Page 80 of Audacity

‘I was fine,’ I bluster now. ‘I knew what I was getting into.’

‘Did you really?’ she presses, and I chuckle.

‘Nope. No, I had no fucking clue. All I knew was that I had to beat the sex toy birthday you told me about.’

She sidles in closer and lays her head on my shoulder. I tilt my face so I can rest my jaw against those silky tresses.

‘Is that what it was about? Did you feel obliged to pull something bigger out of the hat for me? Because if you did, I hate that.’

A question like that deserves a thoughtful answer.Anyquestion from her deserves a thoughtful answer.

‘No. It wasn’t about one-upmanship—at least, I don’t think so. But when you told me about that, you were so fucking turned on just recounting it.’ I pause. ‘I’ve been very conscious that the things I do with you are relatively vanilla compared to whatyou’re used to, and that you clearly have an appetite for pushing the envelope. I’m no Anton Wolff—I’m well aware of that.’

She sits upright and twists her body so she can look me in the eye, her expression somewhere between distressed and incensed. ‘No, not at all! There was nothing vanilla about Prima Nocta, was there?’

I smile, both at her righteous outrage and at the memory of that evening. Of fucking her like a feudal overlord in front of a roaring fire. I let myself stroke her cheek with my thumb. ‘No, there was nothing remotely vanilla about that.’

‘Gabe.’ Her eyes frantically search my face. ‘I don’t want Anton Wolff, or any facsimile of him. I’m here foryouand whatyouwant. You are a king among men, and everything we do is perfect. You don’t ever,everhave to prove yourself to me. Surely you can see how affected I am every time we’re together.’

‘I know, and I can, very much so, and I appreciate that. I just wanted to see…’ I huff out a breath. It’s harder than I imagined to put my emotions, my motivations, into words. ‘I wanted to see if I could set something up that would give you a memory that, when someone asked you about it years later, would have you igniting into flames again.’

Her smile is seductive, but it’s genuine. ‘Well, mission accomplished.’ It grows more mischievous. ‘What did you think, really?’

I consider, letting my hand roam over her jaw, down her neck, and through the astonishing silken mass of her hair. ‘It was like thinking you know someone and then finding out that they can, I dunno, fly. Or perform aerial trapeze, or speak Japanese.’

She bursts out laughing, but I push through, struggling to articulate as I go. ‘It was astounding, watching you perform. You were in your element. Think about it—all those guys, and you were commanding the room. They all wanted you so badly, and you had them wrapped around your little finger. You won’t bethe only person getting off on that memory for years to come, and I hate that—but I kind of love it, too.’

She leans in as if to kiss me again, stopping when her forehead touches mine. ‘Spoken like a true Alchemy member. It’s weird—I felt the same. I fucking loved it, don’t get me wrong. But the more it went on, the more desperate I got to land on your lap, and when I did, it felt like I’d come home.’

I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment, a torrent of emotion hitting me at her simple confession.

Nothing about this feels transactional.

Nothing about us feels like anything other than an organic, loving relationship.

I’ve always hoped she’d enjoy this strange, unique role she plays in my life, buthomecomingis not how you describe fucking a boss you’re fond of.

She has a mark on her shoulder. A bite mark. I stroke the skin where her robe has slipped off and exposed it. I fucking hate that one of those dickheads felt he had the right to leave his mark on her.

But it’s her birthday. This is not a time for getting heavy. It’s a time for ensuring that she feels pampered and appreciated and adored—andvalued.I reach down the side of my lounger and pull up a gift box.

‘I got you something else.’

She stares down at it. ‘I think you got me quite enough, didn’t you?’

‘That one was for your body.’ I pause. ‘This one is for your mind.’

She takes the lid off the box and pulls off the layer of tissue covering her gift. I hold my breath as she carefully lifts out the book inside. It’s no ordinary book, but a beautifully bound early Victorian edition of Seneca’sLetters to Luciliuswith the original Latin and its English translation transcribed next to each other.Its jacket is still wrapped in protective cellophane in a way that allows the book to be opened, and she blows out a breath as she does.

‘Oh my God. Oh, Gabe.’

I smile down at her. ‘I thought about getting you a Bible or a Book of Hours, but I decided this would get more use.’

‘Damn right. It’s so beautiful.’ She thumbs reverently through the pages, pulling out a plain notecard. On it, I’ve written the following:

Non est ad astra mollis e terris via

Gabe

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