Now, as the sun begins to set, I’m staring at my reflection in the mirror mounted in Holt’s hallway, when he emerges from his bedroom wearing one of the hundreds of black Armani suits I saw this morning.
He stops on the threshold, freezing. Then, with one hand, he slaps his chest, catching himself from falling over with the other. His long fingers grip the doorframe.
“Fuck, Wallflower.” He rubs his hand over his mouth. His silhouette is shadowed by the long hallway, but I feel his intense gaze raking over me. It burns, spreading to the places I’ve been aching to have him touch.
“It isn’t too much, is it?” I ask, looking down. “Or maybe it’s too little. I know it isn’t as flashy as my dress last night but…” I run my hands along the front of my dress, hoping I didn’t take it too far.
“Fuck, no,” he breathes. “It’s perfect.”
When I look up, he’s already marching down the hallway toward me. He steals my breath when he wraps his arm around me and his hand falls to the small of my back, holding me against him. It’s the first time he’s touched me all day.
“You’re stunning.” His eyes remind me of the night on the auction stage, wild and unyielding. “You took my instruction well. This dress isveryyou.”
“I’m glad you like it.” I smile, reminding my heart to calm down.
Don’t fall for Holt Capuleti. This is for publicity.
Don’t be a fool. Don’t fall for Holt Capuleti.
He jerks me forward, pressing his body against mine. He’s solid and strong, molding me to him. My mind fogs the same way it always does when he’s this close. I try to focus on his gaze searing into mine, but all I want to do is kiss him. I want him to sink between my thighs. I want his cock to fill me so deeply, so fast, so hard. I want him to finally pull me over the edge of the cliff I’ve been toeing for days. In fact, I want him to hurl me over it.
But then my past rears its ugly head, and when I look into Holt’s eyes, I see all my fears. Fear of loss. Fear of getting too close. Fear of this feeling I can no longer deny.
He leans forward, brushing the tip of his nose to mine. “You brushed your teeth.”
I want to laugh. I want to crash my mouth to his.
“I want to kiss you,” he confesses, his eyes darkening. “I take that back. I want to do more. I want to tear this dress off you and fuck you until your screaming my name.”
The wind is knocked from my lungs. Every second Holt grows more confident.
My body is humming with anticipation. “I thought we were saving this for the cameras, Holt Capuleti,” I whisper before clearing my throat.
The light doesn’t die in his eyes as I expect it to. If anything, it grows. “Cameras or not, I don’t give a shit. I’d do it all with you.”
I inhale a sharp breath, a shiver slinking down my spine. “We should go.”
He pauses, blinking. The pressure of his hand on the small of my back lightens. “Okay,Wallflower.”
I suspect Holt has pulled back out of respect, but I can tell he hasn’t let up on his comments. I’d be lying if I didn’t say I was feeling the same, too. I already know by the time we leave wherever we’re going, I’m going to spend the entire night fighting the urge to follow through on what we’re both feeling.
Thirty minutes later, Holt is escorting me into the New York City Opera House, which is opulent, decorated in gold leaf detail and rich, deep maroon drapery. I can’t stop staring at the auditorium in complete and utter awe. The eyes and whispers of some don’t go unnoticed. It’s only seconds before some are pulling out their phones to snap pictures of the two of us together.
I feel a million light years away from my cracked ceiling and the leaky faucet in my kitchen. But somehow, I feel comfortable here. Maybe it’s the dress I’ve picked out, or how Holt hasn’t stopped finding a way to touch me since we left. Cameras or not, he’s held my hand the entire night.
The valet leads us to the private balcony facing the stage that Holt reserved for us. Holt holds his arm out as I take our seat. Just like I’ve seen in the movies, there are two pairs of gold binoculars laid out for us.
He sits beside me on the plush, velvety sofa. Our booth is private. There’s one single door for entry and exit. Thick, long, velvet curtains line the sides of the booth, giving us a small semblance of privacy, but a piece of privacy, nonetheless.
“I’ll be your private server tonight, Mr. and Mrs. Capuleti. If you’ll be requiring anything, please don’t hesitate to let me know.” The young man dressed like a butler is bent at the waist, covered in shadows. The show hasn’t even started and it’s still dark in here. Once it begins, I can only imagine how difficult it will be to see.
I open my mouth to correct him on his assumption that we’re married, but Holt stops me.
“We’d like a single bottle of champagne and two glasses, then we won’t be requiring your services for the rest of the night.”
“Yes, sir.” The server nods once in acknowledgement and disappears.
I cross my legs, and the slit in my dress widens, revealing the smooth skin to my upper thigh. I don’t fix it. Holt’s hand immediately lands on my exposed skin, and there’s the crackling of electricity again. I almost sigh with relief.
