Page 60 of I Love You, I Hate You
Victoria rested her forehead against his. “I don’t know if we have the best track record when it comes to talking,” she said with a shivery sigh. She pressed against him, arms tight around his neck.
“Still though.” He cleared his throat, losing the thread before finding it again. “Maybe we should.”
“Later,” she whispered, and kissed him.
If touching her had reminded him of what he was missing, it was nothing compared to this. Kissing Victoria meant bursting into flames, a wildfire racing through his bloodstream that no amount of water could quench. She nipped at his lower lip and he growled, crushing her against him as his tongue traced the seam of her mouth. When she granted him access he was lost, the brush of their tongues replacing every coherent thought in his head and the taste of her lips driving out any hope of regaining control.
Her nails scraped his scalp and she hitched her leg around his hip, rocking her core against him. But that wasn’t enough—nothing would ever be enough with her. Owen hefted her into his arms and let her wrap her legs around his waist. She whimpered, limbs going soft, and Owen spun them around so he could sit on the narrow ledge that lined the pool just a foot or so under the water.
He loved this. He loved bringing her to the edge like this, making her crazy with want. It wasn’t a power thing for him, it was just knowing that she wantedhim. She could have anyone, but she wanted him, and that was enough. But he didn’t get to want this, not yet. He slowed his movements, gentling a hand down her back and pulling away for a breath.
“Does it count as dry humping if we’re in a pool?” she joked, lips on his jawline.
Owen nosed at her cheek until he found her mouth. “Just how pedantic do you want me to be?” he replied. His erection was pressed between them, but guilt reared its ugly head and he softened slightly. Victoria reached her hand down but he intercepted her, lacing their fingers together and diverting her hand away. He cleared his throat. “And I know we don’t have the best track record at talking, but we probably should.”
She heaved a sigh and tempered it with a sloppy kiss to his temple. “Fine. But I want wine first,” she announced, and climbed elegantly out of the pool. His own movements were clumsy, his fading erection making him awkward. Victoria padded across the floor in nothing but a tiny scrap of fabric, water streaming after her, as if she owned the whole place. She snatched a towel from the cart Ashley always left loaded by the wall, and after a second she took a thick, terrycloth bathrobe as well. “Are these for guests?” she asked.
Owen nodded and shrugged into one himself. “Wine cellar is that way.”
She led the way down the hall, feet slapping against the wood slats. She drew up short when they entered the wine cellar, because it really did need to be seen to be believed. The arched ceiling was stucco, and the mosaic floor was straight out of Pompeii’s ruins—which was no coincidence, as Ashley had hired an artist to recreate murals to that exact specification. Racks and racks of wine bottles surrounded them, amounting to several hundred thousand dollars in alcohol alone. Warm, yellow lights glowed from a chandelier hanging from the apex of the dome, and the faint hiss of the climate control unit told him they were letting in too much humidity from the pool. The room was almost a thousand square feet, with cabinets for glasses and decanters on the left and a granite-topped island in the center, complete with padded leather stools for people to sit on. This wasn’t just a storage room, it was a room meant to be seen by guests who would then sample the wine right there. Ashley and Charles sometimes had tasting parties down here, and the nearest liquor store had someone who called them whenever a particular vintage came in. Wine had never been Owen’s thing, probably because he would do anything to avoid being his father, but he knew that this room was special to Charles and Ashley.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she said quietly. “You know, there are people out there on food stamps.”
“Believe me, I know,” Owen agreed. “It’s over the top.”
“And here I was picturing, like, a really big closet. Holy shit,” she muttered, spinning slowly on her heels. “Where do you even start?”
“At random,” he admitted. “I know there’s a method to how they store it, and they keep the really special stuff in that rack, but beyond that I’m just as lost as you,” he said, nodding to the floor-to-ceiling honeycomb on the far wall. “But anything we pick is going to be good, because that’s one advantage of rich people. We can usually be counted on to have hired someone to tell us what to buy. What’s your go-to?”
“Red,” she laughed. “But, um . . . Cabernet Sauvignon? Usually? Is that too pedestrian? Should I ask for a Bordeaux?”
“I have no goddamn idea,” Owen said, scanning the rack nearest him. “Okay, here’s a Cab Sav. There’s supposed to be a whole process with pouring it into a decanter and letting it breathe, but honestly, the wine police won’t arrest us if we don’t bother.”
Victoria found some glasses in the cabinet and he fished a corkscrew out of a drawer in the island. The rich scent wafted out of the bottle and she closed her eyes in pleasure at the first sip. “Damn, that’s good. What else is this house hiding?”
“The top floor has a view of the lake,” Owen said. “It’s pretty damn spectacular.”
“Lead the way,” she said, but this time, she slipped her hand into his as they walked.
Chapter Twenty-two
Victoria gasped with delight when they reached the third floor loft. From up here, they were above the trees and had an unobstructed view of the lake. Moonlight glinted off the ice, and on the far side of the bay house lights shone warm and inviting. “Being rich must be so nice,” she said, without any real heat, and he laughed.
“There’s really not a downside,” he agreed.
“What, you’re not going to tell me some sob story about being a poor little one percenter?” She sipped her wine, warm to her very bones. Now was her chance to say thank you for the job recommendation, but she didn’t want it to seem like she was here to pay him back for that. She had to find The Moment, was all. She definitely wasn’t stalling or anything.
“Hey, we’re not like, billionaires.”
“I’m sorry, but how many homes do you guys own?”
“Technically, Dad and Ashley only own this one.”
“Technically?”
He shrugged. “They sold the house in Hilton Head a little while ago. But I see your point.”
“I’m stuck on this, though—growing up, did you know you were rich?”