Page 230 of Sinful Desires
“We’d come to the beach a lot,” Théo said, his voice low, eyes on the road. “Sometimes the castle, if the weather turned. We’d surf. Play volleyball. Cause trouble.”
A quiet smile curled at his lips.
“France values quality time over quantity. It’s never about how long you’re with someone, only how deeply you live inside that moment. The people you love, they get everything. Sometimes, the best days were the ones we spent sitting on the sand, laughing at nothing, dreaming about everything.”
“I love that,” I whispered.
He brought my hand to his lips and kissed the back of it.
We drove in silence after that, the kind of silence that didn’t need filling. Just the wind, the waves, and his fingers wrapped around mine.
Then he cleared his throat, casually. “Check the glove compartment.”
I raised an eyebrow, but reached forward and popped it open. Inside was a black sleeping mask.
I held it up.
“Really? Is this your way of introducing a new kink?”
His mouth twitched. “Put it on.”
I slipped it over my eyes, laughing. “God, you’re lucky I trust you. If you pull out rope next, I swear?—”
He chuckled under his breath, the sound rich and wicked. The car began to slow, then came to a smooth stop. A beat of silence.
Warm hands cupped my face, thumbs brushing my cheeks, and his mouth found mine. Then he pulled away.
The door opened. I heard his steps round the car, the soft crunch of gravel under his shoes. A second later, my door swung open and his hands were back, this time pulling me to my feet.
One hand held mine. The other found my hip.
“Walk slowly,” he murmured in my ear, voice low and far too amused. “One step at a time, sweetheart. Try not to trip. I like my surprises delivered in one piece.”
He guided me forward, his palm steady on my back. The breeze had cooled, and the soft hum of crickets filled the evening air.
We walked for what felt like minutes, my steps cautious, his body always close. Then he stopped me. His fingers brushed my cheek, and he slid the blindfold off.
I gasped.
Oh, my God.
We were standing in the middle of a lavender field. Endless acres of soft purple swayed under the evening sky.
At the center, lit by hundreds of tiny flames, stood a dinner table. Candles flickered in tall glass holders. Two wine glassesglinted in the golden light. Above, arching like something from a dream, was a suspended rainbow of white roses and purple peonies.
My hand flew to my mouth as tears filled my eyes.
It wasn’t just a lavender field.
It wasthelavender field, the one from the painting in my condo. The one I’d ordered from a little gallery in Mexico. The one with a figure running wild and naked through the violet sea, arms open, hair flying, free.Me.
Théo’s hand dropped gently to mine. He didn’t say anything, just walked me to the table, and helped me into my chair. He sat across from me, his eyes never leaving mine.
On the plates in front of us sat silver domes.
“Look under, baby.”
I reached for mine with trembling fingers.
