"Light"
an excerpt

I answered the door to find myself face-to-fabulous chest with Sebastien LaRoche. I'm not short, but he was freaking tall. He looked just as hot in a t-shirt as he did in a leather harness, I was pleased to note.

“Uh,” I said. I let my mind open slightly, without thinking.

Joli, he was thinking. His thoughts were clear. Focused. Sexy as hell. And in French. Was joli jolly? Was I jolly?

Was jolly good?

“Hello again.” He smiled. Tres joli quand il rougit.

“Uh,” I said. That seemed to be the extent of my language skills. I tried to close of my mind, but his thoughts were very focused, and it took some effort.

“Your shirt was ruined,” he said, in his rich French Canadian voice, “But this was in the pocket.”

In his hand, which was bandaged all the way from the wrist to the top bulge of his bicep, he held my bus pass.

“Oh,” I said, doubling my vocabulary, if not my expressiveness. I stared at it.
“Would you like it back?” He asked, smiling again. Great smile.

I wanted to touch him. A lot.

I snapped out of it.

“Of course,” I said. “Sorry, come in.” I stepped aside, and he came into my apartment. “Sit down,” I said, “I can't believe you're out and about.”

“Pfft.” He sat down, albeit gingerly with his right arm. “They gave me blood, stitched up my arm. Not major surgery.” He held up the offending arm. “I'm healing. The doctors don't think there'll be much scarring. They were very clean cuts.”

I realized I was standing at my door, just staring at said amazing arm. “Can I get you something?” I asked, trying not to hyperventilate. He was freaking gorgeous. There was just something about him. He was all angles, and muscles, and...

“Sorry, what?” I blushed, realizing he'd answered me. Total flake, I berated myself.

“Water?” he repeated, frowning a little. “Are you okay?”

“A-Okay,” I said, then quickly shot past him to the kitchen. A-Okay? Jesus H. Christ, I was a complete and total loser! I grabbed a glass from my cupboard and frowned. I wasn't normally like this. Yes, he was hot, but I'd met hot people. Hell, I massaged hot people. Hot people paid me to touch them.

Except he had something else. His mind...

I rolled my eyes. Yeah, I was into his mind. Ha.

I brought him the glass of water, and then sat down beside him. I'd never in my life wanted a second chair before. If he smelled as good as he looked, I'd probably end up losing the power of speech entirely.

My bus pass sat on the table.

“I make you nervous,” he said evenly.

“What?” I said, confused. Nervous wasn't the right word for it.

“A lot of guys,” he shrugged, and drank with his left hand. “The leather thing is a little bit too much. It's okay.”

I shook my head. “No. No. I think it's hot.”

I froze.

He grinned.

“You do, however, make me babble like an idiot,” I said, stunned. Did I really just say he was hot? Oh. My. God.

“You're cute when you babble,” he said, kindly.

Or was he teasing?

I felt my face go red. Super. I briefly considered lighting up, just to distract him. When he turned those brown eyes on you... Wow.

“Thank you for the bus pass,” I said, breaking eye contact to look at it.

“Thank you for holding my insides in,” he countered.

“Well, they're pretty insides, but the outside doesn't need any help,” I said, and pumped a triumphant mental fist into the air. I was back, baby, and as quick with wit as ever.

He flashed that smile again. “You've got a silver tongue, don't you?”

“Irish,” I agreed. “On my father's side.”

He laughed.

“Well, as much as I'd like to explore the tongue,” he rose slowly, grunting a little as his arm obviously twinged., “I'm late for many meetings.”

He wanted to explore my tongue? Ooh, baby.

I blinked, then rose, managing, “That's right. You're one of the Pride Week organizers.”

He tilted his head.

“You were on the news.” I rose. “I saw you.” Shirtless. Twice in one day. It was good.

He nodded. “I guess I won't be competing, but there's still a lot to do.”

“Competing?”

“Mr. Leather Pride.”

Oh my. “Oh.” I managed an only half-false sadness. The world – and by world, I meant me – deserved more of that leather harness.

“Do you need help?” It was out of my mouth before I could stop it. “I always take this week off work. It's my vacation at home. If you guys need another volunteer?” I was babbling again. “Or, since you're one armed, I could give you a hand.”

Ha. Points for a pun.

“I'd rather you enjoyed Pride Week,” he said.

“You don't think I'd enjoy giving you a hand?”

Oh my God. Did I just say that?

He blushed. Looked good on him.

Easter came racing out of the bedroom, and launched himself at the open door. I caught him in a practised scoop, and tucked him into one arm. He purred, delighted at the play.

“Your cat is quick, too.”

I nodded, “Easter just likes to pretend he can escape.”

“You have a cat named Easter?” Sebastien laughed. “Will you never learn?”

I blinked. He got the reference? I was astounded.

“See you around, Irish,” he said.

“I hope so,” I said, and winked.

He stopped, and tugged his wallet out from his back pocket with his good hand. He flipped it open, and pulled out a white business card. He handed it to me, and I looked at it. Sebastien LeRoche, it said. Pride Week Organizer. It had a phone number, and an e-mail.

“I might call,” I warned him.

“I might answer,” he laughed, and left.

Damn him, he had a great ass, too.