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“I’m giving you a taste of the other parts of my life,” he answers like it’s natural to want to include me in something like this. “I should’ve asked you to come with me, but I’m sure you would’ve told me it’s not allowed.”
I can’t help the way I glance around at the indirect mention of our secrecy. I’d all but snuck out of my apartment to meet him here.
“It isn’t,” I start. “Neither is me standing here where people could see us.”
“Then get in,Stellina.” He pushes the door open before sliding over to make room for me.
One moment, I’m standing outside on a city street, the next, I’m sitting next to one of the most famous directors whose hands are on me like he’s waited for me all day. The car moves forward as his hands find my neck, pulling me to him.
I open for him, my lips parting to welcome his taste. We kiss like we aren’t in the back of a limo. Or maybe we kiss like we are.
I can taste champagne on his tongue, the distinct flavor of the fizzy drink reminding me that this man isexpensive.
And here I am in my second-hand sundress and cardigan that I’ve had for longer than I can remember. At least the sandals are new.
“Your hair is damp,” he starts, murmuring as I pull back to look at him. “Did you shower for me?”
“You seem to think I do a lot of things for you.”
His smile is quick before he leans in for a short kiss.
“Let a man dream, Sabrina.”
He turns and reaches for the bottle of champagne that sits in the side compartment and two glasses. Only one of them is empty.
“I hope you don’t mind that I started without you,” he announces before pouring me my own glass and handing it to me.
“Couldn’t wait?” I tease him, eyeing him as I hold the glass up to tap against his.
“More to kill the nerves, I suppose.”
I pause, the champagne flute nearly to my lips when I turn to him. Then realization dawns.
“Oh, the nerves of having to deal with the press,” I say, nodding and taking a sip of the champagne. It doesn’t taste like the cheap shit I drank on the night of my high school graduation, years ago.
He scoffs.
“I don’t give a fuck about any of those people.” He smiles and leans back to the other side of the seat so he can stare at all of me. “I can’t tell where I stand with you. It makes me nervous.”
I gulp the champagne I had in my mouth and press my lips together, unsure of what to say next. Not wanting to take what he’s saying the wrong way. But how else could I take it?
He sits there, gorgeous with his full lips, his undone bowtie hanging from his collar, his top button open. Surely I can’t make this man nervous.
And why the fuck can’t I?I straighten in my seat and decide to delve further.
“What are you talking about?” It’s disconcerting, how openly he stares at me. Talk about being nervous.
“Your restraint. Your desire to stay hidden. You didn’t even want me to pick you up from your apartment,” he points out, gesturing with his palm up.
“I’m thinking of your reputation and my future,” I try to remind him, even as he shakes his head.
“Any other young woman would simply want to makemetheir future.”
I stare at him, watching the way he keeps his eyes on me. The thing about his stare is that I always try to avoid it. And in doing so, I miss seeing his eyes. The way they follow every slight movement I make, squinting for a moment when I say something as if he’s processing my words.
“I want my own future,” I reassure him. “You don’t have to worry about that.”
“I’m not worried.” He sits up and leans into me, backing me into the corner and caging me with his body. His nimble fingers pull down my cardigan, baring my shoulders one at a time. The spaghetti straps do nothing to shield my skin from his touch.
When his fingers meet a ridge in my skin, I try not to react, try not to flinch. My eyes flutter shut and without a word, he presses a kiss to the scar.
My skin, that bears the marks of my harsh childhood, is falling more and more in love with his caresses.
“Where are we going?” I whisper the question, wondering where we’ll be when we have sex for the first time.
“Home,” he murmurs, kissing my scar again.
