“Come,” he suddenly ordered, and I did, breaking apart at the seams. The ropes pulled so tight at my wrists and ankles I was sure I would bruise.
In the numbness that followed my orgasm, I felt Maître taking the pins off my nipples and clit. I throbbed everywhere, my body one rhythmic heartbeat.
When the ropes had been untied from my wrists and ankles, I collapsed on the bed, strong arms wrapping around me and cradling me to a warm body. I tried to catch my breath, but air evaded me.
“You did well,” Maître praised. The rush of pride those words brought helped me breathe. I ran my hand down his perfectly cut abdominals and down to the V that led underneath his silk pants.
Sighing, he laid a single kiss on my head. Maître never did this. He never kissed me above my neck. Not my head, and never my lips.
Not wanting the connection to end, I nuzzled into his warm skin, closing my eyes. Then I felt a hand thread into mine. It took me a moment to remember we were in NOX and I was with Maître Auguste. But his hand reminded me of Harry and how he’d never let go of me at the hospital.
Harry, whose hand felt just as lovely as this.
Exceptionally…
Chapter Thirteen
“Too slutty, or ravishing in red?” I asked Sage and Amelia as I walked out of my bedroom the next day in my knee-length scarlet body-con dress. Today was the day of “the big dinner.”
“You’re getting all fancy for dinner with your parents?” Amelia said, a shit-eating grin pulling on her mouth. “You normally rock up in yoga pants and a hoodie.”
“Oh, that reminds me,” I said and reached into my bra, pulled out my hand, and showed her the middle finger. “I got this for you.” Amelia laughed smugly into her coffee.
I dropped onto the couch beside her and Sage. Sage, being a good buddy and pal, popped a square of milk chocolate into my mouth.
“Better?” he asked.
“No,” I groaned and took hold of Sage’s hand. “He held it like this.” I demonstrated Harry’s hand in mine, showing the exact grip and tightness. “And he never let go.”
“We know, baby girl,” Sage said placatingly and kissed the back of my hand.
“But what does it mean?” I cried and jumped to my feet. I caught my reflection in the mirror over the TV and at least felt happy with my choice of attire. I wore my hair down and in loose waves. I didn’t particularly like my hair in one style over another, but Maître loved it down. Demanded it of me. So I assumed it was the better look on me.
And that was the annoying part of this whole thing. I actually cared what Harry thought of me. The man I’d sworn was my archnemesis. But here I was, waiting for him to collect me to go to my parents’ home for Sunday dinner. Not even in my wildest dreams had I thought I’d be here.
“Maybe just don’t overthink everything, Faith,” Amelia said. “Just go with the flow. If something happens, then it happens.” She smiled. “I, for one, am living for this. You know my favorite trope in romance is enemies to lovers.” Her eyes became lost to her fantasy. “It’s like you’re in a modern regency novel. He’s the swarthy viscount and you the pauper scullery maid.”
“Oh my god! I thought that as we ascended my parents’ steps after the hospital. How I felt like I was in a period drama or something.”
“Ascended the steps?” Sage said, lips pursed.
“Hush, heathen! I am still in scullery maid mode.” I sighed. “But my fantasy was cut short by the mention of labia.”
“By Harry Sinclair?” Amelia shrilled, choking on her coffee.
“Sadly no.” My cell hummed on the coffee table.
PP: I’m outside.
My heart started thudding out of rhythm, and I got to my feet. Just as I did, the buzzer to our apartment sounded.
“Chivalrous bastard, isn’t he?” Sage said, crestfallen. “You sure he doesn’t swing for my team? I could get used to an English gent romancing me.”
“Afraid not, my fair-weather friend. But he said he has a cousin.”
Sage stood and gripped my shoulders. “We need intel, Faith. We need to know if he is a cock in a hen house, or a cock in a house of cocks.”
I blew out a breath. “That was a lot of cock talk, Sage. Even for me.”
Sage slapped me on my ass. “Get him, baby girl.”
Waving to my friends, I caught the elevator to the ground floor, and as I opened the door, I saw Harry Sinclair leaning against the stone handrail on the steps, looking out onto the busy street. One hand was in his pocket, and the other held a bouquet of red roses. He looked like Richard Gere in Pretty Woman. Wait. Would that make me—