Chelsea laughed, and wrapped her arms around his neck. “I do like a good cuddle.”
“Then that’s all we’ll do for the rest of the night,” he said, and wrapped his arms around her, stroking her back. “I told you we’d go slow and if it takes months, then that’s what it’ll take.”
“Years?”
“Or years,” he agreed.
She buried her face against his neck, inhaling his scent. He really was the sweetest guy.
*
He really, really was going to die of blue balls. Sebastian held Chelsea against him, stroking her back as she dozed.
Years. Jesus.
She hadn’t been into the kiss. He could tell that the moment he opened his eyes and saw her frustrated expression. Instead, she’d analyzed it like it was a problem. Like if she added tongue plus lips, it might equal fun. He wondered if she was in her own head too much to enjoy things.
He wondered if the problem was him.
That was a blow to the ego. He knew he was good-looking enough, and he was rich. And (to his great dismay) marginally famous. That usually added up to more women than he could possibly ever want. Now he wanted one, and she had zero interest in sex.
One thing was clear, though. He wasn’t going to pressure her. She was going to take the reins, and he was going to let her have full control, however she wanted, for as long as she wanted.
And while it might be a bit torturous for him at times, it would be the most delicious kind of torture. Already his mind was racing as to how he might ease her into their next round of awkward foreplay.
At some point, she had to snap out of it, right? To recover what she felt she’d lost?
Then again, it was like she said: There was no rape-victim guidebook on how to feel. She’d been through hell and emerged out the other side. If she took a bit longer to get turned on, then, well, he’d just have to wait for her.
Sebastian’s hand stroked down her back, feeling the line of her spine under her soft skin. Some people were worth waiting for, and Chelsea was definitely one of them.
Chapter Sixteen
“Still mad at you,” Gretchen said, and stabbed a forkful of salad. “Getting married on a whim and not telling your friends. I mean, hello. If we were doing Vegas weddings, you know I’d have brought the Elvis impersonator.”
“Which is probably why we didn’t do Vegas,” Chelsea said easily, stirring her soup with a spoon. They were having lunch at a busy little restaurant in the heart of Manhattan not too far from Cooper’s Cuppa. They’d spent the morning shopping, and Chelsea now had a few designer soaps (for comparison reasons) and new knee socks. Gretchen hadn’t bought much of anything, instead talking Chelsea’s ear off about the wedding and the issues she was having and how much stress it was.
“Yes, but New Orleans? Gross. The last time we went there, someone vomited on me.” She wrinkled her nose and stabbed her salad again. “Also, this salad sucks.”
“The soup’s pretty good,” Chelsea offered. “Want to switch?”
“No. I need to lose weight before the wedding,” Gretchen said glumly. “A dressmaker told me I had fat thighs.”
“What? You’re fine,” Chelsea assured her. Gretchen was a solid sort of girl, but she also had a sedentary job and an adoring fiancé. “And the wedding’s a year away.”
“Oh, I figure I’ll start a diet and bail on it a dozen times between now and then. I’m hoping to eventually net a few pounds less than I started with.” Gretchen shrugged. “But enough about me and my wedding. I want to hear how it is being newly married to Sebastian. I can’t believe you two got hitched. Didn’t he date that chick with the duck lips from that show?”
“What chick? What show?”
“The one his family’s on?”
Oh, right. She kept forgetting about that.