They make my vision spark.
The rhythm he sets is perfect, cruel, devastating: long, deep thrusts of his fingers, knuckles dragging against my walls, while his tongue never stops its relentless worship. The wet sounds fill the quiet room, slick and shameless, the obscene proof of how much I want this, how soaked I already am for him. Everynerve is alight, and my thighs tremble violently around his head. Muscles I didn’t know I had, clench and flutter around his fingers as he stretches me, fills me, owns me with every stroke. His free hand splays across my stomach, pinning me down when I start to writhe too hard, the pressure of his palm branding my skin, grounding me even as he pushes me higher.
I’m panting now, ragged little cries I can’t hold back, my back arching off the bed as the coil inside me winds impossibly tight. He feels it, knows exactly what he is doing to me, and doubles down. Tongue pressing flat and hard, fingers jamming faster and faster. The heel of his hand grinds against my clit in faultless sync.
The whole technique is ruthlessly perfect.
The orgasm slams into me like a tidal wave, sudden and all-consuming. My entire body bows, my spine lifting clear off the mattress as a raw, broken cry rips from my throat. The scream echoes off the high ceiling as pleasure detonates behind my eyelids in blinding bursts of white. It pulses through me in violent, endless waves. As my walls clamp down around his fingers again and again, as if milking him, I come apart. My thighs shake uncontrollably, as every muscle locks in exquisite, shattering release.
Even when he knows I’m done, he doesn’t stop, just gentles his mouth, lapping softly through the aftershocks, drawing it out until I’m gasping, slick and utterly spent, boneless against the tangled duvet, the taste of salt on my lips from where I’ve bitten them raw.
He raises his head, and his eyes are glittering like an animal’s. “Liar,” he whispers. “You’re a fucking liar, Juliet Redgrave.”
What the fuck! I wake up suddenly with a jolt.
The moonlight is now brighter, but the humid air is sticking to my flushed skin. I check myself, hand slipping between mylegs under the covers, and God, I'm wet—soaked, the ache still throbbing, making me wonder what the hell is happening to me. The memory of his mouth between my legs still clings to me, my body betraying me even now, and my clit is still swollen, aching from the phantom touch of his illicit tongue. That was so damn real. It felt too vivid. Blake's touch seems to linger still. Heat floods my body as shame and confusion mix with unsatisfied longing.
God, why him? Why now, when I'm supposed to be playing a role, not unraveling?
Chapter Sixteen
JULIET
Iwake up bright and early, with the first hints of dawn filtering through the heavy curtains, turning the room into a hazy glow of pinks and golds.
It's been only one day here, but it feels like a week, every minute stretched taut with pretense and that unwelcome heat whenever I think of Blake. I'm exhausted already, bones-deep tired from the lies, and the longing, but moving might clear my head.
I stretch and feel the pull in my muscles. God, I really need to burn off this restless energy before it consumes me. I know there is an in-house gym in the basement that is supposed to be a state-of-the-art setup, equipped with a Peloton bike and everything one could possibly want.
I decide to head down to the gym. It will be best if I don’t stray too far from Carolyn’s routine from now on. Or I’ll end up making everybody suspicious.
Slipping into a pair of shorts from the closet and a Lycra cropped top in matching black that leaves my midriff bare, I leave my bedroom. It'll just be a quick workout to start with. Ineed to burn off that bacon sandwich from yesterday, a guilty indulgence after months of salads. Three months is a long time to pretend, and I can't afford to let the weight creep back.
I jog down the service stairs, the cool wood giving way to the carpeted basement hall, and the air down here is crisp from the AC. Carolyn wasn’t exaggerating. The gym is unreal, floor-to-ceiling mirrors reflecting the morning light. There are all kinds of machines, a whole bunch of weights stacked neatly on racks that gleam under the recessed LEDs.
I start with the stair master, climbing slowly at first, the machine's whir a steady rhythm under my feet, my breath coming deeper as I build speed. Sweat starts beading on my skin and trickling down my spine in lazy rivulets. The burn in my thighs actually feels good, a distraction from the ache that's lingered since that crazy dream. I hate to admit it, but my body is still humming with repressed need.
