Suddenly cowardice overcomes me, and I hurry to the armoire before selecting a fluffy white robe to put on. As soon as I sling it around my shoulders, I’m comforted. There, that’s not so bad anymore. I fasten the sash tightly around my waist, taking a deep breath. I will survive. I can do this. I can be the wanton woman Tate wants, and still come out with my sanity intact.
As I exit my room and walk slowly down the grand staircase, I make a promise to myself: I’ll leave if it gets too crazy. If Tate actually makes me do insane things like tying me to a bed, or spanking my bottom until it’s red, I’ll march out with my head held high. But then a flush graces my cheeks because the imagery is turning me on, and I realize I am well and truly losing it. I want those things? I want to do these dirty, nasty things with the handsome man? It’s true, and the knowledge makes me flush a bright red.
Then, I reach the bottom of the stairs and the breath flies from my chest because Tate’s standing there waiting for me wearing black jeans and a black shirt, looking ungodly handsome. I try not to blush when I realize how little I have on under my robe.
“Hi,” I say in a near whisper.
He smiles wolfishly before leaning forward to kiss my cheek. His lips trail over my skin, and my temperature zips up about ten degrees.
“Hi yourself, honey. You look beautiful.”
I flush while pulling the robe tighter around my waist.
“I don’t have anything else to put on at the moment.”
He smiles.
“Don’t worry about it,” he says. “We’ll get you some nice lingerie to relax in. In the meantime, you’re dressed perfectly because we’re going to have a picnic.”
My raised brows must communicate my confusion because Tate clarifies, “An indoor picnic, sweetheart. Follow me.”
He turns, gently grasping my elbow, and escorts me into a room off to the side.
When I enter, I gasp. This sitting room has an enormous fireplace, already sparkling and crackling as we approach. A black bearskin rug lies on the floor, and surprisingly, the roaring head doesn’t freak me out. The walls are lined with bookshelves, and two comfortable-looking leather chairs are arranged before the fire. It’s a room that my father would like, strong and masculine. But with Tate’s presence, and in the ever-shifting light of the fire, it feels intimate and downright very sexy.
“Come here, sweetheart,” the billionaire growls, as he takes a seat on the bearskin rug. I notice a large picnic basket in front of him, and lower myself as well, feeling uncharacteristically shy. How exactly is this “arrangement” going to start--and when?
But now, it looks like we’re going to eat. Out of the picnic basket, Tate produces two plates and two wine glasses, and then, like a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat, he withdraws a lavish charcuterie plate and a bottle of red wine. My eyes flicker to the bottle’s label. Sure enough, like everything else in this house, it’s expensive. Admittedly, I haven’t tasted wine more pricey than a twist-off bottom-shelf bottle for a while.
“Do you prefer white or red?” he growls.
“Red,” I say quickly.
Tate smiles, and there’s that wolfishness again, or maybe it’s just the firelight casting shadows on his handsome, planed face. “Good.”
He pours wine into my glass, and then his own, and gestures at the charcuterie board. “Sweetheart, help yourself.” The board is graced with a variety of dried meats and cheeses, some perfectly-ripe strawberries, handfuls of macadamia nuts, beautifully jewel-toned figs, and what appear to be hand-dipped chocolate-covered pretzels. Eagerly, I place a variety of foods onto my plate.
“Hungry much?”
I flush red, and immediately the handsome man looks contrite.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he apologizes. “Sometimes I forget you’re from the street. Have as much as you want.”
I nod, ducking my head. OMG, I should tell him the truth because this charade is getting really crazy, but somehow, nothing comes from my throat. Then, when I turn back to Tate, he selects a strawberry from the board and without breaking eye contact, brings the berry to my mouth. Obediently, I bite into it and a sweet nectar spills over my taste buds, making me moan deliriously.
When I open my eyes again, he’s watching me avidly.
“Sweetheart, I never knew a woman could look like that while eating.”
I flush again.
“Strawberries are good,” I say in a shy voice. “Why, did I do something weird?”
His blue eyes glitter. “No honey, not at all. You’re just a very sensual woman when you part your lips.”
That’s when I notice a very prominent bulge at his crotch and my nipples tighten in response. But I have to get a hold of myself. I don’t want to throw myself at him like some desperate woman. Hastily, I eat some cheese, probably looking like a pig snarfling up her slops. But hey, anything to get my eyes off of that huge tent in his pants that’s making me so hot.