CHAPTER EIGHT
CHARLOTTE
Sunlight filters in through the curtains, catching on the crystal pendant hanging in the corner. The rainbow pattern dances on the floorboards, but its beauty isn’t enough to distract me from looking for a particular dirty spot on the glass.
The evidence that Owen stood outside of the window, jerking his cock while he watched me, is gone. But I know it happened because he told me.
Last night.
After he made me come.
I kick my feet beneath the blanket, slap a pillow over my face, and squeal. “Oh. My. Gosh.”
“Last night must have been one hell of an orgasm.”
My heart reverberates against my ribs like a pencil clattering to the floor. Slowly I pull the pillow down from my face and see Owen leaning against the doorframe, coffee in hand, cocky smirk lighting up his face. “Up for round two?”
“Yes.”
Heat explodes up my neck. I shove my face into the pillow and groan. What happens to my filter around him?
His laughter soaks into my skin, coils between my thighs, and starts an unending pulse in my clit. “Get that sexy ass out of bed then so I can feed you; you’re going to need the energy.”
My blood feels like it’s boiling, and a vibration hums beneath my skin. I’m like a drug addict needing another hit, but instead of taking me home after breakfast and delivering on his promise of round number two, Owen is dragging me through the beachfront stores.
I swear he’s teasing me on purpose.
He’s standing a few steps away, watching me.
Our eyes lock, and my heart feels like it’s going to explode. I’ve been interested in guys before, but none have left me in this permanent state of sexual awareness. It’s intoxicating and wrong.
So, so wrong. He chose Eloise.
Yet the more time I spend with him, the more he feels like mine.
Does he feel the same way?
“That’s beautiful.”
I look down at the dress I’ve been absently holding while lost in my thoughts. It’s soft, maroon, romantic, and looks to be easy to take off.
I picture Owen drawing the zipper down my back.
“You should try it on.”
Is he thinking the same thing?
There’s a commotion behind him, further down the street. I look over his shoulder to see a group of people holding cameras with long lenses. Those are big cameras for tourists.
Paparazzi.
Owen follows my line of sight and looks over his shoulder.
He mouths a curse before turning around and stalking toward me.
He presses a hand to my lower back and guides me into the store.
The paparazzi are looking around like they are searching for someone. “Are they here for you?”
