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The truck speeds up, and we pass through the center of Heart’s Cove, past my new gallery, and into one of the well-kept residential neighborhoods that surround the downtown strip. We park outside a two-story townhouse with wide, white siding and a steel-gray roof. Blue planter boxes line the windows, full of what look like weeds. The lawn is mowed, and the rest of the frontage is tidy.
Sebastian’s face is grim. “This is it. Don’t mind the mess inside. Like I said, I just moved in.”
“I like it,” I tell him, but it doesn’t look like he believes me.
We step into a long, narrow space with a living room at the front and a hallway that leads to a kitchen at the back. There’s no furniture except for a dog crate and dog bed in the corner where Bella snoozes, surrounded by a hip-height dog fence, and a round table covered with a white tablecloth. The tablecloth looks brand new, based on the creases in it. A candle sits in the middle of the table, with two place settings on either side.
Sebastian clears his throat and lights the candle using a matchbook set beside the candle. He puts the matchbook aside and shows me two bottles of wine. “Red or white?”
I glance at the labels and don’t recognize either of them. Sebastian looks like he’s in pain. “Red,” I tell him.
He nods jerkily and pours two glasses, shoving one in my direction. “Cheers.”
“Cheers,” I echo, sipping the wine. It’s delicious. Something smells amazing—peppery and rich. He put so much effort into this. He hasn’t even moved into this house, and he probably went out and bought a table, a tablecloth, the plates and utensils, the wine and glasses, the candle, even the matches…
I don’t remember the last time a man made this much effort for me. It makes me want to cry that after working all day in my gallery, he’d go to all this trouble to do all this for me too. Every little detail is considered, and it shows the effort he put into it. It might be the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for me.
And Sebastian looks like he just ate a lemon. He won’t meet my gaze, and there are spots of red high on his cheeks.
I set my wine aside. He watches the movement and turns his back to me. “No good?”
His back is hard as rock when I set my hand between his shoulder blades. He freezes, hands on the kitchen counter in front of a cutting board and knife. An undressed salad sits in a plastic-covered bowl beside what looks like homemade vinaigrette.
The man made salad dressing for me.
I wrap my arms around him and put my cheek against his back. He still hasn’t moved. I can feel the tension in his body, in the hardness of his muscles and the shortness of his breaths.
“Thank you,” I whisper, my arms banded across his stomach and chest, holding him tight to my front. “This is the most amazing thing anyone has ever done for me.”
He snorts like he doesn’t believe me.
I squeeze him tighter. “I’ve never had a guy put so much effort into a meal for me,” I admit. There must be something in my voice that betrays how emotional I am, because I feel him soften. He spins slowly, leaning against the counter. His hands slide over my hips while mine rest on his big, broad chest.
“You’re telling the truth,” he says, gaze flicking between my eyes. He sounds a little incredulous.
I nod.
“You don’t hate this?” He jerks his head to the table, the room at large.
My hands slide up to his shoulders. “Well, I haven’t tasted the steak yet.”
A quick slash of a smile, then Sebastian’s hands slide to my ass and tug me closer. We fit together like jigsaw pieces. Then, Sebastian ducks his head and kisses me like he’s been starving. I melt against his chest because I’ve been famished too. My arms wrap around his neck, and I press myself against him, needing to feel his warmth, needing to inhale the scent of his skin, needinghim.
“I want you so badly,” he says, clawing at my silky dress to feel my ass against his palms. He groans, kissing my neck as he pulls me hard against the erection straining at his jeans. “But damn it, Georgia. There’s no way we’re screwing in the kitchen the first time.”
“Why not?” I curl my hands into his hair, hooking my leg over his hip.
His answering chuckle is dark, almost pained. “Because we just aren’t. You deserve a bed. Rose petals. The works.”
“I hate the smell of roses,” I say, rubbing up against him like a cat, grinding my hips for more friction, pressing my breasts to his chest. I don’t even know myself anymore. He turns me inside out.
He lets out a short grunt. “I think you were created to torture me.” His hands are on my bare bottom, squeezing, shaping. His lips devour mine. “You were sent on this earth just to make me want you.”
“Maybe,” I admit, arching my back. My heart flutters and my pulse feels heavy between my legs. I don’t want steak and salad and wine. I want him. I want those hands on my body. I want his cock inside me. I want him to lose control and look at me the way he did when we were alone in the gallery. “Spank me again,” I whisper before I can stop myself.
Sebastian’s palm connects with my ass, and my lust reaches a fever pitch.
“You were definitely sent here to torture me,” he growls.
