, Dimitri finally shows up as I'm lying on his ridiculously comfortable sofa watching a random programme about wildlife. "Hey, you settled in well?" I prop myself straight, craning my neck and my lips curve with his presence. He stalks closer, leaning against the sofa back, "Seems like you have. Already made yourself comfortable," We exchange a few words, I ask him about his day and he narrates how Anwar has been an absolute dick to him today.

"You met Mrs Barton?" he inquires over his shoulder and he reaches down to the end of the hall and disappears into his bedroom. This oddly feels normal. Is this what domesticated life is like?

"Yeah, is she here all the time?"

"No, three times a week," he calls backs.

"Oh is–" My words are left unsung in my mouth as he doesn't return out of his room. I return my attention back to the programme - David Attenborough is narrating. It's easy to lose track of time. Time loses its meaning, the length, the fleeting moment is merely a second in my revive.

Thirty minutes later, Dimitri returns out of his bedroom again. This time, his dark blue tie is discarded, two buttons unopened and his hair is dishelved. He's undoubtedly been twisting his hands through it. He doesn't pass me a glance and leads through two double doors.

I follow after him, wanting to inquire about dinner. The sky has blackened, the buildings are glittering with tiny boxes of light and my stomach is rumbling. There's soft jazz pouring into the kitchen through speakers, the sound of utensils in a draw clanging together.

With confusion blasted on my face, I stumble through the double doors. The sight before me leaves me staggered, mouth open. Dimitri's rolled his sleeves up, the fire burning underneath the pan and the oven on as he finely sliced onions as if he'd had years of experience.

Maybe he's more than a pretty face and work ethic. I have him underestimated. I stunter myself on the chair, elbows on the island, leaning over. For a second, I'm mesmerized by the sight in front of me. "You cook?" He hums, slipping his finger into his mouth for a taste of a sauce concoction. "Crazy. I was just about to ask you what you wanted for dinner,"

His lips curve listening to my words, but he's focused on peeling another onion. Not a single tear shed. Where as me? I constantly had to stop and back way before resuming to dice the whole onion. "Nah, with me you don't have to worry about that. Just sit and relax," he beckons. "I'm a man who loves cooking and I won't let you starve." It's a small promise.

"Fantastic. I got myself a personal chef. I can finally put my feet up and rest," I throw the joke for good measure.

He grins at the remark. "Cooking is a hobby of mine that Mum introduced me to and I've loved it for as long as I remember. Just wish I had more time to experiment in the kitchen. Back at Cambridge, I used to cook for my flatmates and they were grateful otherwise it was pot noodles and pasta for the week."

He pushes a bowl of sliced cucumber sprinkled with salt towards me, and I begin munching on them. "Definitely one bad habit I had," he freezes in his tracks, his eyes narrowed at me. He seems disappointed and tells me he thought better of me. I shrug, declaring uni had me by the neck and my assignments took priority.

"My family have this on-going joke that if I wasn't forced into the family business I would've been a rip-off Gordon Ramsay," he's in the middle of expertly sautéing vegetable stir-fry. He flips the vegetables, I study the green, red and yellow crash into the pan again. It simmers away.

"Hm, I think so too. Less wrinkled and more kind perhaps,"

He winks at me, grinning. "You bet,"

"If you hadn't taken over what would you have been doing?"

"Wall Street maybe. I don't know? It's hard to get there." I don't doubt it one bit especially for someone with his credentials. He most likely knows people.

"You? If you didn't get into teaching?" Probably rotting away under his rule despite being a legal adult. Probably adorning my neck with expensive jewellery, mingling with his associates. He would encourage me to pursue a relationship with a wealthy man.

Then again, what I'm doing right now is exactly with his liking. I wonder if the news has broken to him yet? I wonder if he knows about Dimitri. I pray he doesn't. I've spent too long hiding from him. "Not sure, my mother was a teacher too. I was in her class for most of it."

"She was beautiful," he comments. He's seen the photographs, the tiny shrine that Abuela has of her. It's not hard to piece the puzzles together. "You look like her," his pupils slowly flick to mine and he holds my gaze, tilting his head slightly.

Looking into his eyes was dangerous. For a brief - a nano - millisecond, he stares at me like he genuinely cares. The corner of his lip is turning upward. His gaze is gentle, affectionate, filled with endless devotion. He's a good actor, having me convinced he feels what I'm feeling. None of this is real. I don't have the capacity for love anymore.

I force myself to stare down at the swirls of the marble. My throat feels like it's closing up. "So I've been told," Death is the single hardest adversity a person goes through. It's never easy. The bleary eyes, hushed cries, the anger towards God and life. Somehow the conversation death makes people sensitive. Brings people closer because as humans we can all relate what it's like losing someone close to us.

