The Most Special Chosen

by Rachel De La Fuente

  My eyes traverse the well-furnished room. The floor is a richly polished wood. To my left, in front of the mirror, are two Victorian couches with an ornately carved coffee table in between, under which runs a gorgeous Oriental rug. A giant flat-screen TV hangs on the opposing wall. A red and cream patterned curtain hangs directly opposite me, behind a hallway table with a large mirror and a coat rack.

  “What’s with the curtain?” I ask.

  Damien’s uncomfortable expression sparks my curiosity. “It is nothing to concern us, Chérie.” His vague response clinches it. I walk over to the curtain and look back at him, half expecting him to pull me away. He’s still standing by the door, however, looking extremely uncomfortable.

  Since he’s not going to stop me, and my curiosity has definitely gotten the best of me by now, I pull the curtain aside and peek in. Behind it is an even smaller room that is dominated by an enormous bed. There’s barely enough room to walk around it.

  “Oh. Okay.” I know I sound suddenly suspicious, but I don’t really know what to make of this. Is he expecting something? Could Shawn be right about him?

  “I told you it does not concern us, Elysabeth. That is my parents’ room.” He looks worried, as though I’m going to explode any second.

  Do not worry, all is well.

  I accept my intuition’s assertion. Damien seems genuinely upset by my possible reaction to the room, so it’s unlikely he’s planning something.

  “You said something about dancing, Damien. Can we go now? I saw some people on the floor as we came in.” Looking relieved, he places our bags on the hallway table.

  “Of course, Chérie.” I leave my purse on the coffee table before he leads me out to the large dance floor. It’s not crowded, but there are enough people to make me feel comfortable. Once again, Damien proves his expertise as a dancer, leading me around the floor effortlessly.

  He varies between spinning me around and holding me close, in what seems to be a mix of many styles. As the music changes, he leads me through first a waltz, and then the tango. My many years of dance lessons are paying off today. After a few songs, his eyes are shining with a desire that mirrors my own.

  My mind flits to the giant bed, but I shake my head a bit, clearing that thought. It’s too early for that, Lys. I haven’t known him very long. The music changes to an unfamiliar rhythm.

  “La Volta,” Damien says. “It is a dance of seduction.” The name stirs my memory, calling forth references to it in books I’ve read and movies I’ve seen about Queen Elizabeth I. I don’t understand why the music would be played now; that dance has been out of fashion for hundreds of years. The dancers, however, seem to have no problem with it.

  I clumsily follow Damien through the dance, wondering how he knows the steps. He must have learned in Europe. But as he slides me along his body in the sensual movements, I don’t care. Before the song even ends, I pull away from him and take his hand, leading him back to the room. He punches in the code, and I push him through the door, kicking it closed behind me.

  “Elysabeth?” My desires getting the best of me, I silence him with a kiss and start backing him to the sofa. He breaks away from me for a moment and shakes his head, probably trying to clear it. I run my hands down his chest and stomach. I was right; I can feel a barbell piercing through each nipple. I’m not usually one for piercings, but they seem right for him, downright sexy even.

  “Elysabeth? What are you—” His voice is tight and cuts off completely as I kiss him again. He pulls me tight against him. His kiss is fierce and demanding, unlike anything I’ve ever known.

  When we separate for air, he takes the final steps backward to the sofa. He stumbles as his calves hit the edge, but sits gracefully, pulling me with him. I straddle him to maintain my balance and lean forward to kiss his ear. As I do so, he runs his hands up my back pulling me close. He kisses his way down my neck and shoulder, before lightly grazing me with his teeth. The slight pain sends a ripple of complete pleasure straight to my core and I stop thinking.

  I lean back a bit, and Damien moves his hands down to my butt to hold me. I run my hands down his stomach and, as though on their own, they drift lower. When I grasp the zipper on his pants, conscious thought kicks in again. What the hell am I doing? I get off of him quickly.

  “Oh my God! Damien, I—” I drop onto the other sofa and let my head fall into my hands. This is our first date. I don’t do this kind of thing.

  “Elysabeth, are you all right? We did not—I mean, I did not bring you here for this. I brought you here to dance. I hope you—Could you possibly . . . Have I offended you?”

