Before we get there, I look over my shoulder to see if Greg is going to protest, but he’s got his lips on the blonde. My fists curl, which is ridiculous, since she wasn’t really into him, but he’s a giant douche.

She seems to know where my head is, because she tugs me out. “Let it go, caveman.”

A while later we’re deep into Shark Week as we sit on the couch in the dark, eating more cookies Giselle insisted she make.

She hands me another one, fresh from the oven, then wipes at my mouth as I chew.

“What?” I say, swallowing my bite.

“Chocolate,” she murmurs. Her hair is up in a messy bun, glasses back on, her clothes changed out for her shorts and one of my old shirts. I whipped off my jeans and settled on gym shorts and a workout shirt.

She scoots closer and wipes at my lips again. “Stubborn spot.”

“It’s fine,” I breathe, freezing.

“No, let me get it.” She leans in and licks the corner of my mouth. A satisfied purr comes from her. “Yummy.”

I snatch the nape of her neck before she can pull away. “Did you seriously just lick me?”

She pauses, giving me a sheepish look. “I was . . . hungry?”

My chest rises. What am I doing? I should just go to bed. Now.

She stands up. “I’m going to bed.”

I grab her waist and pull her back down on the couch. “Oh, no you don’t. We’re watching TV.” Obviously I have two personalities.

Her head leans on my shoulder as she settles back onto the couch. “I warn you, I may fall asleep. It’s been a tough week.”

“I’m sorry about your professor.” She’d told me the details of her meeting with Dr. Blanton.

“He just made me more determined. I want my PhD, I want to write, and someday I will go to CERN.”

“How far away is Geneva?”

“Eleven hours and twenty-two minutes on a plane, roughly four thousand five hundred and ninety-eight miles.”

Too damn far.

“Stop! Go back!” she calls, her hands taking the remote out of my hands.

“What was it?” I say, expecting something horror related, but my face freezes when I see what show she’s landed on, her gaze intense as she leans forward.

“French film. It’s called My Night in Paris. Basically, the movie takes place during one night when the hero meets the heroine in a coffee shop, lures her back to his hotel, and fulfills her sexual fantasies. Here comes the part where he goes down on her. Best ever,” she says—with a serious face.

I inhale sharply at the images of a dark bedroom and the couple on the bed. “So it’s porn.”

She smacks me on the knee. “It’s art. The cinematography is beautiful and gripping—the shots of their faces and eyes, ah, so perfect. Notice how everything is in deep blues and gray, from the hotel room to the bedding. There’s no corny music and no random pizza-delivery guy showing up to join in. Just her and him.”

“How many times have you watched this?”

“Enough to almost speak French, bébé.”

Realization dawns. “You want to see this—with me?”

“Why not? It’s an excellent depiction of using sexuality to explore ourselves.”

“Porn.”

“No, I’m serious. There’s nothing wrong with the sex here.”

“Never said there was,” I huff out. “Sex is great.”

She nods. “It’s who we are, no matter your gender or preference. Birds do it. Bees. Even eukaryotes. It’s part of the universe. Essential. Everything is a push and pull—gravity, if you will—how we are drawn to certain people and not others. And when you get that zing with it . . . it must be amazing. They have zing.”

She takes a breath, watching as the dark-haired man takes off the woman’s blindfold and eases on top of her, sliding between the V of her legs. “There’s beauty in this film, especially in how he gazes at her, the angle of that shot, like he’s going to die if he can’t have her—look at how he clenches his fists next to her head because it feels so good, and making her his is everything to him, and . . . and I . . . want that . . .” She reddens, her voice stopping abruptly. “Do you get it?”

Oh, I get it. And it’s killing me. I adjust myself in my shorts as slyly as I can, which isn’t hard since she’s glued to the screen. “It’s about the emotion, you mean, the depth of their connection, the yearning, the ‘I have to have you right now, or I’m going to die.’” It’s what I don’t have when it comes to my own physical encounters.

“Yes.”

The woman on the movie orgasms—I guess; I don’t know, because I’m not looking at the screen, just staring at Giselle. My heart is hammering in my chest, and I feel light headed. “All right, I want to watch it with you.”

Mistake.

Two minutes later—yeah, I have no control—I can’t breathe, and I’m barely watching, my eyes flipping between the movie and Giselle’s flushed face. The room is oppressive, the den a fucking furnace.

Her hand lands on my leg and curls around my thigh. “Watch this part. He’s going to flip her over on her stomach . . .” Her voice trails off, her grip tightening as the woman moans as the guy slides all the way inside her.

Giselle’s lashes flutter, her mouth parting, gasps coming as she watches them. My hands fist. I could put that expression on her face, make her come so many times she’d pfft at a French film. I could fuck her—and then what? Would I just be a way to get her V-card out of the way, like this Mike guy who’s going to her birthday lunch? Annoyance flares. I don’t want to be the one she uses, then leaves—for another country.

My chest twinges. Shit, honestly, she has some kind of weird power over me. Every time she moves, I’m following. When she smiles, I smile back. Every time she looks at me, I’m gazing right back. It’s terrifying, and I don’t like it. Makes me want to breathe into a paper bag. The last time I cared about a girl, my heart was decimated.

I jerk up off the couch, causing Giselle to fall back.

“Early morning for me! Good night!” I call as I stumble through the den, cursing when in my haste I slam my knee into the recliner footrest.

“You okay?”

I throw a hand up over my back. “Right as rain. Need to sleep.” And a cold shower.

I’m breathing hard, leaning back against the door, when the knock comes.

“What?” I say through the wood.

“Did I . . . did I . . . we shouldn’t have watched that. It’s my fault.”

“No,” I say as I turn to face the door, feeling like an idiot as I talk to it. “It was really good . . . cinematography. Their faces . . . the sheets and pillows and stuff.”

She pauses. “Thank you for rescuing me from the weatherman.”

I open the door and stare at her. Her blue eyes are wide and starry. “Yeah, whatever.”

She’s so . . .

Dangerous.

“Good night,” she says with a soft smile and walks back into the den, where I hear another orgasm.

“Night,” I mutter and shut the door.