“Well?” she asks.
“Nothing for now, but something is not right, and I’m onto it.”
I watch Freya and Carolyn at the piano, their heads bent close, Freya's giggles filling the air as more and more staffgather around them. Their voices rise in an off-key but heartfelt sing-along to Shania Twain’s old classic,That Don’t Impress Me Much. Their voices carry warmth and delicious raucous abandonment.
I turn to look at Dora.
She’s been with us since I was a baby, her steady presence a constant through the chaos of growing up in this house. Seeing her eyes crinkling with joy and the smile on her face, wide and genuine, as she unwraps another gift, feels like she is part of our family. It warms something deep in me that I thought had gone cold. I love that look on her, the way it softens the years she's given us. I reach into my jacket pocket, pulling out the envelope my secretary prepared—a generous check and a gift card to a spa in the Hamptons that now seems cold and uncaring compared to all this effort from someone who is virtually a stranger.
I cross over to her, pressing it into her hands with a quiet, "Happy birthday, Dora. You've earned this and more."
She pulls me into a hug, her embrace warm and maternal, and for a moment, the room's energy wraps around me. And for a second, I feel shame. Carolyn has shown me how much I have taken this good woman for granted.
Chapter Twenty-Three
BLAKE
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r3Pr1_v7hsw
-I want to know what love is-
The DJ has hung up his hat, and the laughter and noise in the music room fades to a soft murmur, the once-vibrant energy ebbing like the tide pulling back from the shore, leaving behind a gentle hush that settles over the space.
I lean against the door frame, my arms crossed over my chest, watching as the party winds down. Stray balloons bob lazily against the ceiling. The air hangs heavy with the lingering sweetness of melted chocolate from the fountain. Its tiers are cooling with sticky remnants. The food trays are empty, and there are empty plates with crumpled napkins and discarded skewers. Soon, the cleanup begins around me.
Staff move with quiet efficiency, stacking plates with soft clinks, wiping down surfaces with damp cloths that smell faintly of lemon cleaner, their faces flushed from the alcohol and thewarmth of the room. It's been a good night, better than I expected.
Dora, her salt-and-pepper hair slightly disheveled, from the hugs and toasts, turns to Freya, who's rubbing her eyes with small fists.
"Come on, little one," Dora says softly, her voice warm and maternal, extending a hand. "Time for bed. Let's get you ready."
Freya yawns, nods sleepily, and takes her hand. The two of them head out. I watch them go, a pang hitting my chest.
I should be putting Freya to bed, but I can’t tear my eyes away from Carolyn. I watch as she joins the cleanup, her movements graceful and totally natural. She bends to pick up a fallen balloon, the striped sundress shifting against her thighs, the fabric whispering softly. God! Her innocent beauty draws me in like a magnet. Watching her now—her hands efficient, a faint sheen of sweat on her collarbone—stirs something restless in me, a heat that simmers steadily. Her breasts pressing against the thin material of her dress as she reaches for a stack of plates, and I feel my pulse quicken, my body betraying me even as my mind screams for control. The staff filter out one by one, their footsteps fading down the hall, leaving the room quieter, the air thicker with the unspoken tension building inside me.
As the last maid slips away, I cross over to her. The scent of her perfume—floral and warm, mixed with the chocolate she has consumed—hits me like a wave. "Don't forget," I say, "we have that function coming Friday night."
She straightens and turns to face me, her blue eyes meeting mine with a softness that unnerves me. "I won't forget," she replies with a hint of breathlessness.
There's a beat of silence, the room's warmth pressing in, and she glances at the remnants on the table—the half-eaten chocolate cake with its buttercream frosting. "Did you like thecake?" she asks, tilting her head slightly, a curious lilt in her voice. "I didn't see you have any."
I hesitate, my gaze dropping to her lips for a second too long. The way they part is driving me crazy. "You know I don't like cake," I say, my words coming out rougher than intended.
She takes a step back and nods quickly. "Yeah. Of course. I knew that." Then, after a pause, her eyes flick away shyly. “I like to see you try it, though. It’s really good. I mean, like really, really good.”
The words hang there, innocent but loaded, and I feel a rush of heat, my mind twisting them into something more. "Show me how good it is," I murmur, stepping closer, the air between us thickening. I watch as color blooms on her cheeks, a deep flush that spreads down her neck, making her skin glow. She blushes so easily these days, this new version of her, and it ignites something primal in me. My cock stirs with craving.
As if in a daze, and never taking her eyes away from me, she dips her finger in the frosting and brings it to my mouth. I open my mouth and suck her finger in. Her mouth opens in a gasp. Sweet. Oh God! So fucking sweet.
“Good?” she whispers hoarsely.
I nod wordlessly. What the hell is going on between us? She pulls her finger away, and I turn away before I do something stupid. Muttering goodnight as I head upstairs, even before my bedroom door clicks shut behind me, I am already stripping off my suit and flinging the fabric on the floor. Heading into the en-suite shower, I twist the knob and stand under the shockingly cold stream from the rain-head fixture. It is good.
It takes away the need to throw her over my shoulder and fuck her senseless.
Eventually, I let steam fill the marble-tiled space, and hot water cascades hot and relentless on me. The spray pounds against my skin, sluicing down my chest, but my mind can’t bedenied. It goes right back to her—the striped sundress clinging to her curves, the way her breasts pushed against the thin fabric with every breath, full and inviting, the nipples hardening with sexual arousal.
My hand wraps around my cock almost without thought. It is hard and aching. I stroke slowly, and imagine grabbing her by that ponytail—yanking it back to expose her throat. Her gasp fills the air as I push her against the kitchen counter downstairs.
