Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
SASHA
Dinner is relaxed, casual, according to Sebastian, so I dress in jeans and an oversized chunky knit jumper that slips off one shoulder even though it’s cold.
It’s rude to arrive empty-handed to someone’s house, or so I’ve been told, so I stop at Paul’s Wine Cellar and pick up a bottle of red wine I can’t afford.
It’s snowing by the time I arrive at the manor. Sebastian opens the door wearing a black shirt that makes his charm seem dangerous somehow, seductive, and adds to the darkening of his eyes as he stares me up and down, not even remotely shy about it either.
I’m obscenely attracted to you, Sasha .
I’ve committed the words to memory, replayed them over and over, even now.
There’s no sign of Edith or Charlotte as he leads me into a formal dining room where a single candle flickers between two place settings. A silver dome cloche makes me think of Michelin-starred restaurants and fancy cuisine, and I laugh in relief when Sebastian lifts it to reveal plates of burgers and fries.
“Le d?ner est servi,” he says, and I can’t keep the smile from shining in my eyes.
I relax a bit then, and we sit and eat and talk about random things while drinking wine that stains our lips red. There’s laughter too, and nothing about this is fake anymore.
Nothing.
After dinner, we move to a second living room. It’s smaller and lacks the formality of the main one, the furniture comfy and well used. Well loved. The fire spits and crackles, and bathes everything in a cosy, amber glow.
Floor-to-ceiling shelves line one wall, carrying books and vinyl records, sports trophies and family photos. A gold paper garland shaped like trees—Charlotte’s handiwork I’m sure—snakes up the front of a real Christmas tree twinkling in the corner, the baubles a mishmash of colours.
“I don’t remember decorating that tree.”
“That’s Charlie’s tree to decorate however she wants. We spend a lot of time in here.”
“I don’t blame you. I like it in here.”
“Me too.”
I pad around, a quiet observer, vividly aware of the heat and weight of Sebastian following my every move.
Sebastian’s rugby shirt is pinned inside a glass frame above the mantlepiece, KING 12 printed on the back, and it’s the first real sign of his life before an injury changed everything.
“What does the number twelve mean?” I ask.
“I was the inside centre on my team.”
“You’re gonna have to explain a bit more than that. Talk to me like I’m five.”
He chuckles, joining me by the fire. I’m already warm, but his proximity raises my temperature by a few degrees. My awareness of him is nothing new, but it feels different tonight, like it’s taken on a new shape somehow.
I’m obscenely attracted to you, Sasha .
To be seen as desirable is a heady, powerful thing, and this new-found knowledge only serves to intensify my own attraction. It fizzles between us, as loud and present as the flames fluttering in the hearth.
“There are two centre positions in rugby, inside and outside,” Sebastian tells me, his voice gruff now. “Basically we pass and tackle and run, and we’re aggressive with it too.”
“Hmm.” I let my gaze slide over the length of him. It’s so easy to imagine him tearing across the rugby pitch, tossing the opposing side out of the way like skittles in a bowling alley, powered by his big arms and thick, strong thighs. My face heats. “I can picture that. You look like you’d be good at that too.”
Sebastian grins, his eyes a shade darker now. “I was great at it. The very best. ‘The Wall’, remember?”
“Ah, yes. ‘The Wall’.”
I nod mindlessly.
Why is this turning me on?
“Is this why you brought me in here?”
He shakes his head slowly and doesn’t look away. “There’s one thing we’ve yet to try to lift your Christmas spirit.”
We’re still doing that?
It completely slipped my mind.
“Oh?”
Sebastian drifts over to the wall of records, tilts his head at an angle and squints to read the tiny album titles on the spines. Every now and then he tugs one out to check the cover, shakes his head and slides it back in place. After a few minutes, he locates what he’s looking for, and waves it in the air with a successful, “Aha!”
I can’t help but grin at him, the air of excitement, the ease of his broad shoulders so tense usually. Sebastian is magnetic on the best of days through height and size alone. He captures people’s attention and holds it, but there’s something about this side of him that is equally compelling.
I cannot look away.
He heads over to the record player by the window, each pane of glass smudged with condensation where the heat of the room meets the cold air outside.
There’s a hitch and buzz of the needle against the record and the first tinny strings of “The Christmas Song” by Nat King Cole starts to play.
“Dance with me,” Sebastian says.
I stare at the offer of his massive hand held midair waiting, then slowly meet his eyes, the intensity almost too much to bear, the connection magnetic.
“Are you okay to dance on that knee?”
“As if I’d let that stop me.”
I know Sebastian would accept my refusal, and it’s the lack of expectation on his part that has me sliding my hand into his. He lights up, tugging me closer until I’m ensconced in his arms.
A thrill shoots up my spine.
Our bodies press close, and his palm settles on the dip of my lower back, his fingertips brushing the swell of my ass.
Our gazes lock.
We barely move at first, small steps and sways side to side as we sink into the music and get used to each other’s proximity. Aside from our kiss underneath the mistletoe, this is the closest we’ve ever been, the closest I’ve been to another person in a long time, and I feel heady and warm at the reality. I’ve missed the intention of a man’s hands on me, and the weight of a body woven with mine.
I mirror the way Sebastian’s gaze drops to my mouth. It’s impossible to be this near and not remember our lips sliding together, the brush of his stubble, and the unbelievable awareness of how right it all seemed.
My breath quickens.
“You were right.” I pause to clear the croak from my throat. “This is the perfect song. Christmas song, I mean. I should buy his album. Does Nat King Cole have a Christmas album? He should. His?—”
“Sasha.” His voice is deeper now, a rough scrape across my skin. “Stop talking.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re trying to distract yourself from thinking about kissing me again.”
Am I that obvious?
“Oh, you’re a mind reader now?”
“Only when I’m thinking the same thing,” he says, then dips to kiss me.
I freeze for a couple of seconds before my whole body acquiesces, melting against him. Sebastian’s groan vibrates in the air, deepening the instant our tongues touch, and I lose track of everything, submerging deep into the sensation of his mouth on mine.
We kiss and kiss and kiss some more, heads turning this way and that, fisting each other’s clothes, losing ourselves to the passion building between us. His erection presses hard against the plump of my lower belly, his desire aiding in the growing slickness between my thighs.
I’m wet and wild with it, and he’s barely even touched me yet.
As if he heard my thoughts, Sebastian pushes me against the back of the sofa and slides a hand underneath my jumper to grip my waist, rocking against me.
Years of self-hatred for that part of my body has made me overly sensitive there, ticklish to the touch, and I jolt the second his skin touches mine. He’s tentative at first, as if testing the waters, trying not to scare me away, but my moan shifts those soft strokes into hearty grabs and pitting fingertips.
Touch me.
Touch me and never stop.
An explosion of pure need has me reaching for him, dancing between the buttons on his shirt or his belt buckle, unsure where to start. I settle on the buttons first, popping open the first five from his throat, nudging the placket aside to paw at the dark hair dotted across his chest.
There’s something about a man with chest hair that sets me on fire, and it takes some effort to wrench my mouth away so I can get my fill.
Sebastian, lust-drunk, mouth red, watches me nuzzle and kiss the exposed skin, as best as I can with our mismatched heights.
I reach for his belt.
“No,” he says, breath heaving. “Not here.”
He kisses my hand and the inside of my wrist, and of course I follow as he tugs me out of the room and up the stairs. Of course I do. He glances back every now and then to check I’m still here with him, but right now I can’t think of being anywhere else.