Slowly. Deliberately. Finger by finger, revealing inch after inch of pale skin, his eyes never leaving mine. It's obscene, how sensual such a simple action can be. How much heat it generates in my core just watching him bare his hand like he's unwrapping a gift.
The glove drops to the ground between us, forgotten.
"The real question," Julian whispers, closing the distance between us again, his now-bare hand coming to rest on my hip with possessive intent, "is whether or not my Omega can be a quiet gilded bird."
I grin at the challenge.
CHAPTER 31
Under The Fairy Lights
~JULIAN~
The garden's chill bites at my exposed skin like a jealous lover, nipping at my cheeks and the back of my neck where the silver strands of my hair have escaped their tie.
Frost clings to the sculpted hedges lining the path, turning them into crystalline sentinels that glitter under the strung fairy lights—thousands of tiny bulbs woven through bare branches, casting a ethereal glow that dances across the snow-dusted ground.
The air carries the crisp tang of winter pine mingled with the faint, distant aroma of woodsmoke from some far-off chimney, but closer, overpowering it all, is her.
Rosemarie's scent blooms around us, that intoxicating blend of cinnamon sugar laced with roasted coffee beans, deepened by dark vanilla and a whisper of soft amber. It's warmer now, spiked with the heady musk of her arousal, wrapping around me like a velvet noose, pulling me under.
I can't believe I'm doing this. Out here, where any wandering guest or security patrol could stumble upon us.
The Julian of three weeks ago would have scoffed at the risk, dismissed it as reckless folly unworthy of his meticulously curated life. But that version of me hadn't met her yet. Hadn't witnessed the way she'd descended those stairs like a storm cloaked in silk, her presence alone dismantling the vultures who'd circled me all evening with their barbed whispers and predatory grins.
She'd been submissive in their eyes—sweet, devoted, the perfect Omega ornament—but I saw the truth: a blade sheathed in lace, empowering me with every calculated glance and touch. It was revenge distilled into elegance, the kind I'd craved for years without knowing how to claim it. And now? Now I kneel for her, because she deserves a reward that matches the fire she ignited in my chest.
My knees sink into the thin layer of snow blanketing the grass beside the ancient oak, the cold seeping through my trousers immediately, a stark counterpoint to the heat radiating from beneath her skirt. I lift the heavy layers of purple-black silk and lace, the fabric rustling like whispered secrets as I disappear underneath. The world vanishes in an instant, replaced by this intimate cocoon—warmth enveloping me, her body heat amplified by the insulating petticoats, turning the space into a private inferno. The chill outside only heightens it, a delicious contrast that sends blood surging southward, my cock straining against my zipper with insistent demand. Her legs part for me without hesitation, thighs trembling slightly in anticipation, and I'm engulfed. That scent—god, that scent—hits me full force: slick arousal, sweet and tangy, like cinnamon-glazed fruit warmed over an open flame, mingled with the earthy undertone of her omega essence. It's feral-making, turning my thoughtsprimal, my mouth watering as I inhale deeply, letting it fill my lungs until I'm drunk on her.
She's mine tonight. All this risk, just to taste what I've been denying myself. Fuck the consequences.
I press my face closer, nose brushing the thin barrier of her lace underwear—barely there, a flimsy scrap of black filigree that's more tease than cover. The fabric is damp, clinging to her folds, and I can feel the heat pulsing from her core. With a low growl that vibrates against her skin, I hook a finger under the edge and tug it aside, exposing her fully. She's glistening, slick coating her inner lips in a sheen that catches the faint light filtering through the skirt's layers. I don't waste time; my tongue darts out, flat and broad, licking a slow stripe along her outer fold. She quivers instantly, her body jolting as if electrified, and I hear the faintest hitch in her breath above me—a whimper swallowed before it can escape.
I chuckle against her slick skin, the sound muffled but resonant in our hidden space. "Remember, Sweet Vixen," I murmur, my breath ghosting over her sensitive flesh, "you promised quiet. We wouldn't want an audience for this particular performance, would we?"
