Page 11 of Seal My Fate

He leads me to the little dance floor in front of the stage. It’s still early, and the club is only half-full. Nobody else is dancing yet, but I couldn’t care less as Saint draws me into his arms. “Keep it nice and slow, fellas,” he tells the musicians with a grin, and they laugh, and oblige us, segueing into a languid track that makes me think of steamy summer nights.

I rest my head against Saint’s chest, and we sway. I’m close enough to feel his heartbeat and lose myself in the warmth of his embrace. His body is taut, pressed against me, and his arms loop around my waist, fingertips resting at the base of my spine. He strokes me softly through the silky fabric of my dress, back and forth, back and forth…

Heat ignites inside me, just from that one, subtle touch.

I shift closer, my breath quickening. Saint keeps us swaying, not skipping a beat.

“I dreamed about you last night,” he murmurs, his breath hot against my ear. “You were naked in that necklace, on a tropical beach somewhere…”

I shiver. “Tell me more.”

He chuckles, low and seductive. “We were laying in the shade of some palm trees, and you… You were begging me to let you come.”

My thighs clench. “Sounds like a fun vacation,” I whisper, sounding careless even as my blood gets hotter.

“But I wouldn’t let you,” Saint says softly, then nips my earlobe with his teeth. “Not until you sucked my cock like a good girl and earned that orgasm. You took it so well for me, darling. Every last inch.”

I stifle a moan, so turned on now it should be illegal in a public place. But of course, that only makes me hotter, being surrounded by people while Saint whispers filthy things in my ear.

“Saint,” I whisper, my knees weak. “Please…”

“What’s that, darling? Ready to go?” he asks, sounding amused, and when I lift my head to look at him, there’s mischief in his eyes.

“You know I am,” I smile back at him, loving the playful teasing, and how he can take me from zero to soaking wet in the space of a single slow dance.

“Then let’s go.”

Saint paysour tab and pulls me from the club and into a cab, but instead of directing it towards home, he sends us across the city, to a historic church sitting, unchanged, in the center of the city. By the time we climb out of the car, the sun is setting, and the place is busy. Tourists mill in the courtyard outside, and Saint leads me through the crowd and over to a small doorway in one of the tower walls.

‘No public entry,’the sign says, but Saint pushes the door open and leads me inside.

“We can’t go in,” I protest, looking around at the dim, historic rooms. “It’s off-limits.”

“I called in a favor from a friend,” Saint tells me with a wink. “I wanted to give you a private tour.”

“Is that right?” I ask, relaxing. Inside, there are a series of old chambers, with the original fireplaces preserved, and displays telling the historical significance. “So what is this place, Mr. Tour Guide?”

“This is Freshfield Tower,” Saint says gamely, leading me to a narrow circular staircase, and starting the climb upwards. “It’s very old, built… by someone, at some point, in the distant past.”

I smile, trying to keep pace. “This is a very informative tour.”

“Ah, but the important part isn’t what’s inside,” he continues, as we climb higher. “But what’s waiting at the top.”

After another flight, I’m out of breath, but then Saint reaches the top and opens the door for me, and I step outside—losing my breath for a different reason.

“Oh, it’s beautiful,” I exhale, taking it in. We’re on the flat roof of the tower, with only a stone balustrade separating us from the view. And what a view… Sunset is streaking the sky over London, and from our vantage point here, at the very top of the tower, I can see the whole city spread beneath us, from Hyde Park, all the way to the river and Parliament.

“I thought you might like it.”

When I turn back, Saint is watching me, standing beside a folding table and two chairs, set with an ice bucket of champagne, and a picnic basket. “Dinner,” he says with a smile, plucking the champagne out, and uncorking it with a pop.

I laugh, delighted. “It’s very romantic,” I tell him, leaning in for a kiss. “An A-plus date idea.”

“Are you grading me now?” he asks with a smirk.

“That depends…” I take a sip of champagne, straight from the bottle. Loving the way the bubbles feel on my tongue. “What will you do to secure that perfect grade?”

“Oh, I have some ideas…”

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