Warm skin over taut muscles. The earthy spice of his essence surrounding me. A moan floating through the air. Part of my psyche knows it’s a dream, that Sebastian isn’t spooning me, his hot mouth on my neck as he palms my breasts.
I squirm, pressing my tingling thighs together as I bunch the sheet against my sex. Reality or not, there isn’t an atom of my being that wants to vacate this dream. Especially when reality is hazy, and I’m on fire in Sebastian’s arms, the space between my legs throbbing for his touch.
“Please.” My gasp turns into another moan, and I expect him to wedge a hand between my thighs, slipping a finger down my wet slit to give me sweet, aching relief.
A hand shakes my shoulder instead.
“Wake up, my queen.”
That’s not Sebastian’s voice, and it’s definitely not how he’d address me. To him, I’ve always been Novalee, or princess, or even the occasional baby. He’s refused to call me by my title since the day I met him, and if he were to ever use that word, it would drip with scorn.
With a startled gasp, I jerk upright. It’s still dark enough that I can’t see Miles clearly, but the first hint of the morning sky filters through the windows, and I discover him sprawled on his back with one arm flung over his eyes. His chest heaves as he grits his teeth.
“Are you okay?” I ask, unsure of what to do or say.
He doesn’t move, and without thinking, I plant my hand on his chest to get his attention, worried I lashed out in my sleep and caught him in the face with a flying elbow.
“Don’t,” he says, shoving my hand off of him. Flinging the covers back, he hauls his legs over the edge.
I cover my mouth, heartbeat racing at my collarbone. “D-did I hurt you?”
Miles laughs, shaking his head. “Not unless your wet dream was a weapon.” He drags a hand through his short hair. “Though listening to you moan…well, let’s just say I’m past the point of comfortable.”
A hard swallow, a lick of my lower lip, and I struggle to speak. “What does that mean?”
“It means my cock wants out to play.”
“But you can’t.” My mind goes to the jewelry case where I hid the key. If he thinks I’m going to hand it over now, he’s mistaken.
“No, I can’t, which is why I’m going to take a cold shower.” He stands, and the gradual light of dawn brings him into full view, tight end and all. He heads toward the bathroom with an undeniable swagger—as if he knows I’m eying his impressive backside. Upset with myself for even noticing, I focus above his waist.
“By the way,” he says, stalling on the threshold and tossing a glance over his shoulder. “It would be very gracious of you to fix me breakfast, since today is my birthday.” A cunning smile follows his request. “I expect your answer then.”
After he disappears into the shower, I flop onto the mattress as fear constricts my throat. I’ve gone stir-crazy these past few days, only taking the occasional walk and having access to my art supplies.
In the past week, since I’ve been in the House of Virgo, Miles hasn’t budged on the issue of studio time. He’s made his terms clear, and now I have no choice but to face this day of reckoning. I want to be strong, to resist trading my self-respect for self-preservation, because spending every moment in this house with him, naked and vulnerable, is more than I can bear.
The temptation of my work taunts like the devil, using my misery against me. Just a simple surrender, granting Miles permission to touch me, and he’ll allow me back into my studio—allow me blessed time spent clothed and away from him.
But I don’t want to give in, and I’m far from ready to make this decision. Before he comes out of the bathroom, I begin breakfast, deciding on pancakes, since it’s one of the few things I know how to make, and it seems like an appropriate breakfast for a birthday.
I’m flipping the last cake as he enters the kitchen, his hair damp and uncombed from his shower. After sharing space with him for a week, I thought I’d be used to his constant nudity, but his presence catches me off-guard, and a part of me jolts as if I’m seeing him without clothing for the first time.
“Perfect timing,” he says, brushing past me, his warm arm grazing mine. “I’ll take breakfast in the study.”
“You’re working on your birthday?” I tamp down the hope that he’ll be too busy to pay attention to me.
“I don’t require fanfare for my birthday. The only thing I want, Novalee, is the answer to my question.” His gaze darts over my perky nipples before landing on the golden pancakes. “And some of those. They smell delicious.”
He exits the kitchen before I can reply. Rather than prolong the inevitable, I top the hotcakes with sliced strawberries and whipped cream before serving him in the study.
“Thank you,” he says.
“You’re welcome. Happy Birthday, Mr. Sinclair.”
He raises a brow. “There’s no need to be so formal.”
Sometimes, I address him that way to highlight the fact that despite my forced nudity and sleeping arrangements, we’re still strangers.
“Do you have any plans for today?” I ask, bypassing the subject of formality.
“Only one.” He takes a bite of his hotcakes, eyes on me as he lets his answer dangle between us.
A hanging threat.
And I realize I fell right into his trap.
“Well, if you’ll excuse me then, I should freshen up for the day.” I turn and head for the open door, nervousness fluttering in my chest.
“Not so fast, my queen.”
I stall two feet from my escape, but I don’t turn around. “I really need a shower.”
“You can shower as soon as you give me your answer.”
“The answer to what?”
“Don’t be obtuse, Novalee. Do I have permission to touch you?”
Folding my arms, I turn to face him. “You’re a smart man, Mr. Sinclair. You know what’s at stake. If I’m unable to work in my studio, I won’t meet my deadline for the fashion show.”
“I’m aware of the stakes,” he says, licking his lips, “which is the reason I chose your studio time as leverage.”
“Your blackmail makes my answer obsolete. Either way, I lose something.”
“Then which do you choose to sacrifice? Your work, or your virtue?”
I think of the number of men who have touched me in various ways. Adding one more in exchange for the freedom to do what I love seems inconsequential in the big picture. At least, that’s how I justify the answer I’m about to unleash in the air between us—six words strung together in treasonous surrender.
“Take what you want from me.”
I arm myself against his triumph, but it doesn’t come. Instead, his mouth takes on the form of a displeased line as he rises from the chair, breakfast forgotten on his desk. “The choice was a test.”
“What are you talking about?”
“As much as I want to touch you, I wanted you to value your virtue more.”
“This game of yours is ridiculous,” I hiss. “I have no virtue left!”
“Of course you do, Novalee. Virtue can’t be stolen.”
“Then you tricked me into giving it away.”
“It wasn’t a trick. I tested your willingness to sacrifice in the name of it, and you failed.”
“So what does that mean?” I glare at him, scorn dripping from each word. “Are you going to punish me for my decision?”
“Of course not. The test was designed to give me insight into your character. I won’t punish you for doing what I asked.”
“Then what are you going to do?”
“I’m going to take what you’ve given me, when the time is right.” He gestures to the hall at my back. “And you’re free to take what I’ve given you in return.”
A standoff ensues, his iridescent eyes clashing with the ire in my own. Before he changes his mind, I flee the room.