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In response, I pull open the car door. “Get in.”
5
Vivian
"There are many reasons why you should say yes to my proposal,” he rumbles.
"Oh?" I wriggle around, trying to make myself comfortable.
The gown I’m wearing is a Karma West Sovrano original. It looked elegant and sexy on the hanger in the charity shop—which is the only reason I could afford it. It was meant for walking down an aisle, not for sitting down and having a tête-a-tête with the father of the man I was supposed to marry.
We’re in the living room of his townhouse in Primrose Hill with sweeping views of the city. It’s amongst the poshest neighborhoods in London. I know he’s rich, but being here brings home how out of my reach this man is.
I handed over the keys of my rental car to him, and he arranged to have it returned. He’s so in control, it’s tempting to hand over all of my problems and have him find a solution. To lean on him and have him make my decisions.
I've had to depend on myself for so long. I've had to stay strong for my family. Then, along comes this man who seems to have the answers to my problems.
It’s so tempting to hand over the reins of my life and have someone else drive for a while. It so happens, the man who makes me want to lean on him is older than me. And he‘s my ex’s dad. This is so wrong. Worse? I haven’t stopped thinking about his proposal. And here I am, in his house.
He’s so charismatic, I have no doubt, given the chance, he’ll convince me to marry him, too. He’ll be so persuasive, I won’t be able to say no. And I can’t do that. How would Felix react to that? He was once my best friend. I can’t walk all over his feelings. Even if he did stand me up at the altar.
Strange as it sounds, I really don't think he intended to hurt me. Maybe he didn't think it through. But I'm thinking this through, and I don't want to intentionally hurt him.
My fingers tremble; I lock them together. “I... I shouldn’t be here. This was a mistake."
I jump to my feet, take a step away, and trip on the train of the gown. I pitch forward and throw out my hands to stop my inevitable face-plant, only an arm around my waist halts my descent. The next moment, I’m set back on my feet.
He holds me in place, the warmth of his touch setting off frissons of excitement which travel to my core. I squeeze my thighs together. The movement is so slight, and yet, he seems to notice it, for his gaze sharpens. That woodsmoke and pine scent of his, laced with healthy male sweat, teases my nostrils. My nipples bead. My scalp tingles. I want him so much. Why does that make me feel like such a slut? And why do I not care that it does?
The heat from his broad chest slams into mine, and I sway toward him. His grasp on me tightens. He stares at my mouth. The pulse at his temple beats in tandem to the racing of my heart. He lowers his face, and his breath heats my cheek. My throat dries. Bam-bam-bam. My pulse rate goes through the roof.
Waiting. Waiting. This is it. He’s going to kiss me now. His lips are so close. His nose bumps mine. And his eyes… Those silver sparks are joined by golden flares, which I thought I must have imagined seeing earlier. But no. There they are. Gold and silver in the midst of a storm of feelings. My eyelids flutter down.
The next second, cool air hits my front. The weight of his hand is gone from my waist. Without his support, I sway forward.
This time, he doesn’t catch me. I find my footing and look around to find him striding out the room.
Huh? For a few seconds, I stand there, dazed. I already miss him. I want to follow him, to please him, to seek his approval, and to follow his orders. And goddam him, I don’t want to resist it, either. Is that wrong? And so what if it is?
I've lived my life carefully, and look where that got me? Dumped and disgraced. I’m done with the safe, scared me who planned for the future and wouldn’t do anything until she’d taken care of everyone else. I’m going to think of myself. Put my needs first.
And right now, I want someone else to make the decisions for me. Someone to take command and tell me what to do. I’m tired of being the responsible one. Tired of people always leaning on me.
What if I let myself lean on him? He’s seen more of life. He knows what he wants and doesn’t hesitate to go after it.
I want everything implicit in the promise of his smoldering glare. I’m turned on by the expert way with which he handles my body. I’m drawn to that confident manner of his which weakens my knees and appeals to that part of me which wants to submit... to him.
Without allowing myself to examine my thoughts further, I pick up my skirt and the short train, and trail after him. I walk through the hallway, past a conservatory, and into the kitchen. Late afternoon sunlight pours through the sliding doors which lead out onto a deck on one side. He’s standing by the sink, filling a glass of water.
He turns, walks around the island in the center, and places it on the corner closest to me. "Drink," he orders.
I find myself reaching for the glass of water without conscious thought. What the—!? Apparently, there’s no not obeying the command in his voice. And I love it. And hate it. And I want more of it.
And if I don’t obey him? What would he do then? A thrill of anticipation unfurls in my core. And would I like what he'd do to me?
I already know the answer to that. It’s why I tighten my fingers around the glass, lift it, and fling the water in his direction.
I must catch him by surprise, for he doesn’t move. Water drips from his chin and wets the front of his jacket and shirt. Oops.
