Thirty Nights (American Beauty #1)(27)

“Well, let’s see what my fortune holds.”

He fishes his note from the silver wrapping paper. I hold my breath.

“‘Love me for love’s sake only,’” he reads slowly. A deep V forms between his eyebrows. He looks like he would rather be whipped than loved for love’s sake only.

“Elizabeth Browning could write. But don’t worry, it doesn’t mean it’s coming for you.” I go for a joke, but inside I’m reeling. I have never seen such a visceral reaction against love. As though he does not think it belongs in his world.

He peers at me. “Clearly. What does yours say?”

“‘If you gave me all the kisses in the world, they would still be too few.’ It’s a proverb by Sextus Propertius.”

“Yours sounds more fun.” He smiles, but his eyes remain tight. Then, he takes my hand. “Come.”

I stand, amazed that my knees can support me. We walk through a hallway along the ubiquitous glass wall, our footfalls echoing on the polished hardwood floor. Over the sound system, Neil Diamond croons about a girl becoming a woman. We walk past six open doors and stop at one that is slightly ajar. He opens it and steps to the side. I enter, feeling like I am walking into a haunted house and a dream at once.

It’s his bedroom.

Everything here is gray and cream too, but my attention is riveted by the walls. Here are my paintings. All of them, side by side on the wall facing his bed. The one with my neck is first, then my shoulder, my waist and finally my leg. As though he is undressing me for the very first time. The bottom of my belly tightens violently at the thought.

“In your bedroom? Not where I expected them,” I say, trying and failing to control my blush.

“Where did you expect them?”

“I don’t know, to be honest. But not here.”

“Well, my office seemed inappropriate.” He chuckles, shaking his head, as if he really considered the idea.

My eyes flit to the enormous, cream-colored bed. Resting on it are a white shirt and a pair of knickers. I walk over and pick up the knickers gingerly. My immediate feeling is relief. It’s not a thong. It’s a silk bikini, the color of my skin, with lace only on the sides. I almost jump him in gratitude but that would not help me at all.

“Relieved?” he asks, amused.

“Yes, very much. I was imagining a lot worse.”

“Worse? Hmm, I’d use the term ‘better’. Believe me, I drove myself mad thinking of the options.” He caresses my lower lip. It burns at his touch.

“I’ll let you get ready. Not a good idea if I’m here.” He winks and saunters out of his bedroom.

The moment the door closes behind him, I sink on the floor. Deep breaths, deep breaths. Hydrogen, 1.008. Helium, 4.003. Lithium 6.94… Oh Isa, don’t be such a baby. It’s just a shirt. I stand up, the wine fortifying me a little, grab the shirt and the knickers, and march to what I think is his restroom. The lights brighten again. The restroom is massive, like everything else in the house, but I don’t have enough presence of mind to analyze my surroundings. I turn my back on the mirror, afraid I’ll lose the nerve.

I slide on the knickers, ignoring the way they feel against my sensitized skin. A small but rapid pulse beats between my legs against the delicate silk. I take his shirt and have the urge to smell it. Sandalwood and Aiden. As I inhale his scent, I realize he has already worn this shirt, maybe even today, perhaps to mark it as his. The thought sends me into near convulsions but also, oddly, gives me some courage. Maybe he knew I would be nervous but unable to resist wearing it, knowing it had been on him. I put it on, and his scent brands my skin.

I don’t look like those long-legged blondes in a man’s shirt that seems custom-tailored for them. No, I look like a gawky teenager wearing an extra large T-shirt. The hem drops to the middle of my thighs and the sleeves roll past my fingertips almost to above my knees. The rest is a shapeless sack but at least it’s big enough to cover my breasts. My nipples show a little, but I have no idea what to do about that. Maybe if I put some Band-Aids on them? Bollocks, why didn’t I bring any? I start rummaging under the two sinks, noticing that one of them does not look used at all. No Band-Aids. Not even tape. Oh, bloody hell! I hear a knock on the door and almost collapse.

“Elisa, can I come in?”

“Umm—ah—just a minute.” My voice is at bat-ear frequency again. I fold my clothes, smooth over the front of his shirt, take a deep breath and open the door.

He takes me in from the crown of my head to the tips of my toes, which curl a little at his sight. Oh, good, maybe he won’t like it at all and put an end to the madness. But his eyes are on fire. He takes my hand and walks backward into his bedroom, his eyes never leaving me. I have surpassed the moth stage and am now in snake-and-charmer territory. He stops at the foot of the bed, his body inches from mine.

His gaze makes me squirm, so I break the silence. “Umm, do you want me to wear makeup? I have to warn you, I’m really bad at it.” My voice sounds breathy.

He leans in, his mouth to my ear. “No makeup,” he whispers, and his lips flutter from my earlobe, along my jaw, to my chin, and back. He repeats the circuit three times. I don’t bother to calm my loud breathing. He pulls back, and even though his distance is more familiar than his closeness, I feel adrift.

“It’s not because I don’t want to,” he says as though he senses my doubts. “In case it’s not obvious, Elisa, I’m burning.”