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He wondered if the problem was him.
That was a blow to the ego. He knew he was good-looking enough, and he was rich. And (to his great dismay) marginally famous. That usually added up to more women than he could possibly ever want. Now he wanted one, and she had zero interest in sex.
One thing was clear, though. He wasn’t going to pressure her. She was going to take the reins, and he was going to let her have full control, however she wanted, for as long as she wanted.
And while it might be a bit torturous for him at times, it would be the most delicious kind of torture. Already his mind was racing as to how he might ease her into their next round of awkward foreplay.
At some point, she had to snap out of it, right? To recover what she felt she’d lost?
Then again, it was like she said: There was no rape-victim guidebook on how to feel. She’d been through hell and emerged out the other side. If she took a bit longer to get turned on, then, well, he’d just have to wait for her.
Sebastian’s hand stroked down her back, feeling the line of her spine under her soft skin. Some people were worth waiting for, and Chelsea was definitely one of them.
Chapter Sixteen
“Still mad at you,” Gretchen said, and stabbed a forkful of salad. “Getting married on a whim and not telling your friends. I mean, hello. If we were doing Vegas weddings, you know I’d have brought the Elvis impersonator.”
“Which is probably why we didn’t do Vegas,” Chelsea said easily, stirring her soup with a spoon. They were having lunch at a busy little restaurant in the heart of Manhattan not too far from Cooper’s Cuppa. They’d spent the morning shopping, and Chelsea now had a few designer soaps (for comparison reasons) and new knee socks. Gretchen hadn’t bought much of anything, instead talking Chelsea’s ear off about the wedding and the issues she was having and how much stress it was.
“Yes, but New Orleans? Gross. The last time we went there, someone vomited on me.” She wrinkled her nose and stabbed her salad again. “Also, this salad sucks.”
“The soup’s pretty good,” Chelsea offered. “Want to switch?”
“No. I need to lose weight before the wedding,” Gretchen said glumly. “A dressmaker told me I had fat thighs.”
“What? You’re fine,” Chelsea assured her. Gretchen was a solid sort of girl, but she also had a sedentary job and an adoring fiancé. “And the wedding’s a year away.”
“Oh, I figure I’ll start a diet and bail on it a dozen times between now and then. I’m hoping to eventually net a few pounds less than I started with.” Gretchen shrugged. “But enough about me and my wedding. I want to hear how it is being newly married to Sebastian. I can’t believe you two got hitched. Didn’t he date that chick with the duck lips from that show?”
“What chick? What show?”
“The one his family’s on?”
Oh, right. She kept forgetting about that.
But Gretchen gave her a weird look. “You haven’t seen The Cabral Empire ? Seriously? And you married a Cabral?” At Chelsea’s headshake, Gretchen picked up a piece of bread and took a bite out of it. “The rock you’ve been hiding under called. It misses you.”
“I met his mother and an ex. They ambushed us when we got back from the wedding.” She stirred her spoon in her soup again, hoping it’d make it look like she was eating. It wasn’t that the soup wasn’t delicious. It was that she was a little too troubled to focus on eating at the moment.
“Oh, man, his mother.” Gretchen leaned forward. “The one and only episode I saw of that show, she was getting her asshole bleached. On television . Who does that?”
“His mother, apparently,” Chelsea said faintly.
“Everyone knows you get that shit done in private.” At Chelsea’s wide-eyed stare, Gretchen waved a hand. “I’m kidding. Mostly. Though I might get it done for the wedding.”
“Um.”
“Still kidding.” She took another bite of bread. “So, how’s married life? For someone that’s a newlywed, you don’t look all that content. Shouldn’t you be glowing and shit?”
Chelsea put her spoon down, thinking. She’d never told Gretchen about her . . . trauma. But she was dying to talk to someone about the awkwardness of her situation. Someone other than Sebastian. So she decided to share just a little. Just enough that she wouldn’t traumatize her friend on what was supposed to be a light and fun lunch. “Actually, I have a small issue. I have problems with . . . intimacy.”
