Page 103 of Where Wild Hearts Dance
Sera takes the pins out of her mouth. “Go out of this room, turn right, down the hall, past the staircase. At the end is an elevator—it’s the staff elevator. Go down to the basement…”
Trilby’s gaze flashes in my direction and I swallow.
“Basement. No problem.”
Sera, unaware of my recent experience with basements, continues. “When you step out, there are two doors on the left. One is the dry food store—ignore that one. The second is a cleaning closet. I put a couple of bottles on the floor just inside the door.”
“What if someone sees me?”
“Just tell them I sent you. I haven’t done anything wrong, I just forgot to bring the bottles upstairs.”
“Okay then.” I twist the door handle. “I’ll be back in a little while.”
The rest of the hotel seems quiet but we are on the top floor and the acoustics are well-contained with allthe thick pile carpets and soft furnishings. My pulse quickens as I near the end of the landing. I’m imagining the basement to be dark, damp and eerie, just like the one in Arena. My hands feel clammy just thinking about it.
My mind flashes back to when I was sitting on the chair in Arena’s basement, pleading with Benito to believe me. I remember the warm glow in his eyes when he dropped his gaze to between my thighs, and in seconds I’mhotall over.
I go through the motions of pressing the elevator call button and waiting for its arrival, all the while holding my thighs together, trying to find friction I can use to ease this building pressure. When the elevator arrives I step into it. The face of the person looking back at me through the mirrored wall looks untethered. Full, parted lips, large eyes rimmed with long black lashes, damp from crying with laughter most of the night.
When the doors open again, I step out automatically, then feel a huge sense of relief to see the basement is just another corridor, albeit wider than those upstairs—dry and brightly lit. I can also hear voices, so I’m thankful I’m not alone. The doors are clearly labeled, the first one I see signposted ‘Dry Store’. I’m almost right past it when I have an idea. We ate a gorgeous but very light dinner, and Trilby needs to keep her strength up the next couple of days. We could all probably do with some more food inside us. I open the door to the dry store and flick the light switch on the inside wall.
My eyes widen at the sight of dozens upon dozensof shelves holding tins of sauces, bags of dried beans, every type of flour and sugar imaginable, and—the thing I’m really looking for—stacked boxes of chips. I make a beeline straight for them and a mental note to pay for it all in the morning. I grab some barbecue chips, popcorn and pretzels, then flick the switch and pull the door closed.
When I reach the cleaning closet, the door is slightly ajar. I open it fully and peer inside, but I don’t see any bottles. I look around both sides of the door and there’s nothing. My pulse quickens, my nerves jumping to the conclusion something is off, but I shove them down into the base of my stomach. I was nervous about coming down here and everything has been fine. I have to remind myself, this is the Harbor’s Edge in the Hamptons—it isn’t the seedy basement of a mafia-run nightclub.
Just the peripheral thought of Arena heats my skin again. Simply knowing that the place belongs to Benito makes me ache to return, even though the sensible part of my brain—and Trilby’s voice in the back of my head—says that is the last thing I should do.
I flick the switch. I’m surprised to see the room is quite large. More shelves are lined with cleaning products and vacuum cleaners. Mops and brooms of all sizes are stacked in two corners. I inspect both sides of the door again but don’t see any champagne bottles.
“Where did you put them, Sera?” I whisper under my breath, taking a few steps into the room. Maybe someone came in, saw the bottles close to the door andput them on a shelf so they wouldn’t be kicked over by accident.
I walk to the nearest shelf but before I reach it, the sound of the light switch shutting off fills the room and I’m cast in complete darkness.
I spin around quickly, not that it helps—I can’t see a thing, not even a sliver of light from where I’d left the door ajar. It isn’t ajar anymore.
My heart beats at the base of my throat and my head feels light. “Hello?” I call out, my voice empty and trembling.
I shiver in the cool basement air and the hairs covering my whole body stand on end. I wrap my arms around myself and take a nervous step toward the door. I can sense someone is in the room with me. The presence of warmth makes my head tingle—it’s the sensation I often have right before I pass out.
“Please…” I say, but the word sticks to my dry lips. I have to force out the rest. “Who’s there?”
The sight of my stalker collapsed on the street with blood running from his mouth fills my vision and nausea crawls up my throat. Why do I keep doing these foolish things—letting a crazy person follow me around for three years, and now walking blindly into a basement room without checking it was completely safe to do so. Benito was right—I do need protecting from myself.
A fragile slice of light is visible beneath the door, alerting me to where it is. I don’t take a breath before bolting toward it, but before I can reach the handle, agiant hand whips out and wraps around my face, turns me around and pushes me up against a wall.
My scream is muffled against calloused skin and my heart is silenced by a burning heat against my back. The shape of it, the severity of the burn, is familiar. But the fact my captor isn’t speaking makes me doubt my judgement.
I pant against the unyielding palm, tears rolling down my cheeks and over the man’s fingers. Then his weight is pressed against me—clear, defined lines, curves and ridges. I almost faint with relief. It’s Benito, I’m sure of it. But, the brute force he’s using to hold me still and the unemotive lingering while I cry isterrifying.
The removal of my sight only makes room for my other senses to soar. His heavy, masculine scent floods my nostrils and the nerve endings across my skin dance like electrical currents. He passes a hand under my arm and up through the middle of my chest and uses it to keep me still while he softens his hold on my face. Then, with a gentle thumb, he wipes away my tears.
After several minutes have passed, my breaths lengthen and my shivers ease. With his hand still covering my mouth, he slides the other one down the middle of my body. The satin ripples around it, chasing its path to my navel. A ball of heat unfurls behind my belly button and slides down to my core, where it sits heavily between my thighs.
The breaths at my back are ragged, his chest pressing against my spine with each inhale. He’sundeniably turned on, which only fuels the aching pull around my opening.
Up to now, my hands had been fisted at my sides, but slowly, they uncurl. I place one hand on the wall to ground myself and reach the other behind me tentatively. My fingers graze familiar Italian cotton and my lids flutter shut.
His flattened palm inches further downward until it’s pressing softly against my pelvic bone. Slowly and torturously, he walks his fingers to drag the remaining fabric up my thighs, each inch of flesh uncovered sending sparks of fire to my clit. When the final inch of fabric is in his grip, his fingers venture inwards and find me.
