Looks like that bench might not be ornamental after all.
“Damn.” I scratch my thumbnail over a drop of sauce on the T-shirt I’ve just taken off because, as it turned out, I did manage to eat dinner. It would’ve been a crime not to, the yummy scents filling the kitchen as Sam began to cook.
There was so much food. Too much really, but I gave it my best shot. He’d served the sumptuous meal in a room just beyond the kitchen, overlooking the huge garden.Another anomaly for a house in central London.
Raif had referred to the space as the breakfast nook as in… the breakfast nook next door to the solarium. Turn right at the vestibule, and if you come to a green door, you’ve gone too far, because that room is a boudoir. I’m not being totally facetious. It’s justthatkind of house. Five floors, two of themsubterranean, including a multi-car garage, a second cellar, a high-tech-looking gym, and a twenty-foot swimming pool.
I don’t think I could’ve eaten in the dining room anyway. I would’ve been too busy staring at the Bridget Riley piece above the fireplace or the intricate hanging sculptures by Ruth Aswa. I can sort of see why Raif didn’t pick up anything when he visited the gallery. My pieces, while lovingly curated, are mostly from unestablished artists. In other words, we’re not in the same price range.
I chuckle softly.As though anyone looking at us would think anything different.
Today, I’d slipped back into my university grunge era while Raif looked like he’d just stepped from his super yacht. Or supercar, as the case was.
“You look deep in thought.”
I startle at Raif’s voice, swinging around to find him watching me from the doorway. Hand slunk in his pockets, his shoulder is pressed to the frame. He’d shown me to his bedroom earlier, leaving me at the door with some lame excuse of having emails to send.Like he couldn’t have done on his phone, like a regular person.
But I was relieved that he gave me a little time alone. It allowed me to get my bearings, paint on my brave face for the evening.
I say when.
I say where.
I say Lord, what have I done?
I’d showered, shaved, and brushed my teeth all without his proximity. His scrutiny. Because I see him watching me when he thinks I don’t.
But now, here he is, in all his glory.
I am so screwed,I think, as heat flares and swirls inside me.
“Where do posh people keep their laundry hamper?” I ask, turning away, not willing to share the effect he has on me. I glance at the chaise flanking the marble fireplace at the other end of the room. It’s more midcentury Danish than Edwardian lady’s fainting couch.I wonder how many women he’s made swoon in here.A coffee table filled with art and travel books sits between it and a pair of midcentury blond wood chairs.
My attention returns when I realize he hasn’t answered.And that I’m staring at a chair like it owes me an explanation.Whatever nonsense I might’ve been about to sprout disappears as my eyes meet his. Heavy lidded, his gaze seems to burn with such heat and silent promises. It drops very obviously down my neck, then over my chest, causing my nipples to tighten under my pajama shirt. There’s no hiding his inspection, no shame in him either, as he continues to survey my body with candid appreciation.
My nightwear isn’t provocative. I hardly had time to agonize over my choices earlier, my work outfits for the week taking up much of my brain space. It’s just a plain blue T-shirt, a little silky to the touch. The bottoms are short and fluted at the hem, which might look a little flirty, but I only chose them to avoid the very real hazard of sleep stripping. I’m sure he’s already worked out I have a tendency to wake naked if I become too hot or constricted in my sleep. I’ve been the same since I was a kid.
His gaze drops lower, burning a path down my legs, every inch of my skin warming and prickling. My mouth growing dry as it rises once again. But he still says nothing.
“Hamper?” The word comes out rusty and awkward. I almost drop my underwear from my scrunched laundry pile, so jam them between my ribs and my elbow.
“She doesn’t play soccer.”
“What?” I ask, his meaning dropping a split second later. At Polly’s front door this afternoon, I’d said Raif looked like a dad on his way to watch his kid play soccer. At the time, I didn’t know he was playing daddy for real. And now he’s calling me out because I’m looking at him just the same way as he’s looking at me. Sizing him up, appreciating, cataloging some of those finer details. Like how his shirt clings to the curve of his bicep and how the dark stubble on his cheeks only seems to enhance the kiss-ability of those chiseled lips.
He pushes away from the doorjamb, his gait languid and easy, and making my brain empty out.
“What sport does she play?” My question sounds breathy. Did I get the dumb because a pretty man is stalking toward me?
“She likes art.”
“Oh. Nice.”
“Drawing, painting. Cutting shit up and making things.”
“Much better than sports.” I tilt my gaze upward as he comes to a stop in front of me. “I was the same. I used to make clothes for my dolls out of bits of paper and fabric. It’s how I ended up with a useless degree.”
“And just look at you now.” The back of his knuckle coasts down my cheek.
