The Billionaire Takes a Bride (Billionaires and Bridesmaids, #3)(55)

Her throat felt tight with emotion, and she gave his hand another squeeze. “Maybe start smaller then? One stranger instead of hundreds?”

He nodded thoughtfully. “Good idea.”

“I have lots of them tonight.” Oh, her head was just full of all kinds of ideas. Dirty, filthy ideas. “Do you have condoms at home?”

He immediately steered her the opposite way down the street.

“Where are we going?”

“Pharmacy. For condoms.”

She laughed.

A half hour later, they were home. The moment they walked in the door, Sebastian tugged her bag off her shoulder and began to kiss her. His mouth moved over hers, tongue slicking against her own. And it was . . . just nice.

There weren’t the fireworks from earlier. It puzzled her, and she let the kiss continue for a few moments before breaking off and giving his chest a little pat. “I should probably shower. I’m all sweaty and gross.”

He began to kiss her neck, pressing his mouth against her skin. “I don’t care if you’re sweaty. I like you just the way you are.”

“Yes, but I want a shower,” she insisted, tugging out of his arms. “Please?”

Sebastian studied her for a moment, then kissed the tip of her nose. “You bet. I’ll wait for you in the bedroom.”

She smiled at him and gave him a quick, chaste peck on the mouth before heading up to the master bedroom’s bathroom. It was far more lavish than the one she’d claimed for her soap making, and Sebastian didn’t mind that she hogged his bathroom. She managed to hold it together until she started the water.

Then, she sat on the edge of the tub and rubbed her forehead, thinking.

Fuck, what was wrong with her? She’d been so easy with him earlier. So passionate. It was the mental breakthrough she’d needed. Surely she wasn’t a one-trick pony? Now that she’d had her orgasm—and what an intense, great orgasm it was—she wasn’t done, was she?

She had more in her than that, didn’t she?

It troubled her even as she showered using her favorite soaps. Her current favorite was lavender, the scent calming and fresh. She knew that the house and everything in it sometimes reeked of flowers and Sebastian never uttered a word of complaint. The man was a billionaire. He could have bought her someplace else to work if it bugged him. He could have insisted she shut down her soap business. Paid her to stop stinking up his town house. Instead, he let her be her. Let her run the show.

If she was still capable of love, Sebastian would be the man she could love.

But now? After she froze up at the door? She wasn’t so certain if she was cured or not. She stepped out of the shower and toweled off, then impulsively flicked the lights off.

A wave of sheer terror shot through her. The breath escaped her lungs. She couldn’t breathe. She was being smothered, back in the Dumpster again. Forgotten. Discarded like trash.

With a small cry, she fumbled against the wall, looking for the light switch. A moment later, bright light flooded the bathroom again and she heaved a sigh of relief and frustration.

Still broken.

So what was tonight’s orgasm about, then? She hated to admit defeat to Sebastian, that now that they were home and had bought condoms, she wasn’t sure if she could perform as expected.

The thought filled her with anxiety and unhappiness.

By the time she got her nerve up to exit the bathroom, her mood was shot, her earlier confidence shattered. She hadn’t brought a change of clothes with her into the bathroom and had to leave in her towel, and she worried it was going to make Sebastian think that she was game for more play.

At the thought, she nearly cried. Why did that part of her brain keep shutting down?

She couldn’t hide in the bathroom all night, though. So, tucking the towel in against her breasts, she sucked in a deep, steadying breath, and emerged.

Sebastian was sitting on the edge of the bed, waiting for her. She saw he was paging through a derby magazine he must have gotten at the bout that night. He’d undressed, down to nothing but a wifebeater and boxer briefs that outlined the fact that he hadn’t forgotten their earlier interlude. His cock tented the front of the fabric.

The moment she exited the bathroom, he put aside the magazine and jerked to his feet. “What’s wrong?”

She gave him a tight smile. “Nothing. Nothing’s wrong.”

“Bullshit. I can see it on your face. Something’s bothering you.” He moved to the closet and got a bathrobe out, holding it out to her. It was a men’s bathrobe, in dark muted colors and thick. Women’s robes were always terry cloth or some satiny crap. It’d also cover her from head to toe in a most unsexy fashion. She took the robe and tied it around her body, then ditched her towel discreetly. “Now, sit down,” he commanded her, and pointed at the end of the bed, the spot he’d just vacated.

Chelsea thumped down unhappily.

He knelt in front of her, clasping her hands in his. “You know we don’t have to do anything, right? That there aren’t any expectations from me? Despite what happened earlier?”

She looked into his beautiful eyes, so bright against his dark lashes, and felt a little bit of her crumple inside. “But that’s the problem. Earlier was so great, and when we got home, I just . . . I lost it, somehow. I don’t understand.” She sniffed and blinked rapidly, hating that she was going to cry over this. Lots of women had trouble orgasming, right?