23. Mila
As I drive to the address Sebastian sent me, I wish I had told Brooklyn more. She could have advised me on underwear. Front hook versus back hook bra? And how serious was Sebastian about the short skirt? I had offered it up, but was that just banter or was I expected to follow through?
I know nothing.
Camille was little help over Facetime. Ever practical, though, she suggested I carry an oversized purse that was clearly a purse and not any sort of overnight bag. Pack the short skirt. Then I was covered.
So I did.
At every red light, I fuss with my hair and clothes. I settled on a normal-length skirt with red flowers, and a red silk shirt that buttons down the front.
I’m terrified I’ve chosen poorly, although I’m not sure why. It’s dinner at his house. Should I have been casual? Jeans?
This is worse than the nights I dressed thinking I would have my one-night stand. I never planned to see those people again.
This is looking to be a long-term thing.
Medium term?
I have no idea.
My longest relationship was three months, as a freshman in high school. My curves were in all the right places then, and the boys were trying for anyone they could get.
We did stuff, all the kissing and touching things. But Brock had the fear of God put into him about getting a girl pregnant, and he had some weird concern about condoms having holes.
Anyway, we hadn’t lasted long enough to get that far. And the freshmen quickly settled into their cliques. I was a band geek, and that served me well with friendships and things to do. There was always a game or a pep rally or a fundraiser to be involved with.
But nobody in our friend group dated. Not one-on-one.
I didn’t go to prom, not even with the group. I looked for a dress, but the style at the time was sparkly and very, very short, and I couldn’t pull it off. Mom tried to put me in more traditional things, but I looked like a toddler trying on old lady costumes.
So, I didn’t go.
It was fine.
I bet Sebastian went to prom. I bet he looked incredible in his tux, and he had the most beautiful girl on his arm.
Self-consciousness bites me again. I mostly do fine, but in moments like this, the old fears rear up.
I smack my hand on the steering wheel as I rev through an intersection. “You are bold. You are beautiful. You are what you’re meant to be.” This rolls into the lyrics of “This is Me” and I start singing that until my phone lets me know that I have only a quarter mile until my turn.
Then the nerves come rushing back.
As I pull up to the gorgeous two-story house Sebastian directed me to, I feel struck by everything I am not.
I am not successful. Not yet. I am not in my thirties or have things figured out. I might never figure things out.
I have never been in a house like this, much less dated someone who owned one.
Inferiority washes over me, and it’s all I can do not to turn around.
The exterior of the house is made of stones carefully fitted together in a beautiful tapestry of earth tones. Behind it, the mountains loom large and majestic.
Above the oak entrance is a balcony with two glass double doors. The driveway is long and curves in front of the porch. I roll slowly up to the front.
Of course Sebastian has a nice house. He’s bound to be very well paid as the GM of the hotel. He’s got experience behind him, years of working and saving.
I have student loans, a free studio apartment, and feel excited when I can buy a new outfit.
We are a mismatch in every way.
He is casual and experienced with sex. I know nothing.
He’s managed a million real-world situations. I freak out over calls about my car’s extended warranty.
I stop in front of the door, but I don’t put the car in park. The brake feels liquid beneath my foot, like maybe I should hit the gas and take off.
But then it’s too late. Sebastian comes outside with a wave.
He looks like the night I met him, no longer in the suit and jacket. With the warm weather, he’s switched to a short-sleeved button-down in pale yellow, and jeans.
He’s not wearing shoes.
How can this be real? This man? His house? This situation?
When I don’t move, he tilts his head. “You okay?” I can’t hear him, sealed up in the car, but I get what he’s said.
I have to calm down. I put the car in park and kill the engine.
You’re here, Mila. He’s the same guy you’ve been working with all week. Remember the first night! Remember the haunted wing!
This gets me out of the car.
I sling the big purse over my shoulder. I stand inside the open door and look at him over the top of my car. “Hey.”
“You made it!” He walks around, taking my hand to pull me away from my hiding spot. “I hope you like curry. I didn’t make it too spicy.”
I’ve never had curry. Mom said it singed her mouth off the one time she tried it, and Dad would rather go to a steakhouse any day.
“I’m sure I will like yours,” I say. But a whole new set of fears crop up. What if I don’t like what he cooks? What if it makes me sick?
What if we’re in bed, and suddenly I have to like, go go?
Oh, God.
He leads me to the house. “My curry is a crowd pleaser. Do you eat Indian food much?” He opens his front door and gestures for me to go inside.
“Pretty much never, but I’m game.”
“I don’t always cook it. I’m decent on the grill, too.”
