Page 88 of Over the Line

A few minutes later, he joined her in the bedroom.

“Uh, I wasn’t sure what to put on,” she said. The bath towel was still wrapped around her, and her bag was on the edge of the bed.

Without her saying anything else, he understood the depth of her question, and more, he recognized it as a pivotal moment.

He could tell her to put on the outfit she’d bought in Miami. Or he could tell her to wear the clothes she’d had on earlier. Either way, she was looking to him to define the moment and asking if he wanted her to stay longer.

That she hadn’t made the decision to immediately run gave him great hope. “I want you to be comfortable,” he said, drying his hair with a towel, aiming for casualness he was suddenly nowhere close to feeling. “You’re welcome to help yourself to one of my shirts or a robe, if you’d like. But make no mistake. It doesn’t matter what you wear. It won’t stop me from fucking you senseless on the kitchen table after dinner.”

Chapter Nine

Sydney exhaled a shaky breath. How did he always know the exact right words to say?

Master Michael walked into his closet, and when he came out, he was wearing a pair of faded jeans and seen-better-days boots. He’d put on a navy T-shirt that showed off his biceps that made her imagination serve up all kinds of naughty scenarios. Anytime she was nervous, he defused the feeling and lightened the atmosphere.

“I’ll start dinner,” he offered.

After applying a coat of mascara, then dressing in her skirt and top from earlier, she looked for her hiking sandals and couldn’t find them. Belatedly, she recalled she’d left them downstairs while they were having lemonade.

Barefoot, she headed down the stairs.

The house stood empty, but the patio door was open, so she went outside and saw him sitting in the same chair he’d occupied earlier.

“Steaks are marinating,” he told her. “I poured you some wine.”

As she sat, she accepted the glass.

“I hope red’s okay,” he said. “If not, there’s a chardonnay in the refrigerator.”

“This is perfect.” She had a feeling this wasn’t going to be like drinking the fermented fruit juice she’d had with her friends. “Thank you…”

One eyebrow raised, he considered her.

It didn’t take a genius to understand that he expected her to use formalities, even if they were not in the bedroom. That chafed, but at least he was clear in his expectations. “Thank you, Sir.”

“Salud.” He lifted his glass toward her.

The first sip sang across her senses. It was rich and full-bodied, definitely not like the wines that came out of a jug. “Holy cannoli. What is this?”

“Zinfandel. Not at all related to white zin.”

After the amount she’d consumed in Miami, she’d definitely never confuse the two. “It’s almost a meal in itself.” And the alcohol in the drink went straight to her head. At least she wouldn’t be tempted to have a second glass.

“Is it acceptable?”

“I bet the bottle has a cork, even.”

He frowned, as if he had no idea whether or not she was joking.

“I like it.” She wrinkled her nose. “I think.”

“I can get you something else,” he said, standing.

“No, Sir. Really. I was teasing.” She leaned over to grab the shoe she saw sticking out from under her chair. But she didn’t see the match. “Where’s the other one?”

“Crap.” He helped her look before giving up. “The gate was open when I came back out. Were they expensive?”

She smiled. “Very, Sir.”