The Billionaire Takes a Bride (Billionaires and Bridesmaids,(35)

She just chuckled and rested her cheek on his arm, continuing to watch the movie. “Be quiet. This is romantic.”

He made a noise of pain that she ignored.

The last week of living with Sebastian had been so much fun. After her big confession, they’d come to an understanding and an easy friendship. She felt . . . free, now that he knew her secret. He hadn’t judged her, hadn’t told her she was asking for it, hadn’t told her that she should have been smarter. Hadn’t told her she needed to get over it. He was upset on her behalf, and really, that was all she needed.

They’d been sleeping together ever since, and their marriage had turned into an intense friendship. It was like having the perks of a boyfriend without the worry of sex, and Chelsea loved it. She and Sebastian went out to dinner with friends, he attended her bouts, and they had started snuggling on the couch each night and watching movies. When they were apart, they texted each other constantly.

Really, she kind of adored it. It was the best of both worlds—she had the affection and attention of a guy, and she didn’t have to worry about the sexual part, which had been pretty much dead inside her since her rape. And she didn’t even have to worry about excusing it. And if sometimes she looked at Sebastian’s ass a bit too long when he got out of bed, or looked at his full, perfect mouth when he was sleeping and wondered what it’d be like to have a real kiss with him, it wasn’t important to her.

What was important was having fun. Like now.

Sebastian made a sound of pain and stared at the screen. “They’re kissing in the rain. Does this guy have no nuts?”

“He’s in love!” she exclaimed, but couldn’t help but laugh.

They watched as the two characters on screen plastered themselves against each other and began to make out.

“That does it,” Sebastian said, handing the bowl to her and getting up. “It’s time for a bathroom break.”

“But this is the most romantic part!”

“You can recap it for me,” he said, heading upstairs.

She frowned, watching as he disappeared. There was a bathroom right down the hall. Why wasn’t he heading there? She looked over at his spot on the couch, where they’d been cuddling for most of the afternoon. He’d left his ever-present notepad behind.

Curious, she picked it up. Since “marrying” Sebastian, she’d noticed that he liked to make notes in his notebook whenever he thought she wasn’t looking. It went everywhere with him, too. She assumed it was his “thing,” like the way she tended to rattle on about nothing in particular when she was nervous. Sebastian made notes to himself. No big deal.

Except he never shared what those notes were. He never showed her, and she never asked, just like his locked study. She knew it wasn’t a big deal, because the other day he’d let one of the maids in to clean and she hadn’t run out of the room screaming. But whatever it was, it was deeply personal to him and he wasn’t ready to share it.

She knew what that was like. Except . . . she’d shared and he hadn’t.

So she picked up his notebook and contemplated it for a moment, then flipped it open and peeked.

And gasped. He was sketching. More important, he was sketching her.

And he was amazingly good.

The first page was her face, relaxed in sleep, her hair spilling over her brow. The entire drawing was done with delicate lines and shading, tiny hatch-marks indicating shadow. It looked just like her. Stunned, she flipped to the next page and saw another drawing of her, this time skating on the track, her short ruffled skirt flying behind her. The next picture was of the old woman who lived next door, a grocery bag in hand as she stood on the steps and petted a cat.

She paused the movie and kept flipping through, knowing she shouldn’t and yet unable to help herself. God, he was incredibly good. Over and over, he’d sketched faces of people she could clearly make out. There was Gretchen in her Ursula costume, vamping for her audience. Her pregnant sister Audrey, glowing, a hand on her belly. More sketches of Chelsea—Chelsea laughing, Chelsea crying, sleeping, and deep in thought.

Good lord, why was he hiding this? She flung herself to her feet and tucked the notebook under her arm, heading up the stairs to find him. She knew it was personal, but she had to know more. To think that he was hiding his talent by pretending to be writing notes?

As she went up the stairs, she saw the bathroom doors were open. Where the heck was he? On a hunch, she went to the bedroom.

The door was cracked, but she could see his back. She peeked inside, curious. His pants were loose at his waist and she saw his hand moving in front of him. He groaned and threw his head back, and she gasped. He was masturbating.

“Sebastian?” She pushed the door open and stared at him, a myriad of emotions racing through her. Shocked, yes. Titillated? Maybe a little. Betrayed? Absolutely.

Because for the last week, he’d been getting up occasionally to head to the “bathroom” during sleep or during movies. Actually, he got up and “took a moment” a lot, which made her wonder if he was constantly masturbating.

And that hurt, because weren’t they supposed to have a platonic relationship? It was just more shit they were hiding from each other.

And she was suddenly really tired of it.

He turned, and sure enough, his hand was on his cock as it jutted out of his pants. A really big, thick cock with a perfectly shaped purple head. Not that she was noticing these things. He continued to stroke it, as if unable to help himself. “This isn’t what it looks like.”