Page 20 of I Would Beg For You
“I wonder if there’s any mistletoe left hanging somewhere.”
Chapter 8 Naomi
The rush of hiswarm breath hits my ear a nanosecond before the whispered words. A shiver courses down my spine. Without turning around, without needing to look at him, I know who it is.
Valentino.
I don’t have any connection with anyone else regarding mistletoe. So, no one else would make this comment, much less with a hint of a smile in the words.
I find myself smiling, too. An inhale brings the heady scent of his sandalwood cologne to my nostrils. It’s a soft scent, one I wouldn’t have associated with a powerful man like Valentino because there’s no cloud of fragrance from yards around him. One has to get really close to detect the clean smell, almost as if someone would have to be inches away from his skin.
He is here. With me.
For me?
Why else would he speak of mistletoe? We don’t have a good track record with it.
The memory tries to slide in, but I slam the lid down on it. We’re not at an office Christmas party years ago where I’m a green girl bursting to expose her heart out to the man she is undyingly in love with. I would’ve bared a lot more, but we never got to that.
Maybe now?
I sneak in a breath which catches in my throat as soft lips grace the side of my neck in a flutter of a kiss, like butterfly wings flittering against me in a gentle welcome.
Now who’s playing with fire, I wonder. We’re paces away from my father—any second now, he can turn around and see us. Chad or Thad or something is standing with him, and I have to admit I’m glad to be rid of the oppressive presence of these men he has kept pushing my way tonight. If one of them could even hold a good step on the dance floor might’ve made it bearable, but no. Two left feet, all of them.
I bet the man behind me doesn’t have two left feet, in the ballroom or any other room, for that matter. Naughty imaginings start to cloud my mind, and I have to bite my lower lip to stay off a moan.
“What is it?” Valentino asks, a murmur in my ear.
He heard me?
I can’t risk it and tell him what I’m thinking about. There are sheets and moonlight involved, a headboard taking a strong pounding. Well, it’s not just the headboard withstanding that rough treatment…
I gulp. Not the place. Not the time.
But when else will I have him like this, all to me?
Possibly never, and this is a prospect I cannot bear to even contemplate.
So here I am, whipping around and grabbing his hand in the process, not stopping the momentum for one second.
“Come with me,” I tell him, and he follows as I tug him outside on the wide stone balcony the doors open onto.
The cold air is bracing, hitting like a shock once we pass the crush of people and the cloud of their collective body heat. It’s invigorating, just as it clears my mind of the fantasies I was just having.
We can’t risk my father seeing us, so I steer us to a corner of the semi-circular balcony where fairy lights string among a bower of flowering vines along a wooden trellis attached to the wall and railings.
When I stop, Valentino doesn’t, and I find myself being pulled like on a dance floor, during a heated tango, against the chest of the man holding my hand.
A soft gust of air breaches my lips as I glance up into his face. No need to crane my neck too much because the heels I have on easily give me an additional four inches in height. Torture devices, those stilettos, but I’m ever so grateful I learned to walk in them and that tonight, they bring me this much closer to Valentino that I’m able to peer into his magnetic blue eyes the unadorned mask cannot hide.
I can’t see his face, but he is looking at me. Really looking at me. The way I’ve always wanted him to look at me. A memory of the other time I tried to kiss him sneaks in, but I brush it off. Tonight, he’s not pushing me away.
A slow blink later, I can detect small white buds on the vine twisting along the railing above our heads. It’s not the same, but it can do.
Five years ago, I took my shot with this man and was shot down just as quickly. His body bristled against mine, his hand staying mine in a hard, uncompromising way.
Looking at him today, it’s the same man standing before me, but at the same time, he isn’t. For one, he still holds my hand, and it’s clasped in his strong but not unflinching grip this time.His head is leaning slightly forward, his chest also angled toward me and not away.
