Page 85 of Deadly Rival

I return his smile. “Soon. The lady is choosing today, though. A bottle of Krug Rose, whatever vintage you prefer.”

He nods to Ophelia. “Ma’am has excellent taste. I’ll call one up right away.”

He departs, leaving a cloud of heavy cologne behind him. Ophelia stares after him. “He knows you well. Is he here every day?”

“Every day except Monday. Never come here on a Monday.” I shudder. “He lives in the Compound. Hardly any other outsiders do. He was a top sommelier and got depressed after he retired. Kendrick brought him in, and he loves it here.”

She pulls her gaze back to me, brow creased. “Does he know about Wards? That we’re all captives?”

We. She said we, and it’s another painful sip of air into my waterlogged lungs. She’s not excluding herself from the group yet. “Sort of. Most of the outsiders think it’s a kind of voluntarycaptivity. A kink thing. And they know not to talk to the women.”

Any reply she might have made is cut off when Michaele returns with champagne in an ice bucket and two chilled glasses. For an old guy, he can still carry a lot. He sets it down with a flourish and pours two perfect glasses. Ophelia takes a sip, eyes closed, and sighs. “It’s wonderful. Thank you.”

“My pleasure. Anything else?”

“Yes,” I say, “Please send up to La Table Royale for a charcuterie platter and fresh bread.”

“Of course.”

He departs, and I raise my glass. “To finding happiness in the strangest places.”

She hesitates, that odd, distant look creeping over her again, before she chinks and takes a sip. “I’ll drink to that.”

An hour later, the bottle is almost empty, the food is eaten, and Ophelia’s eyes are bright. From the pink spots in her cheeks and the animated way she’s gesturing with her glass, I’d guess she’s not a big drinker. I’ve coaxed her into gossiping about some of the clients at her salon, and now that the floodgates are opened, there’s no stopping her.

“Oh. This one lady—she has a French name, not Marie but something like that—she always brings her dog in a handbag. But it’s not like a chihuahua or a poodle. It's massive, maybe a Labradoodle? I’m not sure. It’s in a giant carry-all. She rocks it like a baby, and the dog loves it. She’s got biceps like a bodybuilder.”

I laugh with her and refill her glass.

I’m not trying to get her drunk—I swear I’m not—but it’s just so nice seeing her relaxed. When she lets her guard down, she’s a lot of fun. She seems to be enjoying the break, too.

The bar is filling up, mostly with Brothers winding down after a stressful day. The table of chatty women left a while ago. I stare at Ophelia, with her bright eyes and rosy cheeks, and all at once, the table between us feels too much. I move over to her side. “Scooch over.”

She does, shifting into the corner, and our eyes meet as I rest my leg against hers. In the dim light, her eyes are the gray of a stormy day, and unless I’m very much mistaken, they’re filled with expectation.

The magnetic crackle between us, which has been there from her very first day, urges me to touch her. I rest my hand on her knee, then slide it higher, pushing up the prim knee-length skirt I let her wear for work. Her eyes widen as I move it higher and higher until it’s bunched at her waist. She whimpers but doesn’t try to stop me.

Tucked in our corner, and with the table between us and prying eyes, it’s unlikely anyone will notice. But I’m not done yet. I chose a very sensible blouse for Ophelia’s working day—a blouse with buttons.

I set to work on them one by one, thanking the god of men with terrible impulses that she sassed me this morning and gave me an excuse to take away her bra. When I reach her breasts and keep going, her breaths come faster. “Sebastian…please.”

She should be calling me sir, but I don’t give the slightest shred of a fuck right now. I love how my name sounds on her lips.

And it doesn’t sound like she’s asking me to stop.

I undo the last button but keep her covered for the moment. Then I slide a hand under the smooth cotton and find her nipple rock hard. I knew it.

“I love showing off my pet.” I push the shirt to the side, exposing one breast, but cover it with my hand when she letsout a desperate squeak. “No one else gets to touch you. I’ll never allow it. But I have a lot of fun letting people look.”

I glance over my shoulder. Most of the bar is just as it was, but a few men shoot interested glances our way. I duck my head and whisper in Ophelia’s ear as I move my hand, exposing her, “People are watching.”

Ophelia’s cheeks are bright red, and her pupils fill her irises. I nudge her legs apart and make an experimental pass between her legs. “Oh. Feel that.” I push the tips of my fingers into her slippery entrance. “Absolutely soaked. You love this.”

She closes her eyes and lets out a little moan that’s lightning to my cock as I push the shirt away from the other breast. She’s on display, her nipples are stiff peaks, and she presses her lips tightly together as I return my attention to her pussy, circling her clit.

“You’re just too beautiful to keep hidden away. I like to show off what I have. All my most prized possessions.”

She draws in a shuddering breath at the word, and I smile. I’ve got her now. A heavy dose of praise with a dash of degradation. That’s the perfect mix for my Ophelia. I start to rub her clit in earnest, and she squirms on the seat.

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