CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE SABRINA
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
SAbrINA
Footsteps sound in the hall.
My heart picks up. Quick as a flash, he disposes of the condom in a trash can in the corner and zips his pants. I drop off the shelf and snap my panties back in place. We both freeze as the footsteps get closer.
The doorknob turns.
I inhale, eyes huge.
Then, it stops. The person on the other end swears, I hear a phone ringing, and they start walking again.
“Oh my God, we need to leave,” I gasp.
He laughs softly, cocking his head and waiting.
Silence falls. Carefully, he turns the handle, and we spring from the closet.
My head is still buzzing from the wine—or maybe it’s from the sex.
My pumps clatter across the floor and skid to a halt, falling against his side.
He yanks open a back exit—I don’t think we’re supposed to use this door, but he’s Coen Taylor—and we spill into the back lot.
“Oh God, we could have been caught,” I gasp.
He bends, kissing me thoroughly. “Worth it.”
We both inhale. His arm is around my neck, his hand on my waist. Overhead, through all the light pollution and glowing streetlamps, I can just make out the stars.
They’re the same stars as back home, the ones I’ve always wanted to see from a different place on Earth.
Instead of feeling homesick, a sense of comfort steals over me, a sense of belonging, despite being hundreds of miles from home.
I glance at him sideways.
I think he has something to do with that.
“You hungry?” he asks.
“Starving. And drunk. Sober me up,” I say. “Feed me, then maybe fuck me again.”
He laughs, taking out his phone. “All those things, I can do.”
A taxi takes us back, and we step into the glossy lobby and are whisked to the hotel’s restaurant.
It’s the most upscale place I’ve ever set foot in.
My heels clip on marble as he leads me through the tables to a single, barely lit corner booth.
The host hands us two menus, just slips of paper, and disappears.
“This is…nice,” I say looking around.
He’s looking only at me. “I wanted you to be spoiled for a night,” he says.
“Well, I feel spoiled.”
He leans back as a waiter appears to set down a bottle of wine. It’s on the house, because of course it is. We place additional drink orders, and then we’re alone again.
“So when you’re famous, you really just get things handed to you,” I say.
“Yes,” he says frankly. “It shouldn’t be that way, because I can pay for it.”
He pours me a glass of wine, and I have a sip, thinking about that. I like that he can critique it, that he’s willing to do that. He’s careful and honest, both qualities I admire deeply, it turns out. That’s not surprising, considering I grew up knowing what my father did.
My stomach twists.
I look across the table at Coen. My father impressed on me not to trust men, and he used himself as an example.
It’s never occurred to me until now that doing that had to take a level of introspection I never gave him credit for.
Maybe the reason he never married again was because he couldn’t promise himself he wouldn’t do it again.
Perhaps he was protecting someone from himself.
Or maybe he was protecting his daughters from seeing that side of him.
My heart aches, in addition to the terrible feeling in my stomach.
I forgave my father for what he did, but only insofar as the damage it caused me. I can’t forgive him for the hurt he caused Mom. That’s her apology to accept.
Then, I moved on.
Except, I’m looking at Coen right now, wondering how much damage this careful, careful man is capable of, given the chance.
“Baby, you okay?”
I blink and the room comes back into focus. The horrible feeling fades. I’m back with him, having the time of my life in Memphis.
“No,” I say. “I’m perfect.”
For the rest of the meal, I ignore any persistent thoughts.
We make our way through the bottle of wine, then through a plate of bruschetta and an entire charcuterie board.
I shift closer. He shifts even closer. Somehow, my thigh ends up over his, my hand on his chest, playing with his collar.
At one point, when I have my chin on his shoulder, I feel his hand slide under my dress, and he grips my upper thigh.
It’s like a dream.
A beautiful dream I never want to end.
Before he showed up, I stood on the porch and wished for something. Not to leave, but to live.
He gave me that this week. He’s giving it to me tonight.
We have steak for the main course. I’m drenched with wine and giggly, so I don’t do a damn thing for myself.
We’re concealed in the dark. Nobody can see.
I let him cut my steak and feed me. Then, when dessert comes, I dip my finger in whipped cream and hold it out for him to taste as he licks it right off my fingers.
We’re drunk and shameless tonight.
When the bill comes, he pays it before I get a chance to look. I stand, shaking out my skirt. My panties are soaked, but that’s his fault.
“Is it one million dollars?” I say, tilting my head.
“Close,” he says, signing it, snapping it shut, and getting up.
“What?”
He laughs. “I’m joking, baby.”
He reaches for me, but I’m drunk enough to tease him by stepping out of his way.
“Tell me how much,” I demand.
He catches me by the waist, smoothly so we don't cause a scene. “Six-fifty.”
“Six dollars—”
“Six hundred and fifty.”
“Oh, Lord.”
He pulls me in and kisses my mouth, tasting like whiskey. “You can pay that off on your back tonight.”
My jaw drops. “Coen Taylor, I didn’t know you were dirty like that.”
“Oh, the hell you didn’t.”
He gives me a full twirl and pulls me after him across the room.
The elevator door is open, occupied by two couples.
We get in, and he casually leans against the wall, back to them.
I make eye contact with him, and he gives me a look that says behave.
It takes everything I have to be good until we get up to our floor.
Then, I take off my shoes and run down the hall. He’s at my heels, arm looping around my waist right as we get to our door.
“Stop,” I let out, gleeful.
He turns me around, bending to kiss me again, this time on my neck, my shoulder, my collarbones. With his free hand, I hear him unlock the door. He pulls me inside, and it slams shut. Then, his hands are all over me, trying to find the zipper of my dress and tripping over myself.
“Coen,” I gasp.
“Please,” he says.
He pauses. I nod. Roughly, he picks me up and tosses me onto the bed. I have a faint impression of his dark eyes, and then he moves down my body and licks my pussy in one stroke. My spine arches off the mattress.
“You taste like somebody just fucked you, baby,” he rasps.
I laugh, delirious, overwhelmed in the best way. He moves up my body again, and I feel him unzip his pants. The head of his cock brushes the inside of my thigh. Our eyes meet, and I see the question in his, but I shake my head.
“We shouldn’t,” I whisper.
“Fuck.” His fingers fist in the sheet.
“I’m sorry.”
“No, baby, don’t be sorry. You’re right.”
He kisses me briefly, then stretches over me to take a condom off the nightstand.
I wait, disappointed but not regretful. A pregnancy is not what either of us need right now.
He rolls on the condom, takes me by the thigh to lift my hip, and slides inside.
That first stroke is the sweetest thing I’ve ever felt.
We spiral together. He fucks me on my back, on my hands and knees, with my hands on the headboard. My head is empty. My body is getting everything it wants from him. When he comes, he goes down on me until my legs shake. Then, it’s all over, and we’re panting on our backs against the pillows.
My head should be empty, but instead, I keep thinking the same few words.
I don’t want this to end.
This can’t end tomorrow.
It sobers me, even though I assure him I’m fine as we shower off and get to bed.
He makes me stay up and finish a bottle of water and take some Tylenol.
The way he’s caring for me only makes the ache worse.
The last thing I remember is him stroking my hair, his face half lit by the television glow. Then, I’m out.