8. Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight

B ecca

As I sit on the bed waiting for my turn in the shower, I give myself a mental pat on the back for not being too proud to eat in the dining room tonight. Dinner was divine.

Although I’ve been a chef here for months, and have tasted everything on the menu, there was something about sitting in the dimly lit dining room, eating with silver utensils and dining on white linen tablecloths, that made the food even more delicious.

Or maybe it was the company.

That male would look good while mud wrestling, I’m sure of it. But seeing him sitting proud in that sexy black kilt with that amazing chest on full display made him even more desirable. The candlelight played off his perfectly symmetrical features, and the silver line that slashes across his lips called loudly to me as I had to force myself not to cross the distance and lick a stripe along it with the tip of my tongue.

A sharp pang of sadness blasts through me when I recall the conversation we had. I was once again commenting on how quickly he learned everything I taught him. He shrugged, and said, “Yeah, not bad for a male who was snatched out of his yard at age nine and then thrown into gladiatorial training. I’d grown up wealthy, had never spent more than five minutes in the kitchen before my abduction. After that? As you know, slaves eat whatever is slopped into their bowl.”

It wasn’t only the words that made hot tears gather behind my lids—though the picture they painted gutted me—it was the way he said it, so guileless, completely lacking in self-pity.

Once again, self-reproach spikes through me as I recall my behavior in our cooking challenge yesterday. I was so focused on winning that I left Pyne to fend for himself, floundering as I scolded him for every wrong measurement and accidental tail mishap.

My callous behavior is even worse when compared to how he treated me today in zero grav. The first thing he did after the buzzer sounded was to grab my hand—and he never let go. He was so skilled—between his muscular build and the way he used his tail to steer us—that he could have gone so much faster without my dead weight. He never even considered ditching me.

This is a male of worth.

The thought echoes in my mind, rolling around in there as clear and sharp as a gong. I’m falling for Pyne and, as opposed to most of the men—all losers—I dated back on Earth. Frankly, there’s no good reason to step on the brakes.

After dinner, he showers and emerges from the refresher in a humid cloud with a fluffy white towel wrapped around his trim waist. Why does this seem sexier than his kilt? It covers the same amount of skin. I don’t know. Perhaps it’s the rivulets sliding down his shoulders and pecs, or the way he leans forward and slings his head back and forth to shake the water out of his long, dark hair. Maybe it’s the way his gaze connects and then doesn’t run from mine.

“My turn,” I announce brightly as I breeze past him to claim my turn in the shower.

I’ve never been an impulsive person, always following the rules, coloring inside the lines. So I spend an inordinate amount of time under the water as I allow my head and my heart to conduct a debate.

My head says I’ve only known him a few days, and I’m a slave who’s owned by this hotel. When we lose this competition, he’ll fly away and I’ll never see him again.

My heart—okay, I’ll be honest. I’m not sure it’s my heart as much as my clit. My clit says I haven’t had sex in a long time and he’s not just hot, he’s thoughtful and kind.

Most important of all, I can’t think of a single downside, not really.

It was as though I sat on the sidelines watching the logic versus emotion argument, all the while knowing the eventual outcome. I’m going to have sex with Pyne the moment I step out of the shower.