The elevator is all mirrors and brass. Jordan catches my eye in the reflection, and I see the heat building there. Years of marriage, and she still looks at me like she did that first night at Baker Street. Like she wants to crawl inside my skin and live there.
"The Alpine Suite is our most exclusive accommodation," Celeste says as we ascend. "You'll have the entire fourth floor to yourselves. The nearest occupied suite is two floors below."
"Good," Jordan says, and her hand finds mine.
No one to hear her scream my name.
The elevator doors open directly into our suite, and I take in the space with satisfaction. The main room is enormous, all exposed timber beams and stone walls. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook snow-covered peaks that glow silver in the moonlight. A massive stone fireplace dominates one wall, already crackling with flames that cast dancing shadows across the polished hardwood floors.
The bed is enormous, covered in white linens that I'm already imagining stained with my wife's arousal. King-sized doesn't do it justice. It's a fucking playground.
To the left, a seating area with leather furniture and a bar stocked with top-shelf liquor. To the right, I catch a glimpse of the bathroom—marble and glass, with a shower big enough for a platoon.
"The balcony is through here," Celeste says, leading us to French doors. "The hot tub is heated and ready. We've stocked it with champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries."
"Will there be anything else?" she asks, turning back to us.
"Privacy," I say firmly. "Complete privacy. No housekeeping unless we call. No disturbances."
"Of course, Monsieur. The resort's Christmas Eve gala is tomorrow night if you'd like to attend. Black tie. It's quite spectacular."
I look at Jordan, who's already shaking her head. "We're here to avoid people, not socialize with them."
"As you wish. Please don't hesitate to call if you need anything." Celeste disappears into the elevator with a practiced smile, and the doors close behind her.
The elevator descends, taking her with it, and we're alone.
The moment the door closes, I have Jordan against it, my hand wrapped in her dark hair, pulling her head back to expose that gorgeous throat. "Alone at last."
"Fitz," she breathes, her hands clutching at my shoulders. "We just got here."
"And I've been hard since we boarded the plane, thinking about all the ways I'm going to use you this week." I trace the pearl collar with my tongue, feeling her pulse hammer against my lips. Salt and sweetness. Jordan and need. "Strip. Now."
Her hands go to the zipper of her dress, but she pauses. "What about unpacking?"
"Jordan." I use the voice that makes every submissive at Baker Street drop to their knees. Low. Controlled. Absolute. "Did I ask you a question?"
"No, Master." The words come out breathy.
"Did I give you an order?"
"Yes, Master."
"Then what should you be doing right now?"
Her hands find the zipper again, and this time she doesn't hesitate. The dress pools at her feet in a whisper of expensive fabric. She's wearing the black lace lingerie I picked out before we left London—a balconette bra that showcases her breasts, a garter belt, stockings, and absolutely no panties. Because Jordan doesn't wear panties unless I specifically allow it.
"Beautiful," I growl, circling her slowly. The firelight plays across her skin, turning her golden. Every curve, every line—I've memorized them all, but they still steal my breath. "Turn around. Hands on the door."
She complies, and I run my hands down her back, feeling the delicate ridge of her spine, the subtle tension in her muscles. She's wound tight, still carrying London stress in her shoulders. Over the curve of her ass, perfect and round and made for my hands. Between her legs, where she's already wet. Already ready. My perfect, responsive wife.
"Do you know what I thought about on the plane?" I ask, spreading her legs wider with my knee. The stockings rasp against my trousers. "I thought about taking you in the lavatory. Bending you over the sink, watching your face in the mirror as I fucked you."
"Why didn't you?" Her voice is breathy, needy.
"Because when I finally get inside you after a day of travel, I want to take my time." I unfasten my belt, the leather sliding through the loops with a whisper of sound that makes her shiver. She knows that sound. Knows what it means. "I want to hear youscream without worrying about other passengers. I want to see you spread out on that bed, taking everything I give you."
"Yes, Sir. Please, Master."
