Page 130 of Lost & Found

If the moan hadn’t given him away, the position of his hand had.

“You need something, princess?” he drawled, his hand moved in a downward stroke.

I inwardly cursed, hating the fact that I couldn’t see him in all his glory.

Turn around already.

A loud chuckle, followed by, “Do you really want me to? Think long…” he stroked himself once more, “and hard before you answer.”

It was then I realized I must have said it out loud. Like the most awkward person to ever walk the face of the earth, I further solidified my position to win a gold fucking medal in embarrassment.

“Um, no. Feel free to take your time. Don’t rush on my account. Enjoy yourself, self-care is natural, healthy even.” I laughed nervously. “It’s a proven fact. Try the massaging jet stream. I can imagine it would be equally pleasurable for you as it is for—”

Laughter erupted, and he made to turn around. I scrambled out of the bathroom as fast as I could and smacked my forehead with my hand.

Enjoy yourself? What the fuck was wrong with me? Did I really tell him to use the showerhead?

Okay, sign me up for the idiot award too, please and thank you. Way to set the mood for a romantic dinner. And what the hell was I doing anyway? Somewhere between the look of disappointment on his face earlier and the realization that the wedding would not happen, I determined what we needed was a night of romance?

Completely insane was what I was. No doubt about it.

But at this point, I was committed. I hadn’t humiliated myself by putting his suit in the bathroom to have him all dressed up for dinner and me in my casual clothes. Plus, I wanted him to see me in the damned dress.

It had taken so much for me to try them on, and I felt pretty in it. What was wrong with that? I took a deep breath and walked back over to the closet and pulled out the dress. The mauve-rose fabric shimmered beautifully by firelight.

I could still hear the shower running, so I rushed to get ready. I pulled the dress over my head and adjusted the plunging neckline. Why hadn’t I noticed how far down it went and that the back mirrored it identically?

In my haste, I hadn’t paid attention to that feature. I pulled out the strappy heels that Kinsley said were professional dance shoes. They were the perfect height, according to my girl. An exquisite web effect went across the toes, and they were embellished with small, glittering gems. They wrapped around the top of the ankle like a halter dress and zipped up the back.

I dragged one of the chairs in front of the full-length mirror and sat, leaning closer as I blended some color across my eyelids. A sweep of mascara. His favorite red for my lips. I gathered my hair and pinned it up, leaving a few loose strands to soften it.

When I finally leaned back, I barely recognized the girl staring at me. Gone was the guarded one who hid behind oversized hoodies. In place of her was a woman. One with confidence. One who was choosing to be intentional—for the first time ever.

Heat crept up my neck. Was this what Pasha saw when he looked at me? I adjusted my bangs and then reached for my shoes.

“Please, allow me.”

The sound of his voice nearly stopped my heart. It slammed violently against my ribs as I turned. I hadn’t heard the bathroom door open. Hadn’t heard him move across the room.

How long had he been standing there?

He crossed the room, beige linen pants sitting low on his hips, the pale blue dress-shirt fitted enough to hint at the strength beneath it. He’d opted not to wear the jacket or vest. The sleeves were rolled up, exposing the ink winding down his arm—the very sleeve I’d been working to complete.

I wondered if he realized that two of the partial faces hidden among the randomly placed skulls were of Kinsley and Victoria. He’d brought them both back into my life. He’d loved one since she was a child. And rescued the other from the pit of hell.

Something told me once he recognized it, he wouldn’t hate it.

My heart beat erratically as he stared into the depths of my soul. He stopped in front of me and lowered himself to one knee without breaking eye contact.

The movement was unhurried. Large hands wrapped around my ankle, warm and steady. His thumb brushed along the inside of my leg as he lifted my foot. The contact sent a sharp current through me.

I inhaled, stunned by how intimate this moment felt.

“Has anyone ever told you that you have pretty feet?” he asked.

The concentrated look on his face made me laugh. “Can’t say that I have. But I’m curious. What’s your definition of pretty feet?”

Lifting my foot once more, he ran a long finger along the insole, turning it as he once more examined it like I’d seen Sebastian inspect a motorcycle before. It tickled, but I managed to not jerk my foot away.