"What was her name?"

"Evangelía Romero," his expression flatlines, something striking across his face. Yet he doesn't say anything. After a beat, he murmurs, "Beautiful name," he murmurs, disappearing through a door. When he returns, he's holding a cold bottle of Dom Pérignon and two flutes. I grin against my knuckles having expected nothing less.

He passes me a raised eyebrow, silently telling me off. If someone had told me two months ago, I would be sitting in Dimitri Asterio's kitchen, about to sip on decadent champagne, I would have laughed in their face. Yet here I am.

My phone pings. I reach over, tilting the screen slightly to read the notifications. It's a Facebook friend request from no other than Christian Williams. Then my phone buzzes again, Theodore's name pops up. Then half of my students are requesting.

I grunt softly in anguish, burying my face into the palm of my hand and turning my phone off. "What's wrong?"

"My students have found my Facebook. They've sent friend requests,"

He pops the cork off the bottle, it smokes over the tiny hole. His brows pinch together, "Isn't that illegal? And weird?" He's measuring out the champagne into flutes.

"No, I resigned today," his face snaps up to meet mine as he does so, his hand wobbles, the flute moves away and he's pouring all the champagnes onto the island. He's cursing himself, I'm pushing off my seat, both of us trying to dry the island. Sheets of paper towels are mounted into a soggy mess. That's £200 spilled. He exchanges what's left of his, humbly passing me his full flute with an apologetic smile.

He rolls his slipping sleeve back into place, buries a hand into his hair and brings his torso in my direction. "You resigned today?"

I hum, not sure what to say. He sighs an exasperated breath, the news hitting him hard.

His hands clutched around the island, his veins taunting my eyeline. I try my best to not look down but I'm growing weaker by the second. "I somehow feel responsible. Is there anything I can do? My father is a part of the chair of trustees and an investor. I can put a word in." The last thing I need is Asterio's family getting involved. I can almost imagine Mariah's unimpressed face if she were to see Mr Asterio barge into her office to inquire about me.

Besides, I don't need a man to fix my problems. I don't need anything. I fucked myself into this mess. I'll fuck my way out.

A tilt back, a mouthful of champagne. The flavours explode inside my mouth and for a second, I feel the ground sway beneath my feet. I shake my head at him, "No, don't do that. It was my decision. I can't gamble with the school's reputation nor can I endanger any student's life or welfare by paparazzi loitering around the gates. It's better this way, a small compromise."

"I'm so sorry Bella," he states. His apology brings no comfort nor does it soothe the growing wound in my chest. "I know how much you loved the kids, Theodore never shuts up about you."

His name squeezes my heart wretched and dry until tiny fragments are glittering like stars inside, stabbing its sharpened edges into my ribs. He clearly notices the dying of my expression, the blank state of my posture because he's muttering something to himself.

He reaches into his pocket, pulling his phone out and bringing it up to his ear. "Louis, I want a word in my office at 8PM," I don't hear the feedback and the call ends. Who's Louis again?

We don't say anything more. I don't know if he has anything to say. We merely sit in silence and eat. Dimitri is a fantastic cook and I'll freely admit that in court. The peppers, sweet corn, soy sauce are exploding in my mouth merely watering it more. Is that even possible. Each bite only fills me slowly with requisite and tender brittle love. Hm, I think this is a love language.

I offer to wash up and we both sit in each other's presence, trading jokes and old tales. I'm not quite sure how tonight will be. I've settled in – barely. I've been given my own room, a large closet, en-suite bathroom. His teeth collide with his lip, his leg brushes against mine except mine is bare and I'm growing aware that my dress has ridden revealing my thighs.

Stormy darkened blue like the abyss of the ocean. Dark, unknown, unmapped. An emotion I can't tell swirls deep in his eyes, his gaze drifts to my lips, eyelids heavy. There's pulsating friction between us. Static rips through the air, hot-white sparks searing into the atmosphere. The kitchen is suddenly scorching, burning, suffocating. Maybe it's the aftermath of the heat from the stove, the champagne, the good meal or my own naïvety.

I'm wondering if he's aware of it too.

"Bella," he murmurs my name. Hot. Heavy. He leans forward, the distance closing rapidly. He's abandoned his champagne, his self-agreements and dignified strength. I'm not complaining.

His fingers begin to curl around the base of my neck, a slow heated murmur brazenly dirty - his breath hot against my neck. It's a promise of filthy nights, full course euphoria and how good he's going to treat me with my face buried into the pillows.

