Something sweeter.
“It helps to keep me focused. It’s used in yoga and meditation—something I picked up when I was in India. I found that having it on at work helps me to be mindful. Some people use it to repeat the 108 mantras found in Buddhism and Hinduism, but the point of mala beads is that they work for the wearer, in whatever capacity needed. For me, it helps with focus, keeping my mind free of outside thoughts and distractions. Which has been a hell of a lot harder lately,” he adds, his voice gruff.
I laugh. “So, you do yoga often?”
He smiles, taking the curves of the canyon confidently with one hand—like someone who’s used to driving this road often.
“Every morning. Sometimes before bed, too. I have trouble sleeping, and it helps to go through the sun salutations a few times.”
“So, I really made a fool of myself when I lied about doing an inversion against the door,” I answer, chuckling.
He laughs. “Yes. You did. I knew you were lying before you opened your mouth.”
I turn to look at him fully. “Then why did you go along with it?”
He looks at me as we stop at a light, his turn signal on. Pace is to the left of us, and my stomach grumbles as I remember how their delicious Italian food tastes.
“I wanted to make you uncomfortable. I knew you were listening. I think a small part of me brought that woman back to my room from the bar so that you would hear me.” He pauses, smiling. “I rememberhopingyou would hear me.”
My stomach twists, thinking of the sounds coming from him—the way he seemed to command that woman, the way he now commandsme.I squirm in my seat.
“Does it bother you?” he asks gently, his thumb sliding along the outside of my palm slowly. His calloused fingertip is rough, sending shivers down my spine.
“What, that you fucked another woman?”
He nods, turning into the parking lot.
“No,” I add, shrugging. “It’s not like we’re dating.” He’s quiet for a few seconds—for too long. I turn to face him, unease filling me. “I liked listening to you do those things to her,” I tell him truthfully.
He parks and turns the car off, facing me. I unbuckle my seatbelt. A sly smile forms on his lips, and he pulls me toward him. Leaning over, he places a soft kiss against my lips.
“Is that so?”
I nod. “I had to take a cold shower.”
He purrs, biting my lower lip. “Good girl.”
I smile as I pull away, not wanting to miss our reservation. “I’m starving,” I explain, getting out of the car before he can open the door for me.
We join hands as we walk to the small restaurant, and every few seconds I look up at him—some strange, tingly feeling beginning to take hold every time he touches me or smiles at me. I grind my teeth together, getting a grip on the situation.
We’re not dating.
It’s just sex.
Calm your tits, Natalia.
By the timewe finish our dinner—minestrone, a pizza, two bowls of ravioli, and the infamous warm Valrhona chocolate cake, I can barely move as Anderson pulls me back to the car. I’m in the middle of complaining about how full I am when he pulls me against him, kissing me softly.
“Come home with me,” he murmurs against my mouth. “I live five minutes away. Please,” he begs, the need evident in his voice. “I need to taste you again, Natalia.”
My stomach nearly bottoms out at his words. “Okay.”
We’re barely through the door of his house before he’s on me, clawing at me like a feral animal. I excuse myself to go to the restroom—but really, I want to see what Anderson Møllen’s house looks like. And yet again, it’s nothing like I expected. In my mind, everything was black and white, sterile, sleek. But it’s nothing like that here. Rich, buttery leather sofas face each other in the living room. There’s a lot of wood, actually—a wooden sculpture, wooden frames for the art on the walls. His bookshelf is filled with colorful books—everything from fiction to cookbooks. Candles. Things from his travel. Lying across one of his chairs is a multi-colored blanket, and when I pass by the kitchen, I stop. Dishes sit on a dish rack, while fruit lies in a fruit bowl. There are postcards on his refrigerator, for god’s sake. Raising my eyebrows, I walk to the bathroom down the hall—a bathroom with crazy, stylish wallpaper. Smiling, I look around the small room as I wash my hands.
This is nowhere near what I envisioned as his house, his style. It’s warm, wild, eccentric. And I absolutely love it.
When I exit the bathroom, Anderson is sitting on his couch with two glasses of wine. Well, that’s a complete one-eighty. I expected him to attack me the moment I came out. Sex—it’s just sex, right?Right.That doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy a drink before the carnage.
