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I dared a glance through the glass, catching sight of his hand moving in a familiar rhythm below his waist. His desire was an electric current that seemed to carry a charge across my skin even as the last tremors of my orgasm faded.
I turned off the water, letting the silence settle between us for a heartbeat before I pushed open the shower door. The steam billowed out around me as I stepped into the cooler air of the bathroom. My nipples pebbled at the cool air, but the sweep of his intense gaze felt hot on my body.
His eyes devoured me. He seemed momentarily lost for words, which almost made me smile when he was always so composed. The raw need etched into his expression satisfied me.
He swallowed hard, and then, as if compelled, he closed the distance between us.
“Let me.” His voice was rough as he reached for a plush towel from the rack. His touch was gentle but charged as he wrapped the fabric around me. His hands lingered, tracing the outline of my curves through the towel, drying me off in slow, deliberate strokes.
“Sebastian,” I teased, feigning annoyance though the playfulness in my tone betrayed my true feelings. “You’re getting awfully handsy for someone who’s still on my shit list.”
“Can’t help it,” he admitted, his gaze locked onto mine. “I didn’t expect to walk into the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my shower. You might give a guy some warning.”
“As much as you gave me before you burnt my home to the ground?” I arched my eyebrows at him, leaning into his touch despite what I said.
His proximity was intoxicating, and I felt myself being drawn into the familiar push and pull that always existed between us.
“Fair enough,” he murmured. “But if your idea of revenge is going to be making me want you…well. You already won a long time ago.”
He took my hand and guided me to the enormous hard bulk of his erection, pressing against his jeans.
Then he pressed a lingering kiss to my forehead before stepping back. “Come on. Come see my presents.”
I followed his broad shoulders out of his ensuite. I couldn’t help but linger for a moment at the threshold of his bedroom.
The room was spacious and smelled faintly of cedar and cologne. It was a masculine haven with an expansive view of the city that turned the skyline into a glittering tapestry as night fell. Floor-to-ceiling windows revealed skyscrapers, their reflected light dancing on the glassy surface of the river far below. The river was as dirty as everything else in this city, but from far enough away, it looked magical.
I padded across the plush carpet. My gaze landed on the bed—or rather, what lay on it. A dozen high-end shopping bags were arranged neatly, each bearing the logo of a designer brand. They were like offerings, even though what I wanted most was a genuine apology.
Sebastian was terrible at apologizing though. Jack used to force him into it when we were kids, because Sebastian had needed a lot of babysitting to turn into a good boyfriend.
I sifted through the contents with a mixture of curiosity and reluctant appreciation. There was a silk blouse from Versace that slipped through my fingers like water, a pair of black Louboutin heels, and a selection of La Perla lingerie that made me think Sebastian expected to be forgiven soon.
Sebastian had remembered everything—the colors I favored, the cut of clothes that I preferred, even the shade of lipstick that I’d always borrowed from Carrie.
“Kennedy,” Sebastian’s voice was hesitant, almost tentative, a tone I had never heard from him before. It came from the doorway, where he leaned against the frame, looking every inch the remorseful sinner.
And looking good enough to sin with, in his dark jeans and black t-shirt that strained over his muscular chest and tattooed biceps.
“Sebastian, I need to get ready.” I turned back to the clothes, even though when he looked so hot, forgiving him was more tempting than it should be.
“You’re kicking me out of my own room?”
“Yep.”
“Can we talk?” His request hung between us, charged with unspoken emotion.
“Later.” The word was a dismissal, cutting short whatever plea was on the tip of his tongue.
The door closed softly behind me. When I turned back, he was gone. Unexpected disappointment swept through me.
I pulled over the enormous bag from Sephora and began to prepare for the night ahead. I curled my hair and deftly applied the smoky eyeshadow and lined my lips red. The girl I’d been before amnesia, had known how to apply makeup well, and ithad been a miracle to me to find I was good with makeup when I didn’t remember anything about my past.
Now, I remembered hanging out with my best friend in high school, doing each other’s makeup and watching tutorials. It was a sweet memory. Then I remembered I’d always washed it off before I went home, because my stepfather would get angry and say I looked like a whore.
For every sweet memory, there seemed to be a dark one. But maybe it went the other way too—for every dark memory, there was a sweet one.
Finally, I stepped into the outfit I had chosen—a dress that clung to my curves like a second skin, its hem scandalously short, paired with the Louboutin stilettos. Call itmafia elegant. I wanted to fit in tonight.
