here for very long, it’s still healthy to have friendly human interaction once in a while.
It is not because he has a massive dick, and I’m apparently an aspiring size queen.
That’s totally not why I’ve changed three times.
I’m allowed to want to look good.
I turn sideways and look back in the mirror, smoothing my hand down my chest and checking that the bandeau I’m wearing is doing its job, since I ended up choosing a rather tight, black turtleneck tank top.
The heat here is insane, even after the sun goes down, and I don’t want to be sweaty and uncomfortable during dinner.
My choice has nothing to do with how the top leaves just a sliver of bare skin between it and the camel-colored wide-leg trousers that sit a bit low on my hips.
I leave the cottage before I can talk myself into changing a fourth time and cut through the gap in the wall between our yards, careful to step around the rough patch I’d attempted to fix the other day—resulting only in a bruised foot, an equally bruised ego, and a new appreciation for the art of masonry.
Camille’s place is sprawling, with the main house sitting at the end of a very long gravel drive, looking hauntingly beautiful.
The courtyard has three busted water fountains and a statue of some Roman guy with no arms, all of it lost in the bramble.
It should look abandoned, but somehow it doesn’t.
I consider telling Camille he should spend less time beating his meat in his pool and actually do some yard work.
As I finally reach the front door, it swings open before I even raise my fist to knock.
Camille is already there, hovering in the threshold with the kind of posture that would put a ballet dancer to shame.
He’s changed from his usual neutral palette into a deep blue-green satin shirt, which does things to his skin that should be illegal.
No one’s skin should look that lickable. It’s unfair.
Camille’s eyes drop to the strip of skin at my waist. The look he gives me is not subtle. I can feel it, like a draft on bare skin, and for a second I swear it hits me in the knees. I pull my bag tighter across my chest, but he only smiles, slow and sly.
“Bonsoir. You found it,” he says, stepping aside to let me in. His voice is low, almost a purr. “I was worried you might get lost.”
“Because we live so far away,” I quip, though my voice comes out quieter than I intended.
He huffs out a laugh, and I admire the way his lips move before focusing my attention elsewhere.
The entry hall is all stone arches and worn wood, the kind of Old World architecture that makes you feel like you should be carrying a candlestick and wearing a long nightgown as you search for the cause of a suspicious noise.
We don’t spend long there as he then leads me down a hallway, farther into the bowels of the house.
The air feels cooler here, and our voices share a faint echo.
I try not to stare at the paintings, but it’s hard not to notice the faces and the eyes following me down the corridor.
They all look vaguely related, like iterations of the same family jawline, rendered with increasingly Gothic drama.
Camille stops at a set of double doors and motions me through. “I thought we’d eat in the library. The dining room is haunted by terrible acoustics.”
“Oh, okay.”
I step inside, my eyes widening as I look around us. The shelves go up two floors, and the books are packed so tight it’s like a wall of knowledge is holding the ceiling up.
“Wow,” I murmur under my breath.
An amused quirk of his lips tells me he heard me. I blush and return to looking at the room.
I turn to a glowing panel at the far side of the library, expecting a window. Instead, behind thick laminated glass, a mass of green leaves and limbs hides something long and coiled.
“Holy—” I catch myself. “That’s a snake,” I say, voice brittle.
It’s huge. My chest grows tight as I take in its dark, almost olive-colored body and the pale yellow splotches that peek out from its underbelly.
The cage is basically a rainforest diorama, complete with a little ceramic pond and a heat lamp, but my brain can’t get past the fact that I’m in a library with a monster that could, in theory, kill me.
“Yes. That’s Raja,” Camille says, pronouncing it somewhere between French and something else. He follows my gaze, settling next to me in a way that puts exactly two inches between our arms. “He’s a Malaysian king cobra.”
“That’s a… king cobra?” I swallow. “And it’s in your library?”
He makes a small noise in his throat. “He gets too stressed when around the others. Plus, as you can see, he has quite a large enclosure. He’s much more comfortable here than in the tank he had before.”
I think I’ve stopped breathing.
“O-others?” I squeak out.
“Yes, others,” he answers, his brows drawn together like he’s confused at my reaction.
