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I’m conscious of the red stain on my lips—an exact match for the wax on the wine bottle. He walks to the center of the aisle to retrieve a few glasses and a wine opener from a cocktail table. He twists the cork out of the bottle with ease and pours us each a glass before walking toward me.
Without asking, he exchanges the wine for the drink I just hastily made in the kitchen. I’m aware of his fingers brushing mine, but the touch is gone all too soon.
“This will taste better,” he tells me, before curving around me and walking over to push a heavy wine case in front of the door with his shoe.
Blocked in, suddenly I feel claustrophobic in the dimly lit room.
He looks at me and takes a sip then nods for me to do the same.
I touch the glass to my lips and let the wine fill my mouth. It’s divine, and I know he must register the delight in my expression.
He tips back the rest of his glass and sets it aside on a rack, refocusing his full attention on me. It’s a heady weight to carry, but I try not to let my nerves get the best of me.
“I find myself at a crossroads,” he says, coming toward me. He loops around me, his shoulder brushing mine before he stands at my back and grasps my hand, lifting my glass to my lips and forcing me to drink another sip. “You see, Emelia…you won’t let me play with you at work. You won’t let me take you out on a date…and I’m beginning to doubt if you want this as badly as I do.”
His hand wraps around my neck and he tips my head back until my throat is completely exposed to him. He lifts my glass again, and this time, he has me drink and drink until the last of the wine is gone. A drop slips out of my mouth, and he watches it roll down my chin and drop down onto my chest.
“Do you want to be my pet?”
His pointer finger rests just over my jugular, my pounding pulse the ultimate truth teller.
I suck in a breath when his other hand finds the bottom of my dress and he starts to gather the material. Inch by inch, my legs are exposed. Cool air brushes the tops of my thighs, and then his hand slips between my legs, over the soft silk covering me. He’s found exactly what he wants, evidence of my desire.
The low growl he presses into my hair is enough to make me come undone.
I want him, madly, and now he knows it.
“Should I leave you like this? Let you go home and try to sate yourself?”
His hand peels away from my panties, and I cry out.
He tsks. “Now you speak.”
“Please.”
My word is a low whimper.
The party isn’t so far away. Around the corner, Alexander’s friends are gathered in the living room, reveling.
“What are you doing, Emelia?”
Trying to preserve the last bit of resolve I have.
Hanging on to my last thread of hope.
In fact, actually, I’m crumbling.
“Pretending” is the response I settle on.
And he doesn’t seem annoyed by its vagueness. He understands, it seems, because his hand returns between my legs.
“Do you think it’d be better if we left each other alone? If you and I kept pretending?”
Better?
Worse. So much worse.
I hadn’t thought of it like that. I hadn’t considered the possibility of escaping the inevitability of us.