  “No, Damien,” I mumble around my hands. “You’re fine, I just . . . I’m not usually like this.” I lift my head to look him in the eyes. “I’m not into hookups. Please don’t get the wrong impression of me.” Silence falls as neither of us knows what to say, and stretches out, growing more and more awkward. I have no experience with this sort of situation. Usually, I’m pushing guys off of me. In the continued silence, I start to wonder exactly why I acted like such a horndog. I haven’t eaten or drunk anything since I left my house, so I know Damien couldn’t possibly have given me anything to cause this. Where has this odd behavior come from?

  “I am sorry, Chérie,” he says gently, “you are distressed. Would you like me to take you home?”

  His voice jerks me from my contemplation. “Hmm? No, no, it’s okay. But, um . . . was I . . . ” I shake my head. “Never mind. I apologize; I don’t know what I was thinking.” The longer I sit there, the more embarrassed I become. Shame starts to creep in as well. Had things gone much further, I would have seriously regretted it later, and I shouldn’t put myself in that kind of position.

  “Elysabeth, do not apologize, I was a willing participant.” He grins. “I would not have allowed it to go much further. I value you far too much to take advantage of you.”

  “Thanks.”

  He smiles as he stands and comes to sit next to me. He hugs me close, and I nestle into him. When naughty thoughts start creeping back into my mind, I know it’s time to leave. “So, what shall we do for the rest of the day? It’s only six.”

  “Excellent question, Chérie. Are you hungry?”

  “Only for you.” Shit, why did I say that?

  Damien laughs, a deep, rumble of joy, and squeezes me gently. “I am serious, Elysabeth. Do you have anything you would like to do?”

  I think for a moment. I want to go somewhere where we can stay close without the titillating isolation we’re currently experiencing. “Do you want to go see a movie? There must be something decent playing.”

  He nods, looking pleased. “That sounds delightful.”

  I smooth down my skirt, checking myself over in the mirror before we head out, chatting pleasantly about nothing.

  When we arrive at the theater, we discover that everything has either already started or has over an hour wait.

  “Damn, I should have checked movie times on my phone. Sorry.”

  “No need to apologize, Chérie, I did not think of it either. How about dinner instead?”

  My stomach rumbles, voicing its opinion. “I think that’s a yes.”

  “Do you like Italian?”

  “Short of sushi and liver, if it’s food, I’ll eat it. Oh, and Brussels sprouts, I don’t like those either.” His laugh warms me to my toes.

  We get to know each other better on our way to the restaurant. Or rather, Damien gets to know me, as he seems oddly reluctant to speak about his childhood and family. I don’t want to push, though. I’m sure he’ll open up once he gets to know me better.

  Once again, Damien hurries around the car to open the door for me. When I turn in the seat to step out, his eyes are glued to the hem of my skirt where it’s shifted upwards, showing off the edge of my stockings and a bit of garter belt. He has a hungry look that makes me simultaneously desire to pull the skirt higher and cover myself up.

  “Should I change back into my pants?” I tease.
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br />   “Not at all, Chérie. You look ravishing.” I try to control my silly grin as he leads the way inside. To say I’m surprised by the décor is an understatement. Once again, we’re in a Renaissance world. The people are an eclectic mix, everything from jeans and t-shirts to evening wear.

  The hostess gives Damien a very obvious once over. I feel a twinge of jealousy, so I step closer to him, and drape an arm around his waist, laying my claim. My claim? Whoa, where did that come from? Damien’s arm snakes its way around my shoulders, bringing my focus to the exquisite feeling of his skin on mine.

  The hostess leads us through the restaurant to some comfortable booths that overlook the ocean. How had I missed that? I certainly hadn’t noticed that we were near the ocean, nor do I remember driving uphill. But apparently, the restaurant is built on a hill with a sheer drop to the beach below.

  Damien and I sit, and I make sure to adjust my skirt so the tops of my stockings are fully covered. When I’m done, the hostess, who has definitely spent the time ogling Damien, hands him his menu with a wink, but he looks past her at me. She gets the message and walks away looking glum after placing my menu on the table.

