I hate the idea of someone photographing the villa. Thank God they’re only doing a portion of the backyard. I’ve always worked hard to keep cameras and publicity as far away from me and the family as possible.
But here I am, inviting them in.
Paige walks beside me with a wide smile and a box in hand. The chef sent her home with her favorite half-eaten cake slices. She quickly won the award-winning chef onto her side, talking to her after the shoot.
She’s so good at that. It’s annoying.
I sit down on the terrace and watch her disappear inside.
Sucking on her finger was such a bad fucking decision. But she didn’t expect me to do it, and I wasn’t about to hand her a win.
Except I saw the way her lips parted in surprise, heard thelittle sigh that escaped her and the flare in those eyes. They’re the same color as the chocolate frosting I licked.
But then she’dmoanedwhen she ate a slice of cake, and the sound went straight through me and made me half hard beneath the tablecloth.
When I went up to my room the other night, after seeing her wet and half naked in the guest bathroom, I was turned on and angry. Hating myself for wanting her.
And found hergiftwaiting for me on my bed.
It was a sex toy. One of those silicone sleeves witha man’s best friendwritten on the side of the packet. And beside it lay a bottle of her perfume and a red, lacy thong. It was unused. The price tag was still on it, for fuck’s sake. No doubt another thing she picked up on her shopping spree with my card.
As if I’d use asleeve.
So I shoved it all into a drawer and went to bed with the image of her soaking wet and standing defiantly in the fountain.
I was attracted to her.
And it was the least logical reaction I’ve ever had. The least sensible and by far the most traitorous. I can’t trust her.
So I lay awake for a solid hour, fighting with myself, before I finally jerked off, hard and fast and with only my left hand. The sleep I fell into was deep and dreamless, and that should’ve been that. Attraction arose, but attraction squashed.
Except now she’s gone and added the feeling of her finger in my mouth and the sound of her moans to my mental catalog.
I tug off my cuff links and start rolling up my sleeves. The sun is still out, but it’s lower on the sky, about to start its slow dip behind the mountains. If we’re going to get pictures, it has to be now.
“We’re ready when you two are,” Wren says. She’s standing next to Karim, both of them waiting.
“It might take a while,” I tell the photographer. Luca, Ithink his name was. “You never know when dealing with my wife.”
They all laugh like I’ve made a sweet, loving joke.
She arrives six minutes later. There’s a deck of cards in one of her hands, and they look curiously like the flashcards I remember from school.
“Let’s drink,” she says, and sits down beside me. Her hair is loose now, released from its low ponytail, and it flows like golden silk around her shoulders.
The photographer takes pictures of us as we uncork a few bottles. There are reds, whites and champagnes, and at least a dozen glasses set out for us. We chat for a bit. It’s all nonsense about grapes and the brands on display. She asks me how many of the wine houses I own, and I tell her the truth. All of them.
That makes her laugh. She reaches for a bottle of Sancerre and pours herself half of a glass. It’s more than you should drink for a tasting. “Of course you do,” she says. “You’re predictable.”
“And you’re drinking too much,” I say. If I’m hosting a giant wedding for publicity reasons, I’ll be damn sure to serve Maison Valmont wine during it.
“I thought that was the point.” She lifts the glass to her lips. It’s not her first, but neither is mine. We’ve been sitting here for twenty minutes already. Talking, touching hands, drinking.
The sun has dipped low over the mountains.
“I think that’s a wrap on the pictures,” Wren says. She puts a hand on the photographer’s shoulder. “Do you have what you need for the feature? Come, let us go inside and look what we’ve got…”
She disappears, and Karim gives me a discreet, questioning nod. I nod back. He disappears too, and finally, we’re all out of an audience.
