Page 29 of Kept 3
Note: The sweeter the grapes, the richer the sauce.
No sooner have I finished writing the recipe and its accompanying notes, when I hear a tap on the door.
Frowning, I close the book, I know that knock.
Closing my eyes for a second, I tell myself firmly to get a grip and not get too close to him.
‘Definitely no kisses, no kisses, no kisses,’I repeat as a silent mantra.
“Come in.”
As Nicholas walks to the bed, his face serious, I quickly sit up, my feet on the steps, frowning as I meet his eyes. He is still wearing his tuxedo from dinner, but his tie is undone and hanging loosely to one side, and the top button of his shirt is undone. It is a look I find particularly appealing; he is so hot; I have to repeat my mantra to myself once more.
“I have thought about what you requested,” he says quietly, his eyes drifting to the book on the bed, “do you like my gifts?”
I frown and try to focus on what he is saying. But here, in my bedroom, the memory of that kiss still fresh upon my lips, I can’t help but admire his physique. My eyes drift to his lips as he talks, my own remembering their feel and causing a tingle and tightening deep down in my stomach. I want this man, vampire or not, and knowing he wants me just as much, perhaps more, just makes it all the harder to resist.
“Ugh,” I clear my throat, “yes, thank you. How did you know I wanted this cooking set?”
He smiles a genuine smile that reaches his eyes.
“I didn’t. I was looking for a gift for you, and it caught my eye. Did you really want it?”
“Yes, but,” I frown, confused, “I saw it in a little store in Paris.”
“Yes, that is where I found it, not far from our restaurant.”
I raise my eyebrows in surprise, a little part of me is thrilled by his reference to where I worked as ‘our restaurant.’
“I thought you were going to London, you know, to prey upon wealthy women.”
He laughs and sits down beside me, and I don’t flinch as he reaches over to capture one of my curls and run it through his long fingers.
“Did I tell you how much I like your hair?” he asks quietly, his voice deep.
“Yes,” I breathe, every nerve on end at his proximity, his scent, my brain scrambling for control over my body, “but why were you in Paris?”
“Business,” he says, dropping my curl and running his finger from my shoulder, down the outside of my arm, to my hand.
I hold my breath as my skin turns to goosebumps, and a delicious shiver runs down my spine. Noting my reaction, he looks up into my eyes and down to my lips, now slightly parted. I can see he is going to kiss me. I want him to kiss me, but at the same time, I don’t.
“Are you going to let me go outside,” I whisper.
He says nothing, just leans forward and, gathering me in his arms, brings his lips once more down to mine.
Desire flames through me as I taste his mouth again and all the sensations I had in the dining room come crashing back in with ten times the force. I am frustrated, angry, scared, lonely, horny, drawn, compelled, pent up. I close my eyes as he moves to press me down onto the bed, his broad chest covering mine, his kiss taking away all my self-control. I want him, and he wants me – but I want freedom more. Don’t I?
I pull my lips away from him, every nerve in my body screaming at me in anger at my refusal to give way to my need for him.
“Are you going to let me out?” I ask again, panting, my hands either side of his face, holding his lips just a word away from my own.
“Josephine, please,” he croons, his voice husky, “stop trying to run from me, stop denying what we both want. I want to show you how wonderful we can be together. I’m offering you myself, can’t you see that?”
“No,” I frown, moving my hand to his chest and pushing him away. He complies immediately, and I sit up, my face suddenly angry, my hair all over the place, “you are not offering yourself to me – you are forcing me to sacrifice myself to you, to stay as your prisoner, as your own personal fuck and suck doll. I’ve told you before, I am never,nevergoing to agree to that.
“I want you, Josephine, is that so bad?” he shakes his head sadly.
“You don’t want mefor me,” I mutter, “you want me for my blood.”
