“Five minutes,” he answers, pulling out. I feel his loss, my body hollow without him.
I pick up my head, my body following him as he lifts up, lying next to me. “Any chance you want to do it again?”
He quirks a brow, his hand coming to my belly as he pushes me back down on the bed. “You’re too new at this for a double session.”
“I don’t care about that,” I protest. “I like you inside me.”
His eyes narrow as he leans forward, kissing me for the hundredth time in the last hour. I don’t mind. “I like me inside you too. But I won’t risk hurting you.” And then he pushes up from the bed.
“Where are you going?” I’m being so needy, I can feel it. But I know that after tonight, he might very well belong to someone else.
He stops at the cart and lifts the cover off one of the plates. “Come eat.”
“You know, for a man with a very large house, we spend most of our time in this one room.”
He smiles, making my toes curl. “I’m keeping you all to myself.”
That makes me feel both good and niggle with a bit of worry. Of course, we’re not announcing that we’re sleeping together to the entire staff. It makes sense that we stay tucked behind closed doors.
But I ignore the fears as I push the covers back and stand. “I might just need to use the bathroom first.”
“Of course,” he answers and then picks up his shirt placing it around my shoulders.
All my worries are forgotten as I slip my arms into his sleeves, pushing up the cuffs and inhaling is scent.
It falls down to my midthigh when I stand, and I wrap it around my body, placing my nose in the collar.
“Kitten, you look adorable but go to the bathroom so that I can get some food in you.”
I do as he commands, cleaning myself up and dragging a brush through my hair.
By the time I come out, he’s uncovered the food, placing the tray on a low table that sits between two chairs. Our makeshift dining table is positioned in front of the large bank of windows that look out over the drive.
He sees me and grabs the bottle of champagne, topping off our glasses.
With a sigh of gratitude, I sit down to eat the delicate pasta in a cream sauce with some sort of salted pork. It’s delicious and, it turns out, he was right. I’m hungry.
He eats too, but mostly with one hand, his other resting on my bare leg. The gentle stroke of his fingers unwinds the worry that had been building inside me.
I marvel again at how different our physical relationship is from our verbal one. When we speak, it’s frequently teeth and fangs. When we touch though…it’s cashmere and kittens.
I love his touch now.
And I appreciate how gentle he’s been as my body adjusts to having sex, and to his size.
But this last time it barely hurt until it didn’t hurt at all.
And I’m dying to know what kind of fire we’re really capable of creating.
I take a few sips of champagne, but I don’t indulge much and neither does Win. Honestly, I don’t really drink.
When you grow up in a house like mine, you break one of two ways. You escape into drugs and alcohol, or you barely touch it to remain constantly vigilant.
With Win, I don’t need to be vigilant. Physically, this man would never hurt me. My body is completely safe with him.
It’s odd. I think I might have known that from the first. Sensed it somehow. I’ve never told a soul about the scars on my body or about the abuse.
Not even my sister. But with Win…
