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“I thought I told you to let us know when you’re leaving the premises?”
Wonderful. Being scolded like an errant child by the security detail was a new low.
“I was in a hurry. I didn’t think it mattered since Theo drove me.”
“Sebastian was worried.” As if that required no further explanation. Truth was, I understood the subtext perfectly. “It matters––don’t do it again,” he added with a cold, hard look in his eyes and stalked off.
I was definitely not Gideon’s favorite person. I’m not sure he trusted me. Clever man.
I padded silently up the marble staircase and down the hall towards Sebastian’s bedroom. I figured I might as well get all the scolding out of the way. His door was cracked open, a slice of faint light pouring out. I pushed it open wider and quietly stepped inside. He sat slumped down in his stuffed chair next to the empty, dark fireplace. His head was tipped back on the seat cushion, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. The warm, dim light of the lamp outlined his perfect profile in gold. An empty bottle dangled carelessly from his large hand, over the armrest. Oh, crap…
His head swiveled towards me at the clicking sound of the door closing. At first, he was very still, his expression blank. I watched his mind registering my presence. It took only a minute for the storm to gather in his eyes and skewer me with out-and-out fury. My heart skipped a full beat. I squirmed under his heated gaze.
“You’re back.” His voice was clipped. He didn’t sound drunk at all, though decidedly mad.
I love you. I did. I loved him madly. I just couldn’t say it.
I marshaled my strength and walked over to him, his fiery eyes following me the entire distance. His chest rose and fell in deep, agitated breaths. He hadn’t had a drink in weeks. I should have been scared, petrified, to find myself alone with him in such an unpredictable state, and yet I knew he would never do anything to hurt me intentionally. He’d more likely hurt himself.
“At least I got two words out of you. When you’re stewing about something, you turn monosyllabic.”
“Oh I have plenty of words for you,” he growled, hostility rippling off of him.
I walked over to him and gently took the bottle out of his hand. Macallan 39.
“This will be an expensive hangover.”
Moving with remarkable speed, he trapped me between the unyielding solid mass of his chest and the cold wall in seconds. I could feel the raging beat of his heart through my clothes. His hands curved around my skull, gripped my hair tightly, and held me still for a vicious kiss. Instinctively, I knew yielding completely was the only way to get through to him, to bring him back to rational thought. When he realized I wasn’t resisting his assault, his touch gentled, his lips softened. Even though the anger and desperation remained.
I reached up and cupped his face, stroked him, soothing the wildness away. He pressed his cheek into my palm. His gaze was filled with a mix of apprehension, fear, and longing. I kept petting his stiff shoulders, his chest, until his frown eased, until he shivered and held me close––his steel-hard shaft pressed between us.
“Where were you?”
“Geneva. I went to see my friend, Emilia. She needed me.”
He exhaled a deep breath. “Why didn’t you tell me? I have no way of reaching you––and you didn’t tell Gideon!”
That’s when it hit me, why I hadn’t told him. I had purposely left without a word to see exactly what kind of a reaction I would get. What a coward I was, playing games with his feelings instead of confessing mine. He’d been honest with me from the start. Shame and regret rolled up on me quickly as I stared into his wounded eyes.
He gathered me in his arms, picking me up with ease, and threw me on the bed. His eyes reflected a turbulent mix of emotions, transforming like a mood ring from amber to green and back again. Without another word, he undressed me painstakingly, undressed himself and joined me on the bed. Starting at my feet, he placed delicate butterfly kisses on the insides of my ankles, charting a course up my thigh, navigating around my navel, and further north until he reached my hairline. I was drunk on lust and the sweet sensation of his mouth worshiping my body. I wanted to touch him, give him back the pleasure he gave me. As I reached for him, he clasped by wrists and brought them over my head.
“Keep them there,” he ordered. A drawer banged shut. I opened my eyes and realized that he had tied a silk scarf around one wrist, worked it around the slender post of his mahogany bed, and was now securing my other wrist. My mother’s scarf––the one I had left in the kitchen. My eyes flew to his. His razor sharp stare dared me to argue. I didn’t. This was my apology to him. I couldn’t put it in words. All I could do was surrender my body to him without reserve. I love you. I’m sorry for worrying you.
