Total pages in book: 43
Estimated words: 43856 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 219(@200wpm)___ 175(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 43856 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 219(@200wpm)___ 175(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
I tried to scan my brain for some kind of bucket-list activity, but all I could think about was how badly I wanted him to keep looking at me the way he was now.
My body burned with awareness, but I forced myself to think.
Where should we go?
Chapter nine
Plans
Rae
I swallowed, my brain short-circuiting under the weight of what I really wanted to say.
Because the truth of what I wanted to do after this dinner. . .
The truth was reckless.
The truth was heat pooling between my thighs, my body already humming with the certainty of what I wanted to do.
I wanted to go back to his suite.
I wanted to see just how much of that quiet intensity would translate into touch, into movement, into the kind of pleasure that had been nothing more than a distant memory.
Ten years. Should I end my celibacy tonight?
But I also knew better.
I knew how easy it was to confuse attraction with something deeper, how temptation could masquerade as fate.
And despite how wildly my body disagreed, my mind whispered. . .
Be smart. Be patient. Learn him first.
Therefore, I scrambled for an alternative activity, my thoughts running through possible things we could do—things that weren’t him pressing me against a penthouse window, his hands on my thighs, his mouth on my skin, his cock pounding into me.
Museums?
Closed.
Rooftop bars?
Maybe, but I didn’t want to be surrounded by a crowd.
Jazz club?
That could be intimate, but I didn’t want to hear music, I wanted to hear him.
I chewed on my lip, debating my options, when Fabien leaned in slightly, his voice low and amused. "Tell me what you're thinking."
I hesitated, but his gaze held me there, steady, patient. "The things that keep coming up in my mind are probably closed or are going to close soon."
"Tell me anyway."
“I’ve always wanted to see The Metropolitan Museum of Art.” I exhaled. “But it’s closed.”
A slow smirk touched his lips. “The Met?”
“Yes, but it’s closed.”
“That doesn’t matter.”
I blinked. “What?”
“Hold on.” Fabien pulled out his phone and began typing something with casual confidence.
I let out a breathy laugh. “What are you doing?”
“I know people.”
I rolled my eyes. “Of course, you do.”
Seconds later, a soft buzz from his phone filled the air.
He read the responding message and then nodded. “Good.”
My brows furrowed. “Good?”
“My friend says we can visit this evening, but we are not to touch any of the exhibits.”
My mouth opened, but nothing came out. “Your friend?”
“Jonas,” he said smoothly, slipping his phone back into his pocket. “He’s an Austrian art historian and the current CEO and Director of The Metropolitan Museum of Art.”
I stared at him in shock. “Oh.”
Fabien tilted his head slightly, watching my reaction with amusement. “I just told him that I had a very gorgeous woman that I wanted to utterly impress and asked if he could do me a favor and let me give her a personal evening tour of The Met.”
Once again, all I could say was, “Oh.”
He leaned forward, and his voice was warm with mischief. “Will you let me take you there?”
My breath hitched. “Yeah.”
“Perfect.” His smirk deepened. “I’ll make sure to grab a bottle of Château d’Yquem—perfect for viewing art with.”
“So. . .we’re just going to go to The Met tonight, after hours?” I asked, half-laughing, half-in shock.
“Of course.” He winked. “I told you. I’m basically an international spy.”
I laughed, shaking my head. But excitement coiled through me, wrapping around my ribs and tightening in the best way.
And suddenly, I saw it. . .
The two of us, walking hand in hand through dimly lit hallways, glasses of expensive wine in our hands. The soft echo of our voices filling the vast empty museum, our laughter mingling with the silence, bouncing off marble and shadow.
Sometimes, his hand would be at the small of my back as we moved through halls of priceless exhibits.
It was intoxicating.
It was romantic.
And God… I never wanted to wake up from this dream.
The train slowed, pulling into a station carved from marble and gold, but I barely noticed.
I was too lost in him.
Our cars’ doors slid open.
Cosmo’s voice rang out through the speakers within our car. “This next course is all about transformation.”
The waitress entered our car, placing the dish before us.
I looked down—and my breath caught.
The plate was art.
A culinary masterpiece mirroring the metamorphosis of a butterfly.
At the base of the dish, a velvety swirl of dark truffle mousse represented the egg, rich and earthy, its texture impossibly smooth.
Resting just above it, a delicate arrangement of herbs and microgreens cradled a caterpillar—a tender roulade of lobster wrapped in a thin veil of saffron-infused pasta, its shape mimicking the gentle curve of a larva inching forward.
The buttery scent of the dish was intoxicating, promising indulgence with every bite.
Higher up, a perfectly crisped crostini—golden, airy, its surface glistening with the lightest brush of truffle oil—formed the chrysalis.