After a few seconds, his face softens, and he lets out a small laugh.
“Of course you’re surprised. My apologies.
I forgot we haven’t gotten that far yet.
I am a researcher at the university in the city.
Toxicology and venom studies. I also teach occasionally, adjunct.
Animal toxins, advanced organic chemistry…
You do not like snakes?” He cocks his head, watching me with more than casual interest.
I catch my reflection in the glass, looking like a ghost behind the snake. “I mean, it’s not that I don’t like them, exactly. It’s just… I’ve never been this close to something that could… I don’t know, kill me?”
“Every day, we are close to a million things that can kill us. Most of them do not look so beautiful.”
I try to laugh in response, but my voice cracks, so I focus on the floor.
The nerve endings along my spine are itchy with awareness; I can feel the thing’s attention from the other side of the glass. Camille’s eyes dart from the cobra to me, then linger on the bare skin above my trousers. He steps even closer, so the back of his hand brushes against my arm.
“The enclosure is reinforced. There’s no chance of him escaping.”
“Good to know.” I try to inject some bravado, but it comes out pretty weak.
“Come,” Camille says softly, and the space between us collapses as he puts a hand on my lower back. His palm is warm, and the contact almost makes me jump out of my skin.
As he guides me closer to the snake, to a small table with two plates set out and a small candle between them, his thumb strokes my exposed skin before pressing into a hollow just above my waistband. The action quite literally causes me to ache as my dick throbs from arousal.
I almost whine when his touch disappears as he slips around to the other side of the table to pull my chair out, and when I sit, I realize I’ve been clutching my bag to my chest the whole time. I set it on the floor and try to act like my heart isn’t trying to jump through my teeth.
Camille sits across from me, drawing my attention back to the man in front of me from the deadly creature at my side. He pours wine into two little glasses and comments, “I hope you are not allergic to fish.”
“Oh, uh, no, I’m not,” I stutter, forcing a smile and trying to shake off the fear and focus on the incredibly sexy Frenchman who’s put together such a nice meal for us.
He smiles. “Very good. It’s crudo with citrus and olive oil.”
I look down at my plate, a bit taken aback by the beautiful presentation, then notice— “Is this raw?”
He chuckles like I’ve told a joke. “Well, yes. That is what crudo means, after all.”
I flush in embarrassment, my tongue feeling heavy as words escape me.
He must take pity on me, because his smile softens, and he explains, “It is somewhat similar to ceviche. But as ceviche is marinated, crudo is lightly dressed. I have prepared sea bass for our meal today. There is also bread that you can eat along with it.”
“That’s… cool. I mean, I’m not a picky eater, you know? I’ll eat anything,” I say, because I have to defend my American-ness and because, apparently, I’m now wanting his approval.
I pick up my fork and spear a piece of the thinly sliced fish. The cool slide of the first bite is startling—zesty from the citrus, plush and delicate.
“That’s actually… incredible,” I manage, swallowing a moan of pleasure.
Camille’s head tilts a fraction, eyes catching mine in the candlelight. “You have a remarkable palate.”
“Is that a normal thing to say on a first dinner, or are you flirting?” I ask, averting my gaze from the heat of his.
His tongue presses between his teeth. The effect is annoyingly magnetic; my own teeth dig into my lower lip, and I realize too late that he’s caught me watching his mouth again.
“I do not recall inviting you here for normal things,” he says.
Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me—
He continues, “You wished to know more about your grandfather, did you not?”
The abrupt shift nearly gives me whiplash.
One second, I’m picturing what his tongue would feel like against my throat, and the next he’s bringing up my dead relative. Which, to be fair, is supposed to be the reason I’m here.
I lower my fork. “Yeah.”
Camille takes a sip of wine, studying me over the rim of the glass. He looks entirely too comfortable, considering he’s the one who keeps dangling information in front of me like a treat he’ll only hand over if I perform correctly.
“So…?” I prompt.
“Alberte did not originally come from here.”
“Okay?”
Camille sighs as if I have missed something. “From what I know, he came from Strasbourg, a city to the north. It’s east of Paris, very close to the German border.”