Page 87 of Sinful Sacrifice

He meets my stare and smirks. “Did you enjoy the show?”

“I very much did.” I drop my fork, the lettuce still attached to the side of my plate. “What did you think?”

“I enjoyed it.” He shrugs, scooping up the champagne glass.

“You were bored.”

“I was not.”

“Your eyes were more on me than the stage.”

“That’s because I enjoy watching you more. No need for a stage.”

“You watch me when I’m onstage.” So far, he’s attended three of my shows. At this point, I might feel more anxiety if he doesn’t come.

“Exactly—because it’s you onstage. The world could be ending around me, and if you’re onstage, I’m fucked because nothing could drag my attention away from you.”

“This is seriously the best night of my life,” I slur as we walk into the townhome.

Okay, Damien is walking us both while I use him as a personal cane. I might’ve celebrated with too much champagne.

We ate. We drank.

We talked. We laughed.

We fell in love even more.

After our three-course dinner, the show’s director, Margaret, came out and introduced herself. I nearly face-planted from my chair. I’ve followed Margaret’s journey for a while and always wanted to meet her.

I spent the next thirty minutes talking with her. Damien sat there, listening, never acting bored or pressuring me to leave. Before she left, he took our picture. Well, pictures since he’s proving himself to be even more perfect after taking ten photos to make sure I had a good one.

Damien grips me tight, as if worried I’ll topple over, and helps me up the stairs.

So much for giving him a stress-free night.

Drunk-sitting me definitely wasn’t on my list.

It’s not really a great stress reliever either.

Admittingly, I’m an annoying drunk.

But I’d rather be an annoying drunk than an angry one.

A win is a win.

He flips on the light when we reach the bedroom. I wobble in my one heel—pretty sure the other one is somewhere in the back seat—and Damien stabilizes me on our walk to the closet.

I grip his shoulder as he unzips and helps me out of my dress. It falls at my feet, hitting the top of his loafers, and I step out of it.

“Don’t let it stay on the floor,” I whisper, still holding him. “It’s too pretty.”

I hang on to his blazer sleeve as he leans down to scoop the dress in his arms and drape it over the island. His gaze flicks from the dress to me, and his stare burns down my body so hot that it’s like he’s never witnessed me so naked.

He inches closer, the toes of his loafers hitting my bare ones, and skims the pads of his fingers along my cheekbones.

“I love you, Pippa.”

If he wasn’t holding me up, I’d have fallen on my ass.

---