I can't see her face, buried as I am in this silken haven, but I imagine her nodding—those dark curls bouncing, her lace-masked eyes wide with a mix of defiance and desire, biting down on that purple-black lip to stifle any sound. The thought alone makes me harder, my arousal throbbing painfully now, begging for friction I refuse to grant it yet. This is her reward first.
Teasing her is too tempting to resist. I turn my attention to her inner thighs, lapping at the soft, trembling skin there—first one side, then the other—tracing the paths where her slick has already begun to trail. She's dripping, the evidence of her need pooling and sliding down in warm rivulets that I catch with my tongue, savoring the salty-sweet tang exploding across my tastebuds. Her legs shake harder, muscles tensing under my hands as I grip her thighs to steady her, spreading them wider for better access. The contrast hits me again: the biting cold nipping at my back through the skirt's hem, while here, in her warmth, it's like summer's embrace, humid and alive with her essence. It drives me wild, my control fraying as I nuzzle closer, inhaling her like she's the only air I need.
Finally, I give in to the pull.
My tongue returns to her folds, parting them with deliberate slowness, lapping up her slick in long, indulgent strokes that have her hips bucking subtly against my face. She's soaking, her body responding with fresh waves of arousal that coat my chin, and I hum in approval, the vibration drawing another quiver from her. Then I delve deeper, slipping my tongue inside her pulsing entrance—god, she's tight and hot, clenching around the intrusion as if trying to pull me further in. I thrust gently at first, mimicking what I ache to do with my cock, tasting her depths where her flavor is richest, like concentrated vanilla laced with spice. Her walls flutter against me, and I work her relentlessly, curling my tongue to stroke that sensitive spot inside, alternating with broad laps over her outer lips to keep her on edge.
She's unraveling—I can feel it in the way her thighs clamp around my head, the subtle tremors building to something seismic. But I want more. Need more. My hand joins the fray, bare fingers—still warm from the glove I'd discarded—tracing her entrance before sliding one inside, knuckle-deep into that velvet heat. She tightens immediately, a muffled whimper escaping despite her efforts, and I add a second finger, scissoring them to stretch her, curling to hit that spongy ridge that makes her entire body arch.
That's it, let go for me.
I can picture it—those lace-gloved hands pressed to her mouth, stifling the sounds, her eyes squeezed shut under that mask. Fuck, it's hotter than anything inside that ballroom.
The image fuels me, my cock leaking pre-cum now, straining against fabric that feels like a prison. I pump my fingers in rhythm with my tongue, lapping at her clit in flicking circles that have her slick gushing anew. She's close, her inner muscles spasming around me, and I redouble my efforts—sucking her clit between my lips, humming vibrations against it while my fingers thrust deep and fast. Her release crashes over her like a wave, her pussy clenching in rhythmic pulses as she cums, flooding my mouth with fresh slick that I drink greedily, lapping every drop like it's ambrosia.
But I'm not done. As she rides the aftershocks, I reach up with my thumb, circling her swollen clit with taunting pressure—firm, insistent, drawing out the pleasure until she squirts, a warm gush that soaks my hand and chin. Her muffled cry is music, even stifled, and I chuckle low against her quivering folds, licking her clean with slow, savoring strokes until she's spent, her legs barely holding her up.
I emerge from beneath the skirt at last, the cold air slapping my heated face like a wake-up call. Her release glistens on my lips and chin, and I make a show of licking it away, savoring the lingering taste as I rise to my feet. She's flushed crimson beneath her mask, cheeks blooming like roses under frost, her chest heaving in that sweetheart bodice.
"You weren't being very quiet, hmm?" I tease, my voice a gravelly purr, laced with amusement and lingering hunger.
She huffs a breathless laugh, eyes sparkling with that bold fire I adore—the one that emerges when she's truly in her element, like now, tangled in passion with someone she trusts. "Well, you were making it hard," she retorts, her tone playful butedged with that fearless go-getter spirit, the kind that had her rescheduling dreams just to stand by my side.
