Page 46 of The Sebastian Guarantee
She opened her eyes. “Of course not. But I’ve never thought about . . .”
“Kissing me?” he supplied.
Moment of truth—she had thought about kissing him, but she wasn’t about to cop to it.
“I have an idea.” He stood, scanned the room, then appeared to zero in on a scarf draped over one of the racks Mara had left.
“What are you doing with that?” she asked, watching him pluck the scarlet material from its perch and shake it out.
He assessed the scarf. “I’m blindfolding you.”
“Why?” she stammered.
“To reduce your anxiety. You can picture yourself kissing someone else.”
“You’re serious?” she asked, her voice jumping an octave.
“Right now, I’m not your best friend.”
“You’re not?”
“I’m the life coach implementing the Sebastian Guarantee. Think of it like this: it’s my job to be completely honest with you about how good a kisser you are.”
The man had a point. Still, she didn’t want to be the only one in the dark. She sprang to her feet, raked her gaze over the racks of clothing, then snagged a pair of lacy panties from an arrangement of lingerie. “You can cover your eyes with these.”
He studied the bit of lace and satin. “You want me to put underwear on my head?”
“Yes, so you can think of someone else.”
“If it makes you feel comfortable, I’m happy to oblige.” He took the panties from her, then pointed back toward the table. “Sit,” he directed.
His no-nonsense, commanding tone did nothing to quell what was going on between her thighs.
“We’re doing this at the kitchen table?” She stared at the basic wooden table and the nondescript chairs—pieces of furniture that had never taken on a sensual appeal . . . until this very second.
“It’s as good a spot as any.” He shrugged like blindfolding women and kissing them at their kitchen tables carried the same emotional weight as a trip to the dentist.
“Right, sure,” she answered, maintaining her composure as she returned to her seat. He folded the scarf into a long rectangle, creating a blindfold. He came up behind her. Before she could take another breath, the silky fabric covered her eyes. There was something erotic, titillating even, listening to the sounds of fabric rubbing against fabric as Sebastian tied a knot.
“I didn’t tie it too tightly, did I?” he asked softly.
She shook her head. “It’s great . . . totally fine . . . I like being tightly tied up.”
Oh, sweet Jesus!
“What I meant was,” she said, praying she wouldn’t disintegrate into a pool of goo, “was that the pressure is acceptable.” She could barely think straight, then stilled as she sensed him sitting across from her. She shifted in her seat. “Just to be clear. I won’t think about kissing you, and you won’t think about kissing me.”
“That’s right,” he replied, his tone taking on a gravelly quality. “Are you thinking of someone else, Phoebe?”
“Yeah, totally, absolutely,” she lied. “What about you?”
“Yeah, totally, absolutely,” he parroted back.
She concentrated on her breathing. She could do this. It was just an assessment kiss. How many kisses had she wasted on jerks? How many of those men only wanted to lock lips with her because her last name was Gale? How many creeps were only there to use her? Too many to count, and at least this kiss would garner some data.
“Who’s going to get the ball rolling on this assessment?” she asked, aiming for a professional air. “Should I because I’m going for the whole man-eater, woman-in-charge-of-her-pleasure vibe? Or maybe you should initiate the kiss because you’re the one doing the critique,” she yammered, then inhaled a sharp breath as two warm hands cupped her face. A thumb—no, not justathumb,Sebastian’s thumb—stroked her bottom lip. She hummed as her body tingled beneath his touch.
“Phoebe,” he breathed.
