When the door closes behind him, I sit heavily on the edge of the bed. What the hell am I doing here? What am I thinking? I should call a cab, go home, pretend this never happened.
But then I remember the feeling of his lips on mine, his hands cradling my face like I was precious, and my body responds with a rush of heat so intense it makes me gasp.
In the bathroom, I splash cold water on my face and stare at my reflection. I look the same—same brown eyes, same dark hair, same ordinary features. But I feel different. Charged. Like I've been sleepwalking through life and just woke up.
I find a t-shirt in the dresser and a pair of sweatpants with a drawstring I can tighten. They're still huge on me, but clean and soft. I roll up the pant legs and head back out to the main room.
Fabio has set the dining table—actual plates and silverware for takeout food. He's opened a bottle of wine. He looks up when I enter, his eyes sweeping over me in the too-big clothes, and there's something possessive in his gaze that should scare me but doesn't.
Dinner is surprisingly easy. He asks me questions about myself—where I grew up (Colorado), what I do (florist and wedding assistant), what I like to read (everything)—and listens to my answers like they're fascinating. He doesn't volunteer much about himself unless I ask, and when I do, his answers are brief but honest. He's in finance, he says. Has business interests across the country. Travels a lot.
It's what he doesn't say that speaks volumes. The way his phone keeps buzzing but he ignores it. The way the security guard checked in once, speaking in what sounded like code. Theway he carries himself, always aware of exits, of positions, of potential threats.
This is not a normal man. This is not a safe man.
So why do I feel so safe with him?
After dinner, he shows me back to the guest room, not pushing, not presuming. His hand brushes mine as I pass him in the doorway, and electricity zips up my arm.
"Goodnight, Sharon," he says, my name like a prayer on his lips.
"Goodnight, Fabio."
Alone in the room, I lie on the bed fully clothed, staring at the ceiling. The events of the day replay in my mind on a loop—the mix-up, the ceremony, the feeling of his mouth on mine. The way he said "You're mine now" like it was simple fact.
I close my eyes and his face is there, those dark eyes intense on mine. I can almost feel his hands—large, strong, surprisingly gentle—on my skin again. My body responds instantly, heat pooling between my thighs.
This is insane. I don't know him. Don't know anything about him except that he's powerful and rich and looks at me like he wants to devour me whole.
But God help me, I want his hands on me again.
My own hand slides down my body, slips beneath the waistband of the borrowed sweatpants. I'm already wet, embarrassingly so. I circle my clit with two fingers, thinking of his mouth, his hands, his body pressing mine into this mattress. I imagine his weight on top of me, pinning me down, those dark eyes watching me come apart beneath him.
I gasp as pleasure builds, quick and urgent. It's never been like this before—never so fast, so intense. Like my body knows something my mind doesn't.
I'm close,soclose, when a knock sounds at the door.
"Sharon?" His voice, low and concerned. "Are you alright?"
Fuck. Did he hear me? Heat floods my face.
"I'm—I'm fine," I manage to call out.
A pause. Then: "May I come in?"
I should say no. Should tell him to go away. Instead, I hear myself say, "Yes."
The door opens slowly. He stands in the frame, still fully dressed except for his shoes, watching me with those intense eyes. They sweep over me—my flushed face, my hand still frozen beneath the waistband of the sweatpants—and darken with understanding.
"Don't stop on my account," he says, his voice a low rumble that makes me shiver.
"I wasn't—" I start to lie, then stop. What's the point? He can see right through me.
He steps into the room, closes the door behind him. "Were you thinking about me?"
I nod, unable to speak.
He comes to the bed, sits on the edge of it, not touching me yet. "Show me."