I enter the foyer, which opens up to a living room with soaring ceilings. A staircase to the right leads upstairs.
“You can leave your purse anywhere. My sister Arya is normally here, but she’s gone off with a friend tonight. She took our pup dog Alfalfa with her, so you won’t have to worry about her slobbering all over you on the first visit.”
I set my bag on a table next to the sofa. “You live with your sister?”
“I do. Our mother moved back to New Delhi about six years ago, and I helped Arya finish college.”
“So she’s younger than you?”
“Six years, yes.”
And four years older than me. I follow him into the kitchen, which is separated from the living room by a long bar lined with stools. “Do you visit your mother much?”
“Once or twice a year. She hasn’t returned to America since leaving. But we enjoy our time in India. We didn’t see our mother’s family much growing up.”
“Are both of your parents from India?”
I don’t miss the shadow that briefly crosses his face. “No, Dad was Colorado born and raised.”
“Is he still here?”
“I don’t know where he is currently. Last time I talked to him, he was in California.”
Oh.
I sit on one of the stools. “My parents were born Texans and are still a little miffed I’ve left.”
Sebastian lifts the lid of a pot to stir something spicy and aromatic. “Ah, yes. The Texas migration to Colorado is something of a pipeline.”
“I’ve heard stories. I was advised to get my car plates changed to Colorado as soon as possible.”
“Not a bad idea.”
He closes the lid. “How hungry are you? I’m about to sear some chicken. Do you eat meat? I can do tofu if you are vegetarian.”
“You forget all the prime rib sliders I put away.”
“That’s right. Good.”
“Aren’t a lot of Indians vegetarian?”
He shrugs. “I was born here. I am way more American than Indian. My father was not, I guess you’d say, a big fan of my mother’s traditions.”
I feel lucky with how I grew up. “Is Arya your only sister?”
He nods, swiftly cutting chicken breasts into strips. “She is. We are close.”
“Does she work?”
“She teaches art to small children. She has a degree in fine arts.”
I turn to the living room, taking a longer look at three tall paintings on the side wall. “Are those hers?”
“They are. Most of the art in the house is Arya’s.”
“Has she sold any?”
He shakes his head, sliding all the chicken into a bowl. “She tried to get into galleries early on, but the rejection was hard on her.”
“It would be for anyone.”
He nods, swiftly throwing spices into the bowl without measuring. This is something he’s comfortable cooking.
“Did your mother teach you how to make curry?”
“Absolutely. After my father left, we were able to make more of it than before.”
“How old were you?”
“Eight.”
So Arya was only two. That’s hard.
“I need to let that sit for a while,” he says. “You want something to drink? We can do wine, or I found that cider we had at the bar.”
“Really?”
He grins. “Really.” He heads to the fridge.
Camille is going to die. He got the thing we first drank together.
He extracts two cans. “You want a glass? Never mind. Of course you do. We’re not heathens.”
I laugh as he pours the cider into tall, clear glasses. He has everything. A whole life.
I feel like mine has barely started.
He passes me a glass, and we tap them together.
“To our one-week anniversary,” he says.
He’s right. It’s come around again.
The cider is cold and crisp. Sebastian sits on the stool next to me. “You did great this week. You and Brooklyn both.”
“You think so?”
“Completely. Raya asked how you handled the haunted wing incident.”
My cheeks burn, not for what we saw, but what we did after. “What did you tell her?”
He leans in close. “That I made you orgasm in the hallway.”
“Sebastian!”
He laughs. “I said you were commendable and discreet.”
But he doesn’t move away.
Our gazes meet. He takes my glass from me and sets them both on the bar.
“I’m afraid I might kiss you a lot tonight.”
“You will?”
He slides his fingers through my hair to hold the back of my head. “One for every time I wanted to during the week but couldn’t.”
When his mouth meets mine, every worry I had leading up to coming here falls away. He takes his time, his lips gentle, then gradually adding pressure.
We open to each other, him tasting tangy, like he was checking his curry before I arrived. It’s good, and he’s delicious, and I want to melt into him.
He pulls me from my stool to his, my legs straddling him. His hands hold my back, keeping me tightly against his body. I can feel him responding, hard beneath my thighs.
Our tongues mingle, and I figure out how to settle in, not holding my breath but relaxing into him.
His hands roam, one shifting to my ribs, his thumb sliding against the bottom of my bra. The other grasps my butt, fitting me more firmly against the hard length of him.
I ache to do more things, new things, all the things.
My breathing speeds up again. My skirt has slid up my thighs, and his hand on my shirt makes its way down, past my waist, until it finds the bared skin of my leg.
