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I've learned my lesson, haven't I?
The fire sparks up, gas flames spearing into the air, and I shudder as he turns to me, shadows across his face from the warring lights.
"Come here," he offers, motioning to the couch.
"I don't think I should." Why can't I move? Why can't I move toward the door?
"Then I'll come to you." He crosses the room, and I feel each of his footsteps like a heartbeat in my chest, until he reaches me. His hands come up, and he cups my chin. His fingers feel like they're burning my skin, but it's my imagination. And when I stare into his eyes, I know I'm lost.
It's happening again. I am the same person.
His lips touch mine, andI can't. I pull back with a gasp, yanking myself from his grip. My whole body is shivering with adrenaline. Cringing, I expect him to be angry. Some lordlings still think they own everyone under the roof of their household and sometimes beyond. It doesn't matter that it's the 2020s and how far we've come with service-workers rights.
"I'm sorry," I mumble out, looking at the floor, waiting for it to come. The cuff to the side of my head. The cursed words.
Other girls I've known have had worse for less.
His breath is shallow and rapid, and he clears his throat.
"Eva, look at me."
The shock of hearing my name on his lips makes my head jerk up out of reflex. He's frowning, fingers flexing at his sides, like he wants to grab me again but is holding himself back.
And here I stand, just waiting for it.
Waiting for him to make his move. It's all I can expect. It's all I'veknown.
"If you say no, I won't touch you," he breathes out the words, and I wonder who this man is standing in front of me. Benedict keeps confusing me. In public, in front of the bar, he was someone else entirely, his touch demanding that I be his.
After my interview, he was a casual playboy, smirking and smug.
And now, he kisses me, then asks for my permission after? My heart is never going to recover from this back and forth.
"You don't know what you're asking," I tell him, and my eyes burn, tears threatening to fall. His throat tightens, bobbing as he swallows.
"What do you mean?" His whole body is tense, leaning forward like he wants to touch me and is fighting himself. The veins fairly bulge on the backs of his hands, disappearing up his wrists into the sleeves of his button-down shirt. My mind, my eyes, want to follow them, as they wrap around his muscled forearms. He's the kind of guy with what the magazines call 'lickable arms'.
"I can'tkissyou, my lord," I say his title precisely and with perfect enunciation. "You know that even being in here with you will end up with my ass being fired." My cheeks are warm and probably pink, and I've sworn in front of him, but it doesn't matter.
At this point, a little swearing is the least I can do.
"Call me Benedict," he urges me. I stare at him. His eyes narrow. "I command it."
"Are you serious?" I hiss and step further away. "I'm leaving—"
"That's not what you want, is it?" He asks, tracking me with his own steps, so I can't escape him. There's a hunger in his eyes as he watches me, and I want to be angry at him, but my feelings are just confused. What is going on? He's making me… want him.
I stop moving, standing my ground, and he walks toward me until he nearly bumps into me.
He's stopped right before me, hands loose at his hips. He wants to grab me again, I can feel it, and it's so very the opposite of what I need to be doing, but I can't help it.
My eyes slide shut, and I tilt my head up.
"Thank you," he whispers, and then he kisses me. His hands wrap around my waist, warm through my clothing, and he pulls me close.
I haven't felt this way since—
My whole body lifts up toward him, electric and shivery. He kisses me like I've never been kissed, not ever, and I dig my fingers into the loose fabric of his shirt-sleeves, clinging to him.
