Page 64 of Forbidden Vows

The feeling is so strong that, in this moment, I don’t care who hears me. I call out, “Yes! Blaze. Yes!”

“There you go, baby. There you go.” His hand finds the back of my hair, knotting it in his fist so he can give it a sharp tug. Him pulling my hair sends me over the edge, and I clamp down on him, hard, chasing down the final tail of the climax.

“God, you feel so fucking good.” He pumps his hips up a few more times, giving a deep moan. I feel his hot come fill me as he finishes. I like the warmth, the way it spills out of me, hot and wet and naughty.

Coming down from our peak, my arms wind around his neck as we kiss. He pushes my damp hair from my cheek, staring at me as I sit there on his wet lap. “You are so fucking beautiful. I hope you know that.”

And I think that I might…

Maybe.

If not in the world’s eyes, at least in his eyes, I do.

Afterward, we shower and dress in nice clothes. I choose a short dress with a flutter skirt and tiny white flowers that he packed for me. It has thin straps around my neck and little cap sleeves over my shoulders. It’s elegant, feminine, and more fitted than I would typically wear.

I do feel beautiful.

Iambeautiful.

We have an early dinner sitting across from one another in the boat’s dining room. The staff has closed the curtains, allowing the two white pillar candles between us to flicker with romance. We share wine and eat fresh seafood and salad. He’s requested that the chef bring more of the fresh-baked bread from the café, and I tear off small pieces, dipping the corners in the most delicious olive oil I’ve ever had before popping them in my mouth.

Heaven.

With dessert, the staff brings a rectangular shoebox-sized package wrapped prettily in red and gold paper with a sparkly gold bow. They present us with a strawberry cheesecake on a silver tray, placing the gift on the table next to the tray.

He eyes me curiously. “What’s this?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “Should you open it?”

He unties the bow and carefully unwraps the paper from the box. When he lifts the lid and peers inside, he laughs. Reaching up, he pulls out the gift, holding it out for me to see. He reads the inscription out loud.

“Blaze Bachman. Number One Bowler.”

I giggle.

“How did you find this?”

“When Seraphina and I were shopping, there was a small shop that sold and inscribed t-shirts and trophies. I was lucky they had a male bowler award. He was a little dusty, but we brushed him off. I guess he was waiting for you.”

“Thank you. I love it.” He leans over the table, kissing me.

“You’re welcome.”

It’s a small gesture, and I wish I could do more. I want to show my gratitude for everything he’s done—something beyond a plastic trophy, although he seems to love it.

As we enjoy the sweet, creamy cake, I catch him staring at me across the table, more than once. I don’t know if it’s the magic of the candlelight, the warmth of the wine, or how I feel in this dress, but I almost think he’s looking at me like he likes me.

I sound like one of my students. Should I pass a note across the table like Poppy did last semester to poor Danny Ryan, a shy little boy who had no idea what he was up against?

Do you like me? Check yes or no.

You bedder check yes.

I’m worried. Really worried. I’m afraid I might be…

Falling for him.

Hard.

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