I barely feel him unfasten my dress until his warm hands slide over my skin as he pushes the fabric down my arms. He helps me get down off the counter, then kneels in front of me, hooking his fingers in the waistband of my panties and sliding them down my legs.
His mouth is even with my pussy, and his warm breath tickles my skin. He looks up at me through those long eyelashes, and I stop breathing for a moment. But he rises, scoops me up in hisarms, and sets me gently in the tub. He settles on the edge of the bathtub and pulls one of my feet into his lap, getting his suit pants wet. I groan and settle back into the hot water, every ounce of my stress draining away.
After he adjusts the water temperature, he says nothing and leaves the room, gone for at least 20 minutes. When he comes back, I’m out of the water, wrapping a towel around myself, and he picks me up, towel and all.
I laugh. “Vin, I have to dry off. I’m not going to bed wet.”
“I know, princess. Trust me.”
The bed is turned down, the lights are low, and he sets me down by the bed, taking the towel off me. Rubbing me gently, he dries me from my shoulders down to my ass, then guides me to sit on the edge of the bed, while he finishes my legs and feet.
When he’s done, I fully expect him to stand and strip in front of me, to push his cock in my mouth, to spread my legs and push inside me.
But he doesn’t. He helps me to lay back on the blankets and pulls them around me. I don’t usually sleep naked, but wow, it feels amazing, my muscles still warm from the bath, the blankets so fuzzy and soft.
I close my eyes, but open them when I feel the bed dip. Vin climbs in behind me, his clothes in a heap on the floor, but he stays on top of the blankets and pulls an extra comforter over himself as he wraps around me.
No touching. No kissing. His cock is hard. I saw its outline in his pants when he was drying me off and I can feel it now eventhrough the layers of blankets. But he does nothing but hold me.
“This doesn’t mean anything, Vin.”
“It means everything, princess.” His breath is warm and ragged next to my ear.
I sigh. “We’re not together. I mean it.”
“Whatever you say, Sophie.”
I’m too tired to argue. I fall asleep and sleep harder than I have in months. When I wake up, he’s gone.
12
SOPHIE
The flowers arrive early in the morning, about an hour after I get up and come down to the kitchen to finish the orders I started last night.
After the incredible opening last night, I want to keep the momentum going and make sure that my first full day open goes just as smoothly.
My prep list is spread out, multiple pots simmering on the stove, and I’m covered in olive oil and flour when Marco carts in a flower arrangement the size of a small child.
“These just came.” He sets them at the end of the prep station.
I wipe my hands on my apron and stare at them for a moment. They are extraordinary. White peonies and garden roses, something trailing and delicate I don’t know the name of.My stomach twists as I reach for the card, already hoping and dreading whatever Vin wrote.
The card says:Congratulations on your opening night. The food was extraordinary. — Gavin
I stand there for a moment longer than necessary, the twisting in my stomach turning into a lead ball. Not from Vin. I set the card down, smooth my apron, and go back to my kitchen.
Of course it’s Gavin. Of course he’s the guy who sends flower the morning after my opening after sitting there and supporting me all night. I would expect nothing less from the guy who’s been showing up, quiet and persistent, for weeks now.
Vin, on the other hand, he’s the guy who shoves your face into the pillow and pounds into you while calling you his dirty cumslut. He shows up covered in blood in the middle of the night expecting you to absolve him of his sins before he shatters your soul. He’s not the guy who sends flowers.
Last night? Clearly an anomaly. He must have hit his head. But Gavin? He shows up, steady and supportive, as always.
I turn sharply on my heel and head back to the prep station and keep pushing forward.
**
The lunch rush hits early, differently hectic than last night, more laidback but crowded. Two food writers I recognize from Instagram perch at a corner table, notebooks open. A group of women in suits are splitting the burrata three ways and one ofthem has her eyes closed like she’s receiving a sacrament. A few men sit at the bar, laughing and drinking Italian draft beers.
