But for sanity’s sake, this is a battle of wills I need to win, because he’s going to take me tonight by inching his impressive length into my ass, all the while making me beg for more. I don’t know how I know it, but I do. It’ll be painful and empowering—an experience I’ll never forget.
An experience that will bond us for life.
With my heart pounding an erratic beat, I finish rinsing the soap from my skin before stepping past him to exit the shower. “We don’t want to be late for dinner,” I say, much too innocent as I grab a towel from a knob on the wall outside the stall.
“Well played,” he mutters.
From the corner of my eye, I spy him switching the water temperature to cold. I hide a smile as I make my way into the bedroom, water dripping onto the carpet behind the imprints of my triumphant footfalls.
Chapter Five
The Vertigo sits atop an antique shop. It’s an apt name for a restaurant, considering how I’m still reeling from the last few hours, my world spinning around me as if I’m suffering from a horrible case of the medical condition by the same name.
Instead of sharing a meal with a block of wood between us, we’re seated side-by-side. Water lilies float in decorative bowls on the table, surrounding by votive candles. The rooftop restaurant has an intimate feel, with futon-like seating where couples can cuddle while they wait for dinner. Drapes enclose the dining booths on three sides, offering privacy while leaving the view of the sea unobstructed. It’s cozy and romantic, even in the light of day. I can only imagine how the dawning of night would enhance the experience.
Then again, I’m far from complaining as Sebastian kisses the wine off of my lips.
“I might get drunk from the taste of you,” he says against my mouth.
“It’s not me. It’s the wine.”
He tugs on my lower lip with his teeth. “It’s definitely you.”
Someone clears their throat, and when we part, I find our waitress holding a tray on the other side of the table. She keeps her head dipped, demeanor professional for discretion’s sake, but I don’t miss the amused smile hinting at her lips. We decided on a shrimp and steak feast for two, and she sets down the last dish before asking if we require anything else.
“Another bottle of wine, please.” I eye my empty glass on the table. I’m a little tipsy and probably don’t need more, but the wine is loosening me up, making me relaxed and submissive under Sebastian’s hands and mouth.
And I’m more than a willing participant.
The waitress returns a few minutes later with the requested bottle before leaving us in peace.
Sebastian refills both of our glasses. “Are you on a mission to intoxication?”
“Maybe a little.”
“Maybe a lot.” He hands me my glass then takes a sip of his own, eyes studying me from above the rim. “Are you that nervous about tonight?”
I hold his gaze and decide to go with the truth. “Yes.”
“What are you nervous about?” He sets his glass on the table and palms my cheek.
Until this day—running away with him and spending time outside the circular walls of the estate—I would have never guessed Sebastian could be so romantic. This day has been like a dream, a page out of a young girl’s book of fairytales.
And yet real life has a way of inserting itself between us.
“I’m nervous about everything, nervous of being awkward, scared that it’ll hurt.” I swallow hard. “Scared things will change once we go back.”
“Change can be a good thing.”
“I don’t want to lose this with you.” Drawing in a shaky breath, I cover his hand on my cheek. “You’ve shown me there’s a different side of you.”
“I’ve shown you the worst of me too, princess. I’m not proud of it.” Letting his hand drop, he frowns. “Being a prisoner inside that place fucks with my head.”
“Why do you feel like a prisoner?”
He drags a hand through his hair, leaving it in a disheveled state of sexiness. “I don’t want to ruin this.” He gestures at the cozy scenery. “We have all month to get into the heavy shit.”
I shelve my curiosity for now, because he’s right. Why ruin a perfect day by talking about things that will only bring us down? As he cuts into his steak, I’m drawn to the view of his brawny forearms. He chose a casual dress shirt, cuffs rolled up, to go with the dark pair of hole-free jeans encasing his powerful thighs.
He looks good enough to eat, better than the delectable aroma of our dinner wafting from the table. After we’ve put a dent in the food on our plates, I finally give voice to a question I’ve had for months.
“At least answer me this,” I say, spearing a butter sautéed shrimp with a fork. “What does SAS stand for?”