Sitting cross-legged on the blankets, I nibble at more of the food and drink some of the wine, along with more water, while Dorian tells me about the collection of art back at his house in Nashville. He claims he’s got an original Monet, painted just for him—which blows my mind.
“I can’t believe he made you a painting,” I breathe. “I’d love to see it.”
“I’ll take you home with me sometime.”
A little shock of trepidation and delight runs through me. “But…the two weeks are almost up. We won’t have time—”
“Baz.” Dorian sits up, his eyes piercing mine with an intensity that makes me catch my breath. “Do you really think I’ll be done with you after two weeks?”
“I… Yes?”
“No.” He scoots closer, setting aside one of the food containers. “Two weeks isn’t nearly long enough.” His hand curves around my upper arm, sliding up to my shoulder. His thumb strokes against my collarbone.
“But what if I say no after the two weeks?” I murmur.
“That will put a damper on things. But I don’t think I’ll want to let you go, Basil, even then. Maybe not ever.”
He’s cupping my neck, leaning in, but I pull back, stricken by his use of my whole first name. “You know I’m notyourBasil, right? My ancestor is gone for good.”
“I know,” Dorian says softly. “You remind me of him a little sometimes, and maybe that’s part of why I like you—five percent, maybe. The rest is all you. Just you, being your adorable, creative, insightful, stubborn self.”
The salty breeze picks up, swirling between us, tossing my hairand his. I breathe the air in, its wild flavor blended with a familiar hit of sage and cigarettes and delicate sweetness.
I want to say I like him, too. But what I feel for him is more complicated than a “like.” It’s deeper, more twisted and layered, with a base coat of thick darkness and highlights of scintillating, compelling need. I focus on the need part—the bone-wrenching desire to have his hands on me, to have his legs threaded with mine and the hard ridge of him grinding between my thighs.
I drink in the sight of him like wine—the shadow of his lashes on his pale cheeks, the parting of his rosy lips, a glint of white teeth. The smooth angle of his jaw. The flick of his blue eyes up to mine, the catch of his breath. I’ve leaned nearer without realizing it, and we’re hovering, our mouths a whisper apart. The proximity is liquid, dazzling, breathless—a heady temptation.
For a moment, I savor the agony of waiting.
And then I break.
When I kiss him, it’s quick, fierce—abrupt little passionate kisses sown over his mouth, his cheekbone, his jawline. He tips his head back with a soft gasp, giving me access to his throat, and I nibble along it, pressing my lips to his pulse point for a long moment, inhaling the salt heat of his skin.
I love having my mouth on him, being allowed to enjoy him this intimately. I try not to think about all the other mouths that have covered this same ground, but the thought is there, like a green, envious fleck in a swirl of rosy paint.
But I’m blissfully distracted by his fingers reaching in, cupping the inseam of my shorts. The heel of his hand rocks against me, rubbing expertly with just the right amount of pressure.
“Oh god,” I breathe, propping my forearms on Dorian’s shoulders.
He shifts his hand to my waistband and wriggles those long fingers underneath, into the heated, damp space between my legs. But he can’t get the angle he wants, so he pulls his hand out and moves me, setting my back to his chest, my ass nestled between his thighs.
With a hum of satisfaction, he nuzzles against my cheekbone, kisses my temple, while his fingers make quick work of the button on my shorts. He draws down the zipper slowly, sliding one finger over my damp panties.
Every other guy I’ve been with, when we got to third base, has grunted something like “Damn, you’re wet for me, baby,” and while that’s hot, I like it better when Dorian just kisses my cheek again and strokes that same finger slowly, slowly over the damp material until it’s thoroughly soaked.
Then his fingertips tease the waistband of the panties away from my lower belly. He massages the soft flesh, working his way down with leisurely little circles, until I’m panting, almost whimpering.
This is what it’s like to be helpless in the hands of someone who really knows what they’re doing.
When his index finger finds my clit, I whine softly.
Dorian gives a low hum of triumph, his other hand gliding from my waist up to my chest. He nudges beneath the tank top and the thin bra, sliding his warm hand over my whole left breast.
Meanwhile, his fingertip is circling, tantalizing the delicate bud under those wet panties. He slides lower, tracing the seam of me, and the ripples of pleasure grow wider and deeper.
Two fingers, gliding in deep, thrusting into the wetness with a sound that makes me tense with embarrassment. His fingers pause inside me.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “That sound means I’m doing my job well. Relax for me, Baz.”
