Page 47 of The Sebastian Guarantee
She trembled. She couldn’t help it. It was an involuntary reaction. Her name had never sounded so alluring or so erotically charged.
“Yes?” she answered, way breathier than she’d expected.
“Let’s start slowly and build momentum.”
His in-charge energy was working for her. “Wow, you’ve got a real process for this, like, actual techniques. That’s helpful and professional. With Jeremy, kissing was a bit sloppy. Then again, for a guy with the last name of Drewler, being a sloppy kisser might be par for the—” Before she could blabber on, Sebastian’s lips silenced her with a whisper-soft kiss. The barely-there contact sent her belly into a wild swirl. Nothing felt real. It was as if she and Sebastian had left the normal versions of their lives and switched to creative mode like an option in a video game.
Creative mode, like an option in a video game.
She pulled back a fraction and pushed up the blindfold. “Seb?”
“Yeah?” he answered with a strip of lace from the G-string barely covering his closed eyes.
She plucked the panties off his head and tossed them onto the table. “Look at me.”
He did as she asked. Confusion marred his expression as his brows knit together. “What are you doing?”
She set the blindfold next to the panties. “It just came to me. We can think of the Sebastian Guarantee as a game, and we’re playing in creative mode.”
“I’m not following. What’s creative mode?”
It made sense he wouldn’t know. Even growing up, Sebastian had spent most of his time doing yoga or hitting a punching bag. She was the gamer, the tech nerd of their group.
“Creative mode is a gaming term,” she explained. “When I was still working for my uncle and aunt at Gale Gaming, we made sure it was an option with every game. It means you get to explore the video game’s world without worrying about getting killed or attacked. You’re in a safe space, free of danger, where you can experiment and hone your skills without consequences.” Her pulse kicked up. “Essentially, nothing counts.”
Sebastian’s expression grew pensive. “That sounds similar to suspending societal expectations via utilization of role-play techniques.”
She didn’t understand what he’d just said, but his voice was doing things to her that a best friend’s voice should definitelynotdo.
“Um . . . if that’s your business-y, behavioral science-y talk for doing whatever you want without repercussions to yourself or others, then yes . . . and,” she beamed, “we can think of each other as characters.”
Framing the Sebastian Guarantee with a gaming lens could work for her. She had already gotten one gaming element: new skins. Not to mention, she was currently rocking a non-wrinkled, chic-as-can-be designer trench coat. She was certainly dressed to pretend to be a tech-savvy man-eater of a businesswoman. She looked down at her feet, frowned, then peeled off her fuzzy socks.
“Is there a problem with those?” Sebastian asked, gazing at her now bare feet.
“I’m getting into character, and these socks won’t do.” Dramatically, she dropped the fuzzy white balls and stared off into the distance. Pretending to ponder whatever hot-girl man-eaters pondered, a euphoric buzz took over. She flicked her attention to Sebastian and schooled her features.
And . . . action!
“I’m Phoebe Gale, American Man-eater, and I’ve got my sights set on the sexiest man on the internet, a sort-of-a-Brit, Sebastian ‘Mr. Lickable Abs’ Cress. And one thing is guaranteed,” she continued, hamming up the off-the-cuff plot of her totally bullshit fictional adult-rated video game.
“Footnote,” Sebastian interjected, raising his index finger. “Despite not having an accent anymore, I am still, and will always be, one hundred percent British. And”—he paused as a deliciously wicked grin twisted his lips—“what’s theone thingthat’s guaranteed?”
She could barely remain still. His enthusiastic reaction sparked a palpable zing. It surged through her, transforming her tingle party into a hornball hoedown. Emphasis on theho. She sat up, smoothed her trench, then leaned in, getting nose to nose with the man. “What’s guaranteed is that one hell of a kissing critique is about to take place.” She pulled back and broke character. “See what I did there, Seb? I made the kissing test sound like a good time.”
“Phoebe Gale?” he growled in a hot headmaster tone.
She straightened. “Yes?”
“Stop talking.”
“Why?”
“Because,” he answered, devouring her with his gaze, “Sebastian Cress, aka Mr. Lickable Abs, needs to examine those lips to determine—”
“Their capability as a means for inducing sexual gratification,” she answered like she was reading his mind.
That boyish, crooked half-grin cracked his growly demeanor. “You took the words right out of my mouth, lass,” he confirmed in a one hundred percent British accent that tipped her libido over the edge.
