He squirted shower gel in his palm and ran his hands across his chest, up and down his arms, in between his legs. Eyelids heavy, water drops clinging to his long lashes like rain on a spider’s web––his eyes fluttered closed. Enthralled, I lost track of time and place as all my senses converged onto him, mesmerized by the utterly sensual picture he painted.
That’s when a pang of shame hit me. I was about to leave, to give him some privacy, when he grabbed his penis and exhaled harshly. He stroked himself from root to tip and his body hardened instantly. Prickling heat blazed up my neck. My heart was a percussion instrument pounding inside my chest. Below my waist everything came back to life, an aching emptiness I hadn’t felt in ages growing stronger by the second. He tugged on his erection roughly and cupped his sac. Moaning, his head fell forward. I was paralyzed by the sight of him pleasuring himself, torn between announcing my presence and watching.
Faster now. His hand kept pumping. He was getting close, his breathing harsh. Primal sounds erupted out of him. He let go of his sac and slapped the hand onto the shower wall. The muscles of his back and arms were bulging and rigid, in the way that comes right before release. A loud, almost pained groan broke loose. Head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut. He exhaled harshly as he climaxed, the evidence of his orgasm splashing onto the marble wall. So beautiful lost in passion.
Seconds later, his eyes blinked open and instantly connected with my wide-open stare. His gaze fathomless. His thoughts inaccessible. There wasn’t a bit of surprise, joy, or mischief to be found anywhere––his expression gave nothing away.
Mine, on the other hand, gave everything away. I could feel two hot circles burning on my cheeks. Never breaking eye contact, he turned the water off and grabbed the towel I held out for him.
“Thanks,” is all he said as he stepped out of the shower and wrapped it around his waist.
Huh? “That’s it?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“Where did you sleep last night?”
Walking past me, he headed for the closet. “Library… I was up late and fell asleep on the couch.”
“Sebastian––”
“I’m late for a meeting.” His tone made it abundantly clear that the discussion was over. I knew it was my turn to practice patience––he deserved a hell of a lot more than that from me––but his cool demeanor was really starting to get on my nerves.
I followed him into the closet, trailing after him as he walked around naked. He took his sweet time picking out what shirt and suit to wear while I waited for him to deign me with a moment of his attention, my irritation growing with every second that ticked by. Though I used the time productively. I was busy studying the muscular globes of his gorgeous backside when he glanced over his shoulder and caught me.
“Do you need anything?”
Do I need anything? Hmmm, let me think…
I needed to conk some sense into him. His indifference kindled my anger. Irritation quickly descended to out and out fury. “As a matter of fact, your Highness, I do. I need you to talk to me. You always do this when you’re stewing.”
“I told you, I’m late for a meeting.”
Right.
He yanked on his boxer briefs, snapping the elastic of the waistband aggressively.
“What time will you be home tonight?”
He pulled on his trousers and tucked his shirt in. “Late. Don’t wait up for me.”
I breathed out a heavy sigh. It was impossible to get through to him when he was like this. He draped a tie around his neck and grabbed a pair of handmade Stefano Bemer shoes from a collection of hundreds, purposely avoiding my pointed gaze.
As he walked past me, I laid my hand on his forearm. “Darling,” I pleaded. Before I could get another word in he pried my hand off his arm, placed a kiss on it, and dropped it, walking out without another glance in my direction.
The sting of his brush-off quickly morphed into something darker. An indescribable rage began to fester, an abscess deep within me waiting to explode and spew its venom. I stood there for a full hour calming myself down.
I’d prayed for the numbness plaguing me since I’d learned about the miscarriage to lift. What I couldn’t have foreseen was that it had been replaced by a deep-seated anger that I didn’t know how to handle. And I wasn’t certain if it was directed at him, or at myself.
Chapter Four
By early afternoon I was desperate for a distraction. Had I read every book in library? It certainly felt that way. Bored to tears, I couldn’t sit in bed for one more Godforsaken minute. A collection of clothing had magically found their way into the master closet in my absence. Boxes and bags from every store imaginable––from Galerie Lafayette to Valentino––were stacked to the roof. When I mentioned it to Sebastian, he dismissed it with a wave of his hand and said, “Send it back and get what you want.” I had to admit that I loved every single thing he chose. The man had taste.