“I like skirts on you,” he murmurs against my mouth.
His fingers tap dance along my skin as he pushes the skirt higher, until he’s reached the lace edge of my panties.
I suck in a breath, anticipation flooding me. I feel high, like I’m breathing pure oxygen.
His thumb flirts with the satin in his way, running along the border of my skin and the underwear.
I can barely breathe, almost vibrating with energy, wanting to move forward, to explore.
Much of our first night was lost to fear and worry, although I distinctly remember his mouth down below. I’ve never felt anything so intense, so good.
His kiss slows down, and his lips move near my ear. “I’m going to do so many things to you.”
My heart hammers painfully. I can feel it in my throat. I don’t answer, just try to breathe as he hooks a finger on my panties, and tugs.
Of course, I’m straddling him, so he doesn’t get very far.
“Hmmm,” he says, letting them go to put both hands on my waist. He lifts me easily onto the bar.
Now he reaches beneath the skirt with both hands, yanking the underwear down and tossing it behind him. For a moment, the tile surface of the bar is cold on my skin, but swiftly warms up.
I’m high up on this counter, and with Sebastian sitting on the stool, my knees are at his chest level.
“I like this,” he says. His gaze holds mine as he reaches for my shoes, slipping them off and letting them fall to the floor.
His fingers circle my ankles, then begin their journey up, sliding along my shins and cupping my knees. These he spreads wider, then continues, moving my skirt up as he goes.
I brace myself on my hands, watching him look at me. His mouth goes to the skin of my inner thigh, and I suck in a breath as he nips lightly.
His path is achingly slow, and he reaches up to unbutton my shirt as he makes his way.
He’s nimble and quick, and my shirt gapes open.
His eyes shift to look up at me, and he pulls away from my thigh for a moment. “Front hook. I love those.” With a quick snap, it’s open.
The tension of the band pulls the bra cups aside.
“Mmm,” he says. “I love this view.” He pulls me to the edge of the counter so he can push the shirt and bra off my shoulders.
Then his mouth has closed over one breast, his hand on the other.
My head falls back. I look up at the beautiful tiled ceiling, reveling in his touch and attention.
It’s hot, so hot, to be half-naked in his kitchen, sitting on the counter.
Camille told me years ago about her fumbling sex with high school boys.
This is nothing like that. If her experience was backyard karaoke, Sebastian is an opera, lush and flawless.
I’m glad I waited.
“Mila?”
I glance down.
“I’m going to taste you now.”
I nod, my breath hitching in anticipation.
He spreads my knees again, pushing the errant skirt out of his way. His hands go beneath me to slide me forward, then he’s there, his mouth hot on me.
My arms buckle for a second, but I straighten them to hold me up. All the blood in my body rushes to where he works me. Forget oxygen. I must be breathing in stars, because I feel alight from within.
He takes it deeper, reaching up to spread me wider and allow him more access.
I lose my head for a moment, so dizzy that I’m not sure which way is up or down. Then the lightning bolts of pleasure flash out from where he works me, like Zeus has brought down his scepter in that very spot.
“Oh my God, Sebastian!” I grip his hair with one hand, holding on.
He sucks on something that makes me nearly rise from the counter. I can’t bear it, the pleasure is too intense, too crazy. I will break.
Then I do, fragmenting as every part of my body flashes hot.
It pulses, like I’ve fractured into waves. I don’t think I breathe. I can only focus on the ecstasy of it, the overwhelming emotion.
“Sebastian, Sebastian.” It’s the only word in the universe. My legs quiver, my arm gives out, and I almost crash to my elbow. Sebastian catches me, holding my back, his mouth on my inner thigh, kissing his way to my knee, like it’s time to come back home.
I shiver, slowly coming off the high.
“How do you do that?” I ask, lifting his face from me so I can look at him. “How do you know what to do?”
I almost regret asking. He could say, “Practice.” Or, “From all the girls I’ve loved before.”
But he grins, his fingers tracing lazy circles around my nipples. “You are easy. You make me feel like I know everything.”
My throat tightens. I wrap my arms around his neck. He allows me to pull him in, his cheek resting on my chest. Who is this man? How did I find him in some backwater bar?
I realize I’ve been the recipient of all the attention. And I want to explore, too. I want to play. I run my finger along his ear. “Hey.”
He looks up. “Yeah?”
“There are some things I’d like to try. Will you be my guinea pig? I might not be very good at it.”
“Absolutely.” He stands up and holds out his arms. “I’m all yours.”
I draw in a deep breath.
I’m going to be brave. It’s time to practice those things that women do to men.