Chapter 5
SERAPHINA
"Open."
The command is simple. It’s one word. But the way he says it—low and husky and absolutely certain I'll obey—makes my entire body clench with anticipation.
I should refuse, push off his lap and run again, find another door, another way out. I should do anything except sit here straddling a masked stranger in a candlelit wine cellar, waiting for whatever he's about to do to me.
I open my mouth.
His grip on my jaw tightens, tilting my head back further. I can smell the wine on his breath. I watch the glitter of his eyes through the mask, watching me with an intensity that makes me feel too many things all at once.
Then he leans in and seals his mouth over mine.
The wine flows from his lips to mine—warm and velvety, tasting of black cherries and earthiness. I swallow instinctively, and he makes a sound of approval against my mouth before pulling back.
"That’s my girl."
The praise shoots straight between my legs, making me squirm on his lap. He notices—of course he notices—and his free hand grips my hip, holding me still.
"Again," he says, and takes another drink from the glass.
This time when he kisses me, I'm ready for it. The wine pours into my mouth and I swallow eagerly, chasing the taste of him beneath the cabernet. His tongue slides against mine, and I moan before I can think better of it.
He pulls back with a pleased smile. "Mmm. You like that."
It's not a question, but I nod anyway. I'm past the point of pretending I don't want this. My body gave me away in the vineyard, soaking his fingers before he'd even touched me properly. There's no point in lying now.
"More," I whisper, and his eyes flash.
He feeds me wine until the glass is empty, kiss after kiss, each one deeper than the last. By the time he sets the glass aside, I'm dizzy—from the alcohol, from the lack of oxygen, from the overwhelming sensation of being consumed by this man.
My lips are stained red. I can feel it, can taste it. I must look like I've been feasting on something bloody and raw.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, tracing his thumb across my lower lip. "You wear my wine well."
His wine. Like I'm something he owns. Something he's marking with his colors.
The thought should disturb me. Instead, it makes me grind down against his lap, seeking friction I desperately need.
He stops me with a firm grip on both hips. "Patience, love. We have all night."
"I don't want to be patient." The words come out petulant, needy. I barely recognize my own voice.
His laugh is low and satisfied. "I know you don't. But you're going to be anyway, because I say so."
He reaches past me, and I hear him selecting something from the table. When his hand comes back into view, he's holding a single grape—deep purple, glistening in the candlelight.
"Open," he says again.
I obey without hesitation, and he traces the grape across my lower lip, slow and steady. The skin is cool and smooth, a contrast to the heat building between us. He circles my mouth with it, teasing, making me wait.
"Please," I breathe, letting my head fall back just slighty.
He presses the grape between my lips, and I bite down. Juice bursts across my tongue, sweet and bright, running down my chin before I can catch it.
He catches it instead.
His tongue traces up from my chin to the corner of my mouth, licking away every drop of escaped juice. The sensation is so unexpectedly intimate that I gasp, my hands flying to his shoulders for balance.
"Fucking delicious," he murmurs against my skin. "But I think the grape tastes better from you than it would from the vine."
He feeds me another. And another. Each time, he lets the juice escape just so he can chase it with his tongue—down my chin, along my jaw, into the hollow of my throat. He's mapping my skin with grape juice and saliva, claiming territory with every lick.
I'm trembling by the fifth grape, my thighs clenched tight around his hips. The combination of wine and sugar is making my head swim, but it's his mouth that's truly intoxicating. The way he tastes me like I'm worth savoring.
"You're so responsive." He selects another grape, rolling it between his fingers. "Every little touch makes you shake. Do you have any idea how fucking beautiful that is?"
I don't have words. I just open my mouth when he brings the grape to my lips, accepting whatever he wants to give me.
This time, after I bite down, he kisses me, and his tongue sweeps through my mouth, stealing the sweetness, leaving me breathless and needing so much more.
"I need more," I gasp when he pulls back. "Please, I need—"
"I know what you need." His hands slide up my sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts through the thin silk. "But you're going to wait until I'm ready to give it to you."
I whimper, actually whimper, and his smile sharpens.
"That's it. Let me hear you."
He alternates between wine and grapes, feeding me with his mouth and his hands until I lose track of time. The candles flicker around us, casting dancing shadows on the stone walls. The ambient music plays softly in the background, low and sensual in a way that matches the rhythm of my heartbeat.
I'm floating. Suspended in this moment, in this cellar, in this man's lap.
Nothing exists outside these walls—no vineyard, no chase, no questions about who he is or why he's doing this.
There's only his hands on my skin and his mouth on mine and the relentless, aching need building between my thighs.
"Please." I've lost count of how many times I've said it. "Please, I can't—I need you to touch me."
"I am touching you." His fingers trail down my arms, raising goosebumps in their wake.
"You know what I mean." I grab his hand and try to drag it between my legs, but he resists easily, his strength making my efforts look pathetic.
"So desperate." He clicks his tongue. "What happened to the woman who ran from me? Who fought so hard to escape?"
"You caught her," I say, and my voice breaks on the words. "You caught her and now she needs—god, please, I need—"
He silences me with another kiss, another pour of wine from a glass I didn't see him refill. I drink desperately, messily, letting it spill down my chin because I know he'll lick it away.
He does. His tongue traces a path from my chin to my collarbone, and I arch into the sensation, offering him more skin, more access, more of everything.
"This dress," he says against my throat, "is driving me insane."
His fingers find the thin straps at my shoulders, toying with them. The silk is so light I'd almost forgotten I was wearing anything at all.
"The way it clings to your body. The way I could see your nipples through the fabric when you were running." He traces one strap down my shoulder, not pulling it off, just threatening to. "I wanted to tear it off you the moment I saw you."
"Then do it," I breathe. "Tear it off. I don't care about the dress."
"No?" He pulls back slightly, studying my face through the mask. "You don't care that it's ruined? That you'll have nothing to wear when the sun comes up?"
"I don't care about anything except you touching me." The confession spills out of me, raw and honest and completely beyond my control. "Please. I'm begging you. Whatever you want, whatever you need me to do—just please, please touch me."
Something shifts in his expression. The playful cruelty softens into something almost like tenderness, though the hunger beneath it doesn't diminish.
"You beg so beautifully, don’t you?" His fingers tighten on the straps. "How can I possibly say no?"
He doesn't tear the dress. Instead, he slides the straps down my shoulders with agonizing slowness, peeling the silk away from my body inch by inch. The fabric catches on my nipples, dragging across the sensitive peaks, and I cry out at the sensation.
"Easy," he murmurs. "I've got you."
The dress pools at my waist, leaving my breasts bare. The cellar air is cool against my flushed skin, making my nipples tighten further. I resist the urge to cover myself, to hide from his gaze.
He's looking at me like he's never seen anything more perfect.
"Stand up," he commands.
My legs are shaky, but I manage to rise from his lap. The dress falls the rest of the way, slithering down my hips and pooling at my feet in a puddle of red silk.
I'm completely naked now, bare before him.
He stays seated on the chaise, looking up at me with those glittering eyes. His gaze travels slowly from my face to my breasts to my stomach to the apex of my thighs, where I know I'm glistening with arousal.
"Lie down." He pats the velvet beside him. "On your back."
I hesitate for just a moment—some last flicker of self-preservation, maybe, or just the need to feel like I have some control over what's happening.
His eyes narrow. "Now, love."
Fuck it.
I lie down.
The velvet is soft against my bare skin, warm from his body heat. I stare up at the stone ceiling, at the shadows cast by hundreds of candles, at the black heart balloons floating in the corners of my vision.
I've never wanted anything more in my life.