  I take a moment to look out the window and down at the beach. “I certainly hope there isn’t an earthquake while we’re here.”

  Damien looks up from his menu with a reassuring grin. “Do not worry, Chérie, it has survived several already.”

  “How would you know that?”

  He pauses for a moment, not to collect his thoughts, but as though he’s made a mistake. “The menus say open since 1800. I imagine it has survived several earthquakes in that time.”

  “Oh.” I’m not entirely convinced; his answer sounds like he’s grasping at straws. I don’t get time to think about it, however, as Damien’s voice pulls me from my thoughts.

  “What would you like, Elysabeth?”

  “Huh?” I look up and realize the waitress has arrived, and I haven’t even opened my menu. “Um, I’m not quite ready yet, sorry.”

  “Do not apologize, ma chère. It is quite all right. A few more minutes, please,” he tells the waitress pleasantly.

  She nods. “Okay, then. I’ll be right back.”

  I finally open my menu, only to notice that something is odd. It takes me a moment to put my finger on it.

  “There aren’t any prices on this menu.”

  Damien looks up at me, obviously confused. “Of course not, Chérie. You have the ladies’ menu. They do not put prices on it.”

  “That’s kind of sexist. Does yours have prices?”

  “Yes, of course. But it is not sexist, Chérie, it is simply old-fashioned.”

  “Swap with me, then.”

  “Ma chère, price is no object. Not having prices is supposed to enable you to order whatever you like.”

  “Oh.” I feel embarrassed that I’m making a big deal about this, somewhat irritated that Damien has just brushed my request aside, and a little dumb for not knowing about this type of thing. I can only imagine how expensive everything is if the restaurant is ritzy enough to have two menus.

  Obviously, some of my emotions are readily visible. “You are uncomfortable, I apologize.”

  I take a deep breath to calm down. “No, it’s okay, I’ll be fine. I’m just not used to this.” I flip through the menu and settle on a basic alfredo dish and a water. That can’t possibly cost much, right?

  “Do you like wine, Elysabeth?”

  “Hmm? Oh, no, not really, I don’t like the taste of alcohol.”

  “I ask because they have a wine here that has a sweet taste. Would you like to try it?”

  I shrug. “I suppose, if you’re having some, but I don’t know that I’ll like it.”

  Damien smiles. “That is quite all right.”

  When the waitress returns, I order, but Damien isn’t willing to let me get away with my plan. And I forgot that I’d told him I love seafood.

  “Elysabeth, I told you that price is no object to me. Do not restrict your order on my account. She will have the seafood alfredo. I will have the chicken parmigiana. We would each like a glass of the Moscato d’Asti, and please inform the bartender that I would like a pint of the apple-blueberry cider. Oh, and the calamari appetizer, please.” His odd emphasis confuses me, but I have more important things to think of.

  “Okay. Can I see your ID’s?” I fish mine out of my purse and show it to her. “Thank you. I’ll be right back with your drinks.” I wait for her to get out of hearing range as I have some major fish to fry.

  “Damien, I’m sure I would have been perfectly happy with my alfredo and water.”

  “I am sure. The pasta here is delicious. So imagine how much better it will be with shrimp, scallops, and clams.” I sigh. That does sound really good. But I need to make my point. I won’t stand for having my wishes ignored, no matter how gorgeous he is.

  “Next time, let me order what I want, please.”

  “I will, if that is truly what you want. But know that you need not sacrifice an excellent dinner for fear I cannot afford it.”

  “It’s not just that, Damien. I just . . . ” I decide to try a different tact. “I don’t like people spending more money on me than I can spend on them.” His smile is so sweet it could be my dessert.

  “I can understand that, but I believe you deserve the best.” I sigh, wondering how to get my point across. Before I can come up with an answer, the waitress returns.

  “Thomas will be bringing your cider personally, Sir.”

  “Thank you.” Damien tries the wine and nods, so the waitress fills his glass and mine before leaving. Damien takes another sip of wine and sighs. “Mmm, delicious.” His gaze is locked on me, and I briefly wonder if he’s talking about the wine. “Try yours, Chérie.” I do as he says, if only to give myself something else to concentrate on.