The screeching of the chair leg is utter cacophony to my ears as he stands, his neck dipped and mouth red-hot on mine.

He scoops me up, his inclement fingers gripping roughly into the back of my thighs. His mouth still moving against mine. Tongue tasting, exploring, learning but all I can taste is him and the aftertaste of Dom.

My fingers roughly wedge his mouth, pulling his lips together, slender fingers denting his shaven face. He pauses, gaze studying and measuring my sudden execution. I have to pull back for a manual breather because this – all this, is the craziest I've ever been. He sets me down onto the cold marble, his lips reclaiming mine again. He grunting in delight and pleasure into my mouth. It's fucking hot. I want his low husky baritone grunting in my ear instead.

Is this how he's going to take me? On the marble of his kitchen? Back arcing, legs quivering, fingers slicing into the flesh of my neck until red and strangled guttural laments.

Maybe tomorrow will be filled with regret. But tonight, none of it matters because he's clouding all my thoughts. I'm not sensible anymore. I'm completely reckless around him and especially when his tongue is filtering long sweeps up my neck. It almost makes me wonder– my mind is drifting draft into uncharted territories and he hasn't even got me naked yet.

He's hungry despite having a full meal. Reckless, insatiable, starving.

His hand is trailing up my thigh, exploring the length in slow torture. My hands are making quick of his buttons, each comes undone, the bare expanse of his bronzed chest growing visible. Palms route up his chest – it's warm from the heat – exploring the crafting of the muscles. The white shirt is ravenously shoved back so it curls around his lower arms as my hands met the slab of his shoulders. All I want to do is kiss the pulse of his neck, leaving purple flourishing in its tracks.

I'm losing patience and all my sanity by the second.

The tightness in my gut is rising, rising... rising. He's murmuring my name on his tongue - gravelly, low, inappropriate. His teeth are sinking into my neck, bite after bite. Kiss after kiss. It's been too long since anyone's touched me like this.

He cups the back of my neck, strands of brown tangled around his fingers. The grip rough against the end of my head. He's pushing me down onto the stone with his weight, my leg hitched over his shoulder.

My back is arching against the marble. Dimitri is kissing, sucking, biting the inside of my left thighs as he moves his way up. With each profane lip imprint, gets closer and closer and closer, enticing low rumbles of his name from my mouth. My fingers fist into the dark lush of his hair, pulling hard that I'm sure his scalp hurts. He never complains.

His finger threads into the band, he pulls at it. He doesn't roll it off yet. He's taking his sweet time. That's exactly the problem. He knows what he's doing - alighting a fire in the pit of me and never putting it out.

He freezes, parting my legs further before his head rises and he locks his eyes with me. Asking for permission, I murmur out a breathless yes and his lips split with a smirk. His tongue parts out, moistening his lips. His teeth tug gently on his bottom lip as his tongue retracts back.

His hooded eyes flick back to the task at hand.

This is happening. We're really doing it. He's going to do it. He sinks his teeth into the band, tugging as it begins to roll in on itself against my hip. There's a loud cough, "Mr Asterio?"

All the desire, the tension, the sinful thoughts come crashing down on us. I'm pushing Dimitri's head back as my body freezes in shock.

The man has his back turned away from us. I'm certain his cheeks are bright red from having witnessed that. He's merely doing this out of courtesy. "I'm sorry sir but you called me to your office at seven for a word. It's seven pm now sir," I'm assuming that's Louis.

"Fuck," he hisses, glancing down at his watch."Right, I did." He states, his jaw ticking, the base of his jaw defining with the action.

He threads his hand through his hair, pulling at the root, all his exasperation blasting across his face. He passes me a dark look, his brows denting in the middle and I physically can't meet his eyes as I jump off the island and begin to roll down the hem of my dress.

His hand curls into a fist, he slightly gives himself a headshake - a small self reprimand and starts to button his shirt. "Make your way there and I'll join you. Thirty-seconds," with a dejected sign he walks out, not once turning to glance at me. We both know this is over.

For the rest of the evening, Dimitri and I avoid each other. It's too embarrassing thinking that Dimitri was almost sandwiched between my thighs. I'm sitting in bed, flicking through emails and slowly beginning to accept the friend requests.

I gaze down at my thighs again. There's purple hue from where Dimitri sunk his teeth - a reminder and vow for next time.

Dimitri is cooped up in his office. Louis left an hour later, both of the men were in heated discussions. Since then, I haven't seen him and I'm hiding because it's too awkward seeing his face again. Was this even a part of the contract? Regardless, it's only time until I'm underneath him and we both know it.

***

I'm sorry for teasing like this. It's coming, very soon...