"Like the only star in the sky," I hear him finally say, and I turn to him with a frown. "You look...fuck, Roxanne, I don't have words in my vocabulary that can convey how beautiful you are. Name the rarest things on earth, put them all together, and you'll know what I feel right now looking at you."
Something in my bristling energy softens when I allow myself to look at him. He's wearing a black suit with a burgundy bow tie. Those damn dimples are present in his cheeks, the earring in his ear, and the tattoos create such a stark contrast with his white shirt that I find myself whispering, "You don't look half bad yourself."
That stupid grin spreads across his face, and I can’t help staring. He looks younger, lighter somehow, and those damn butterflies start fluttering in my stomach again.
"I know you're probably barely restraining yourself from jumping me, but you have to resist until tonight. I just hope I don't get stage fright."
And I can't help the laugh that escapes.
"Don't hold your breath waiting for the big night together," I tell him, but there's a bit too much affection in my voice, and his smile falters slightly.
He takes a few steps toward me, and I wish I could stop these emotions when I catch his scent of leather and musk.
He sits down on one of the armchairs near me and picks up a shoe from the floor, gesturing with his palm to his knee.
"I'm perfectly capable of fastening my own shoe strap, Damien." But my voice trembles slightly at the end because he has such an intense look that he doesn't seem to register anything I'm saying.
"Give me your foot, Roxanne. Now."
I lift my foot slightly, right where his knee ends, and my dress, with its slit, exposes my leg almost to my thigh. I forget to breathe when his fingers brush the skin of my calf—slowly, delicately, as if he's afraid to stain my skin with his touch.
The way my body reacts to his simple touch should raise warning flags, but all I have in my head is how erotic his hands look on my leg.
The smile spreading across his face tells me my thoughts are written all over my face, so I try to mask my lack of reason and stare at the ceiling.
When he places my foot in the shoe and fastens the strap, I breathe in relief and try to pull it back gently when, suddenly, I feel his hands lift the shoe slightly, and his lips make contact with the only visible patch of skin.
"Damien..." But my voice comes out too raspy, too affected, and then I can't stop my eyes from looking down at him.
"Say my name like that again and I promise we won't make it to the wedding night."
I believe him. Worse, I think I'd be the one tearing the clothes offhim. Why does he have to be exactly my type? Why do I feel this damn attraction raising my blood pressure at the slightest hint of affection from him?
After he puts on my second shoe, he rises from the armchair and positions himself an inch from me.
His hand finds the slit in the dress, and with his eyes fixed on mine, he whispers, "Tell me to get the hell out of this room."
Except I don't want to. Because when he's near me, I don't feel any trace of the bitterness poisoning my blood.
I don't hear Ivette's words telling me I'm disgusting. I don't feel the sting of all those nights I waited for someone to ask how my day was. The memory of being forced to eat what was put in front of me, even with tears in my eyes and a knot in my throat, doesn't burn as badly. It doesn't hurt as much to breathe when I think about finding one of my exes in my own bed with another woman because I'm "cold" and "uninvolved."
The words are somehow stuck in my throat because I want him to touch me. I want a moment where I forget everything waiting for me beyond these walls, so I find myself murmuring, "Stay."
Four letters. One word. And his mouth instantly finds mine. I don't need to think because my body knows his and surrenders without any rational influence from me.
His hand travels up to where I know what he'll find when he makes contact with the piece of lace I'm wearing as underwear.This dress can't be worn with anything ordinary, so I made sure to have something worthy of it underneath.
When his hand makes contact with damp material, a sound like a growl escapes him, and I bite my lower lip. I don't know at what point I positioned my hands at the base of his neck, but I pull him closer to me, pressing my entire body against him.Why do I feel like he's not close enough?
"Tell me who you're this wet for,slonko. If the answer isn't my name, we're having a funeral today too."
My smile is almost instant because he's so quick to jump to conclusions that I want to tease him, play with him more.
As if reading my mind, his fingers push the fabric aside and slide into me, unhurried, deliberate, teasing.
“You were saying something, baby?”
His touch works me open, and yet it’s not enough. Reason whispers that this is wrong, that we’ve torn past every line we shouldn’t cross, but the thought fades as he takes over my senses. All I can feel is him, this man who looks at me like I’m the only light in his universe.
