Page 34 of Taken Off Camera
Perfection matters for Sebastian’s first real visit. No fever this time, no playing nurse.
An actual date where I’m conscious enough to enjoy every moment with the Alpha I’ve been texting non-stop for the last two weeks, which is how long it took for our schedules to align.
I set the roasted chicken on a trivet, steam curling toward the ceiling. The recipe demanded exact timing, and somehow my ADHD brain pulled it off. A rare win in what might as well be the culinary Olympics.
My fingers tap a nervous rhythm on the counter as I survey my small dining area, which I transformed with a thrift store tablecloth to hide the scuffed surface.
I arrange my two unmatched wine glasses, the least chipped plates in my cabinet, and silverware polished with the sleeve of my hoodie. A pair of purple candles stand tall in the center, surrounded by a handful of fresh flowers I splurged on from the bodega up the street.
“You’re overthinking this,” I mutter to myself, stepping back to assess my handiwork. “He’s seen you unconscious and drooling. The bar is low.”
My fifteen-minute timer goes off, and my heart flutters as I head to my bedroom, where I laid out the lingerie I plan to wear tonight. Purchasing it took a chunk of my emergency fund, but I wanted to wear a new outfit for Sebastian, not something someone else bought for me.
I strip off my cooking clothes and step into the delicate garment, the cool lace gliding over my heated skin.
The mirror reflects back my flushed cheeks, pupils dilated with anticipation, and hair that I styled with actual product instead of my usual finger-combing. The emerald lace makes my green eyes pop, whichSebastian will have to imagine behind my blindfold, but he won’t need any imagination to admire the way the lace hugs my hips and chest.
A small patch of self-consciousness bubbles up when I turn to check the view from behind. Does my ass look good enough? I’ve never worried before about what my viewers think of my body. They get what they pay for.
But Sebastian isn’t coming here tonight as a client.
With a deep breath, I crush my insecurity and reach for the robe hanging on my closet door. The black faux-silk slides over my shoulders, cinches at my waist, and falls to mid-thigh with just enough coverage to maintain some mystery until the right moment.
On my way back to the dining area, I grab the blindfold from my nightstand drawer. The black silk has become our strange token of trust, a connection point in our unconventional relationship. I place it beside my place setting, ready for when Sebastian arrives.
When my two-minute timer goes off, I dim the lights and light the candles, transforming the apartment into a warm, intimate space, the flames casting flickering shadows across the walls.
Right on the dot, three firm knocks sound at my door.
My pulse skyrockets, blood rushing so fast through my veins that I hear it in my ears. I take a deep breath, straighten my robe, and run a hand through my hair one final time.
“Who is it?” I call, though I know the answer.
His deep, rich baritone penetrates the wood between us. “Sebastian.”
Warmth curls through my stomach as I grab the blindfold from the table. “Coming!”
At the door, I secure the blindfold, the padded silk blocking out the candlelight.
Reaching out, my fingers find the deadbolt, then the knob. I turn both and step back, allowing space for him to enter. “The door is open.”
The hinges creak, and the shift in air currents as the door opens causes the hem of my bathrobe to flutter at my thighs. Then his pheromones reach me, familiar now after days wrapped in the bedding where he slept while caring for me.
The door clicks shut, and a moment of silence stretches between us before large hands cup my face, thumbs tracing my cheekbones. I lean into his touch, drawn by the scent of him.
“You’re lovely tonight,” Sebastian murmurs, his breath warm on my lips.
Before I can respond, his mouth captures mine in a kiss that steals the air from my lungs. His lips move with confident pressure, neither demanding nor tentative. Perfect. My hands find his chest, fingers curling into the soft fabric of his expensive sweater.
When we break apart, my face burns beneath the blindfold. I touch the collar of my robe. “I have a surprise for you underneath.”
His hand slides down my arm to find my fingers, entwining them with his own. “I look forward to discovering what that might be.”
Adingfrom the oven startles me from the moment.
“The potatoes!”
I spin toward the sound, misjudging my position in the room, and my shin connects with the footstool I’d moved to vacuum earlier and then forgot about. Pain shoots up my leg as I pitch forward, arms flailing for balance.