I keep going until I’m breathless. I’ve done well this morning and I think I’ll call it a day.
But just then, Blake comes in from a side door—maybe it’s an attached sauna or shower room. I'm in disbelief, freezing mid-step, the machine jolting me forward as I stare. His hair is tousled, and he's in shorts—gray ones that barely hide his powerful thighs, the kind athletes wear for training—and a fitted tank that clings to his torso and outlines every ridge of muscle. It is damp already from whatever he's been doing.
He heads towards the free weights, lifts a barbell loaded with plates, and starts curling it with effortless grace, biceps flexing, cord-like veins standing out on his forearms. Sweat glistens on his honeyed skin, and there is a focused intensity in his eyes as he grunts softly with each rep. And oh God, he's gorgeous. Just so, so, so gorgeous. My mouth goes dry, heat flooding me anew, and I continue my climb on the stair master. I pretend to focuson the digital display ticking up calories burned, but my gaze keeps drifting back to him in the mirrors.
We're both practically naked in here—me in my Lycra, the fabric thin and sweat-soaked now, nipples pebbling against the material from the cool air and something hotter, him stripped down to essentials. The whole gym feels intimate, charged, as if we've stumbled into each other's secrets. Soon, though, the sight of him—grunting, muscles rippling, that sheer physicality—is too much, and I feel myself getting wet. Really wet. My arousal starts leaking down my inner thighs, and my clit is throbbing with every step. Definitely time to end my session. I hit the stop button with a trembling finger, and the machine whines down. Blake turns then to look at me, and I mutter something about needing water and flee like the devil himself is on my tail. My feet pound on the stairs as I take it two at a time, my heart pounding, cheeks burning.
I reach my bedroom, shut the door and lean against it to catch my breath, the wood cool on my back. Then I begin to pace the floor. This just won’t do. I can’t be doing this for three freaking months. I’ll go mad. I have to find a way to deal with this… this unfortunate sexual attraction. I can’t be on the verge of an orgasm or in heat whenever I see him. This constant simmer is turning me inside out, making every glance feel like foreplay.
To say nothing of the fact that it's dangerous. Really dangerous. One slip, and the whole charade crumbles. I peel off my sweaty clothes and stand under the rain head in the marble bathroom. Water cascades hot and wonderful, steam fogs the glass doors as I lather up with the La Mer body wash from the shelf, creamy and scented with sea minerals. I rub slow circles over my breasts, down my belly, trying to wash away the want, but my fingers linger between my legs, teasing the ache. I can still feel his dream mouth on my dream sex.
I bite my lip and stop before I give in to the need. Giving in would be pouring petrol on a fire that is already raging. I’m too wired. I need to relax. I need a bath.
I fill the deep clawfoot tub positioned by the window overlooking the gardens with bubbles from a lime basil and mandarin bath oil. The scent is citrusy and sharp as I sink in, water lapping at my skin. It is hot enough to turn me pink. I settle in, close my eyes and take deep, calming breaths. Slowly, as I soak, the tension melts, and thoughts drift in on how to survive this pull. It is as clear as day.
Stay as far away from him as possible and never ever be alone with him. Shouldn’t be too difficult. He is, after all, a workaholic. I will use the gym during work hours. Also, I should find a purpose that will keep me busy. Maybe I should read books from the extensive library. Something I didn’t have enough time for in my real life. Only two months and twenty-nine days to go… then I will claim my prize money and follow my dreams.
Feeling much more positive about my future, I get out of the bath and choose another sundress from the closet—butter-yellow, light chiffon Zimmermann with delicate floral prints. It floats over my body, thin straps crossing at the back. This time, though, I throw on a jean jacket over it and roll the sleeves up to my elbows. I dry my hair, then carefully insert my contact lenses, and I’m ready to face the world.
But leaving my room feels intimidating and dangerous.
