Chapter 70

Cecilia

I knew that logo. When I'd been back in the city, not yet meeting to Arthur, and my body had been staging a full-scale rebellion against my better judgment.

I'd completely forgotten about it.

I let go of Arthur's hand and walked faster.

"What's the rush?" he asked, matching my pace easily.

"Nothing. Just—I've been waiting for this."

"What is it?"

"Supplies." I reached the steps and bent down to grab the box, but his hand got there first, fingers closing around the cardboard before I could snatch it away.

"Arthur—"

"What kind of supplies?" He turned the box over, and I watched his eyes find the logo. His eyebrows rose. Slowly. With great deliberate precision.

"Give me that."

"I'm just reading the label."

"You've read it. Hand it over."

He looked up at me, and the expression on his face was the most dangerous thing I'd ever seen—not angry, not shocked, just deeply, profoundly entertained.

"Shall we go inside?" he said pleasantly.

He set the box on the kitchen counter and leaned against it, arms crossed, watching me with that same expression while I stood on the other side of the island trying to figure out how to die of embarrassment on command.

"I can explain," I said.

"Please do."

"I ordered this before we—before things were—" I gestured vaguely between us. "It was weeks ago. Right after I got back. We weren't together yet and I was—" I stopped. Took a breath. "I had needs. That I was handling. Independently."

"Independently," he repeated.

"Yes."

"With assistance."

"With purchased assistance, which is a completely normal and adult thing to do, and I would appreciate it if you would stop looking at me like that."

He reached for the box.

"Arthur, don't you dare—"

He opened it.

The silence that followed was approximately one thousand years long.

He reached in and lifted out the item in question—pink, sleek, unmistakably shaped—and held it up with the careful consideration of a man examining a piece of evidence.

"Hm," he said again.

"Put that down."

"So this is what you've been using." He set it on the counter and looked at me, and there was something in his eyes now that wasn't just amusement. "Instead of calling me."

"We weren't speaking."

"We could have been."

"You were my boss and my former guardian and I was trying to maintain some semblance of dignity—"

"Ceci." His voice dropped. "Were you thinking about me?"

My face was on fire. "That's not relevant."

"It's extremely relevant."

"I'm going to need you to drop this entire line of questioning."

He pushed off the counter and walked around the island toward me, slow and deliberate, and I backed up until I hit the wall.

"Were you thinking about me," he said again, quieter now, "when you used that?"

I looked at the ceiling. "Maybe."

"Maybe."

"Probably." I looked back at him, and his expression had shifted into something that made my pulse spike. "Fine. Yes. Are you happy?"

"Getting there." He was close now, close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating off him. "You could have just told me."

"I was trying to hate you."

"How was that going?"

"Terribly." I pressed back against the wall as he braced one hand beside my head. "Clearly."

"So all those weeks," he said, his voice low, "when you were calling me Mr. Winston and refusing me—"

"Don't."

"—you were going home and—"

"Arthur, I swear to god—"

He laughed, and I shoved him, and he caught my wrists and pulled me against him, still laughing, and I was too despite myself, my face buried in his chest.

"It's not funny," I said into his shirt.

"It's a little funny."

"It's humiliating."

"It's the most flattering thing anyone has ever told me." He pressed his lips to the top of my head. "You were trying so hard to stay away from me and your body just—"

"If you finish that sentence I'm moving out."

He held me tighter. "You're not moving out."

"I might."

"You won't." His hand moved to my chin, tilting my face up.

"Is that so."

"You have me." His thumb traced my lower lip. "Whenever you want. However you want." His eyes darkened. "I think we've established I'm very motivated."

Something shifted in the air between us—the laughter fading into something warmer, more urgent.

"Prove it," I said.

He pulled out the toy—that sleek, pink thing. There was nothing amused about his expression. Just pure, focused intent.

"Arthur," I said, my voice coming out breathier than I intended. "You can't be serious."

"Why not?" He turned the toy over in his hands, examining it with the thoroughness of someone conducting an experiment. "You clearly knew what you were doing when you ordered this. I want to see how well it works."

Heat flooded through me, pooling low in my belly despite how thoroughly he'd already wrung me out. "That's not—I mean—"

"Use your words, Ceci." He looked up at me, and the expression on his face was devastating—part challenge, part promise. "Tell me no if you don't want this."

I opened my mouth, fully intending to say exactly that, but what came out instead was, "I don't know if I can again. I'm already—"

"I know." His hand slid up my thigh, fingers tracing idle patterns that made my breath hitch. "That's what makes this interesting. Finding out exactly how much more you can take."

He pressed the button, and the toy came to life with a quiet hum that seemed impossibly loud in the silence of the room. My entire body tensed in anticipation, and Arthur's smile widened.

"Relax," he murmured, his free hand pressing gently on my hip to hold me in place. "Let me take care of you."