While I’m soaking, Felix orders food. I emerge in a hotel robe to a feast less deranged than the one I ordered on the boat, but also less appetizing.
It should kill the mood, but instead it fills me with affection for him.
“You’re no better at this than I am,” I say, taking inventory of a congealed pizza, a wan Caesar salad, and a dry brownie under a melting glob of ice cream.
“You can’t hold me responsible,” he protests. “I didn’t cook it.”
“And thank God for that. You’d probably end up in the emergency room.”
“Just because I injured myself in the kitchenonetime doesn’t mean I can’t cook without doing bodily harm.”
“So you say.”
“Read my reviews online. Not one mention of stray human fingers in the soup.”
“Conveniently, I don’t have internet access.”
“Well,” he says, sitting down in front of the food, “feel free to starve, but I don’t recommend it. You’re going to need energy for what I have planned for you.”
That sultry feeling comes back.
The food is as mediocre as it looks. I call down for it to be removed while Felix showers.
He comes out of the bathroom wearing a robe that matches mine.
“Get in bed,” he says immediately.
“Which one?” I ask.
“Mine.”
His energy is very “imperious duke in a romance novel.”
Which is one of my kinks.
He proceeds to lie me down and kiss me ravenously. It’s like coming home.
“God, I’ve missed you,” I gasp as I devour him, pressing him down into me, wanting to be consumed.
“You’ve got me,” he murmurs. “You’ve got me.”
When he enters me, I feel it in my heart.
And when it’s over, I want it again.
I want it forever.
“You’re perfect,” he says, stroking my hair. “That was perfect.”
I can’t reply. I know my voice will come out in a sob.
At my silence, he looks at me with concern.
“Was that okay for you?” he asks.
I find my voice, because I don’t want him to see how emotional I am. “You couldn’t tell by my physical and auditory clues?” I ask.
“You could have been faking to stroke my ego.”
