He gestures toward the Chesterfield, his voice velvet. “Have a seat.”
Swallowing, I sink into the cool leather, the sundress riding higher on my thighs. He doesn’t sit beside me. He takes the armchair opposite, close enough that his knees almost brush mine when he leans forward, glass dangling between his fingers. The lamplight cuts across his face, shadows carving the sharpline of his jaw, the hollow beneath his cheekbone. He lifts the scotch, throat working as he swallows, and I watch the strong column of it, the way his Adam’s apple slides. My mouth goes dry.
Dear God. When is this torture going to be over?
I try to meet his eyes, but the second I do it feels as if the room tilts. He’s staring like he’s trying to peel the dress off me with his gaze alone, like he can see the flush crawling over my chest, the way my nipples have gone tight and visible beneath the thin material of my dress. A bizarre thought floods into my head: his mouth between my legs, the scrape of stubble, the relentless pressure of his tongue. I have to cross my legs hard, thighs pressing together to ease the sudden and insistent pulsing.
He finally speaks, his voice low and measured. “Are you happy with your new… look?”
His gaze drops, deliberate, to my breasts, lingering on the way the fabric clings, the faint outline of my nipples straining. Heat explodes through me, molten, humiliating, but so delicious. My breath catches, audible in the quiet room.
“Yes, I’m happy there were no complications,” I manage, voice barely above a whisper. “Just the usual… pain and healing.”
His eyes flick back to mine, dark, unreadable, but something hungry flickers there, something that makes my core clench hard enough that I almost whimper.
The silence stretches, thick and electric. I can’t take it. The weight of his stare is stripping me layer by layer, and I’m terrified he’ll see the truth written all over my face. I lift the glass and drain the scotch in one reckless swallow, the burn ripping down my throat, making my eyes water. I cough once, the heat exploding in my chest, and stand too fast on shaky legs.
“I’m exhausted,” I blurt out and force a yawn. Already, I’m backing toward the door. “Really… I have to go.”
I don’t wait for permission. I turn, hand fumbling for the knob, and escape. The click of the door behind me sounds like pure relief. My pulse is still roaring in my ears, the taste of whiskey and want still sitting on my tongue.
Chapter Fifteen
JULIET
The dream pulls me under like cool silk sliding over bare skin. My skin is damp with sweat and my body feels heavy and languid on the massive bed. There is a dim glow of moonlight filtering through the curtains, and the air is sweet and scented with lavender from the sachets in the drawers. Restlessly, I kick at the duvet, drifting in that hazy space between sleep and want, my breath coming in fast and shallow.
A knock on the door—soft at first, then insistent, jolts me just enough to stir.
I open my eyes groggily, and before I can even call "come in," the door swings open, and Blake steps into the moonlight. His broad shoulders fill the frame. He looks like he's carved from my deepest fantasies, bare-chested, his honey-glazed skin gleaming in the soft light, every muscle defined like a marble sculpture comes to life. Those abs ripple with each breath, and a trail of dark hair leads down to the low-slung waistband of his pants. His icy-gray eyes are locked on me with a hunger that makes my pulse race. Damnit, but he's fucking gorgeous—bristling rawpower wrapped in elegance, the kind of man who could ruin you with a touch.
He closes the door behind him, the click echoing in the quiet, and moves toward the bed with the predatory grace of a stalking panther.
“What are you doing here?” I croak.
His voice is low and rough, gravelly with need. “Why do you think?”
I shiver and stare at him wordlessly.
"I missed you," he says, echoing the gardener's words from earlier, but twisting them into something deeper, more possessive.
“Have you really?” I whisper in awe.
"Yes. I can’t stop thinking about you. What have you done to me?"
I wonder at this, hazy confusion swirling through. He is supposed to be a cold fish, and yet, here he is, eyes burning with lust. I shouldn’t, but my body betrays me, heat pools low despite the alarm bells. I want to run, to push him away and escape this forbidden pull, especially as he comes over, and the mattress dips under his weight. His hand flicks the duvet away and exposes my nearly naked body. He looks down greedily, possessively. Slowly, his hand finds my thigh, fingers tracing slow, deliberate circles on the sensitive skin there, sending sparks racing up my spine.
To my shock, he grabs my legs without warning and tugs them open, his touch sliding higher until his fingers brush the edge of my panties. I gasp as they dip beneath the lace. The sensation is electric. Wet heat builds as he plays with me, one finger circling my clit with agonizing slowness, before slipping inside, curling just right to make my hips buck.
"Blake," I whisper. Part of me wants to push him away, but when my hands find his chest—God, that rock-hard chest, warmand unyielding under my palms—something odd happens to me. I don’t want to push him away anymore because I am his wife, aren't I? The lines blur. I must resist. I really must. But desire wins out as he leans down, his breath hot against my inner thigh.
Maybe just this once…
He sucks, open-mouthed and ravenous, his lips hot and velvet-rough against the tender skin of my inner thigh. His teeth grazes just enough to make me shiver. The stubble on his jaw scrapes deliciously as he moves higher, breath fanning over my slick folds in a slow, deliberate exhale that feels like fire licking across already-sensitive nerves. His fingers tear hungrily at the scrap of cloth covering my sex. When his tongue finds me, it’s a shock of wet heat, broad and flat at first, dragging up the length of me in one long stroke that tears a broken moan from my throat. He just claimed me for himself. The taste of me seems to drive him wild; I hear the low growl and feel it vibrate against my clit.
My hips jerk involuntarily, chasing more.
His mouth closes over me, sucking, sucking, lips sealing around that swollen bundle of nerves while his tongue flicks in tight, merciless circles. The pleasure is immediate and blinding, a white-hot pulse that shoots straight up my spine. My fingers tangle in his dark hair, thick and silky between my knuckles, and I pull helplessly, needing an anchor as the storm builds. He answers with a rough sound of approval. His voice hums through me, then two fingers slide inside, thick and sure. They move in and out slickly.