  “Wow! This is really good.”

  “I thought you would like it. It is supposed to be a dessert wine, but I often drink it with dinner.”

  “Really? I thought that was a major faux pas.”

  “I do not always concern myself with such things.” He says dismissively.

  The bartender, Thomas, presumably, suddenly appears with a glass of cider for Damien. I’m surprised by the color, it’s a deep red. “Your cider, Sir. Will the young lady require any?”

  “No.” Damien’s voice is low, but harsh, which startles me.

  The bartender looks at me closely, then nods. “Of course, my apologies.” He bows and leaves, and I’m left staring at Damien, completely confused.

  “So, um, what’s the cider like?”

  He looks suddenly nervous. “It is quite good.”

  “Oh. Did I tell you I’m allergic to blueberries?”

  He shakes his head. “No, Chérie, why do you ask?”

  “I’m curious why you turned down the bartender’s offer without asking me first.”

  He looks incredibly uncomfortable. “This cider is special, it is alcoholic, and you can definitely taste the alcohol content. I did not think you would like it.”

  “Oh. Do you think you should be drinking so much when you’re going to drive?”

  “It is a glass of wine and a glass of cider, Chérie. I am hardly finishing my own six pack. I think I can manage.”

  His tone rankles, and I narrow my eyes, feeling distinctly like I’m being patronized.

  He notices my look. “Truly, Chérie, you need not worry. Forgive me if my answer was rude.” I nod. At least he apologized. He’s silent for a moment, absentmindedly tracing the lip of his glass with his finger. “Elysabeth, may I be so presumptuous as to assume that your actions earlier today mean you return my attraction?”

  He doesn’t look at me, and for a moment I worry he’s going to give me bad news. “Yeah,” I say, hesitantly, blushing as I remember how far I almost went. “I would think that was obvious.”

  The return of his easy grin relaxes me. “I simply want to be sure. I would not wish you to think I do not respect yo
u. I genuinely like you and enjoy spending time with you. Would you . . . that is . . . ” A waiter appears at that moment with our appetizer, silencing Damien. When he’s left, I’m far too curious to let the conversation lag.

  “You were saying?”

  “Oh, yes.” He cheeks turn pink. “I hope this does not sound juvenile, but, would you consent to making our relationship exclusive? I do not do well with sharing, you see.”

  “Are you asking to be my boyfriend?” I can’t believe it. This is the first time anyone has actually asked. I usually have to ask where we stand.

  “Yes, I suppose so. Would that please you?” he looks at me hopefully.

  I’m amazed at his awkwardness and sudden timidity. He usually seems so self-assured. I feel a blush spread across my cheeks as I answer. “Yeah, that would please me greatly, Damien.” His smile lights up his whole face, and an answering smile appears on my own. We chat pleasantly between our appetizer and main course, though silence falls as our meals arrive. And damn if Damien wasn’t right. The seafood alfredo is amazing.

  When dinner is done, I’m not quite ready for the night to end. It’s only 9. “Is the beach open at night?”

  “I believe there is only one way to find out.” He drives around to the parking lot, only to find it locked up tight. A sign proclaims the beach closed at 8 pm. I sigh, disappointed.

  “I know of a beach open all night that we can visit another time, Chérie.”

  “All right,” I answer enthusiastically. “I’ve always wanted to visit a beach at night.”

  “You have never been?” he asks, sounding surprised.

  “No, unfortunately,” I mumble, feeling suddenly embarrassed.

  “We will make time when you are better dressed for cold weather,” he tells me kindly.

  “I could always change back into my pants,” I answer mischievously, knowing his answer.

  “Unfortunately, there is no dressing room, Chérie. But not to worry. I promise you we shall visit a beach at night when it is warmer.”

  It won’t be much warmer until March at the earliest. I’m assuming he knows that, so is he implying we’ll still be together in March? Sure, I like him, but he’s awfully sure of himself, isn’t he? Then again, it could be one of those things guys say to placate their girlfriends. Maybe I’m overanalyzing things. Deciding not to comment on his words, I lean back in my seat, trying to think of something else to do.