I want to ask him what comes next. Whether he’ll bid on me at the auction. Whether he’ll win. Or if he’ll let another man claim my curves for the first time. But the words get caught in my throat.
Instead, I say, “I like it here at the club. I like being seen.”
He smiles at that, and I see something hidden there.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, softer.
He sets his cup down, then reaches across the table for my hand. His palm is big and rough and warm.
“I’m just worried about you, sweetheart,” he says. “That’s all.”
I squeeze his fingers. “You don’t have to be. I’m good.”
We sit like that for a while, sipping tea, sharing bites of cake. The sun gets lower, and the garden fills with a golden light that makes everyone look beautiful. A breeze picks up, carrying the scent of honeysuckle.
At some point, Hunter’s hand drifts up my arm, resting lightly on my shoulder. I lean into it, feeling a flood of heat run up my spine.
“Are you really okay, Daisy?” he asks, so quiet I almost miss it.
I look at him, and the answer is obvious. Yes, with him, I’m at ease. In fact, I’ve never felt more alive.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “I’m okay.”
There’s a pause, a breathless second where anything could happen.
Then, I do it: I lean across the table and kiss him.
It’s a little clumsy and desperate, more a collision than a kiss, but his mouth opens for me, soft and so familiar. He tastes like black tea and orange and man. I’m not sure who pulls back first—maybe both of us, because it happens so fast.
My cheeks go nuclear. “Sorry—” I start, but Hunter shakes his head, cups my face in both hands, and kisses me again, harder this time.
The second kiss is even better, deeper and longer, and when we break, my lungs are empty and my lips feel swollen.
We’re both breathless.
He touches his forehead to mine, his granite jaw sharp. “I’ve wanted to do that for so fucking long.”
“Me too,” I say, and we both laugh.
It’s not until I lean back that I notice: people are watching.
At the next table, a pair of men in linen suits are openly staring, not even pretending to mind their own business. A trio of women at a marble bench are giggling behind their hands. But no one seems surprised or offended. At Sanctum, displays of PDA are obviously nothing.
Hunter sees me notice, and smirks. “No one minds,” he says. “We have a lot of exhibitionists, as well as a lot of people who like to watch, so this is totally par for the course.”
“Good,” I say, and reach across to steal another kiss, just because I can.
But Hunter’s not going to let me get away so fast. He runs a hand down my neck, slow and heavy, and cups my breast through the thin cotton of my dress. The squeeze is possessive, gentle but not gentle. My nipple pebbles instantly. I gasp, glancing around, but he doesn’t let go.
“Hunter—” I whisper, mortified and turned on in equal measure.
He leans in, voice like velvet. “You want me to stop?”
I shake my head, and he smiles with all his teeth.
His palm kneads my breast in slow, lazy circles, and I shiver. I glance at the others, but everyone’s gone back to their business. Even the server who refills our tea acts like it’s nothing, eyes down, polite as ever.
Hunter’s thumb brushes my nipple, and I nearly moan. My whole body goes limp, and I have to grip the edge of the table to stay upright.
