God, I wanted to fuck her right there, in that space when she put her sticky finger into my mouth. I imagine hiking up her dress, slamming my cock deep into her, feeling her heat wrap around me, and pounding into her until she screams my name, her body arching, breasts bouncing with each thrust.
The fantasy builds, vivid and consuming, the taste of her finger on my tongue as I kiss her roughly, her legs wrapping around my waist, nails digging into my back. I come hard, groaning into the steam, my release spilling over my hand, but it's not enough. The ache returns almost immediately. My strokes resume, faster now, imagining her on her knees, those blue eyes looking up innocently as she takes me in her mouth, her ponytail bobbing.
I come again, shuddering under the water, my breath ragged.
But I just can't stop, my hand moving relentlessly, the images flashing. The way her dress rode up her thighs as she bent over in the music room, the soft curve of her ass.
Over and over, pleasure crashing through me in waves, my body trembling, until finally, spent and gasping, I slam my clenched fist against the tiled wall, the impact stinging my knuckles, water splashing everywhere.
What the fuck is happening to me?
I lean my forehead against the cool marble, the steam swirling around me, my heart pounding like I've run amarathon. I feel like I'm losing all control of my life. This obsession with her is consuming me, ruining me.
Turning everything upside down, but I don't know how to stop it.
Chapter Twenty-Four
JULIET
Aweek later, the last rays of sun filter through the curtains of my bedroom. Hang on, this is Carolyn's bedroom, I remind myself. I've been perched on the vanity for what feels like hours. I set down the curling iron and carefully loosen the last roller from my hair, unwinding the loose curl slowly, feeling it bounce free with a satisfying spring.
I run my hand through the waves, my fingers combing gently to loosen and separate them so they cascade down my back in soft, voluminous layers. Then I take a deep breath and stand. The mirror in front of me reflects a stranger. I stare at myself, really stare, my breath catching in my throat as I take in the transformation.
I can't believe that is me staring back—Juliet, the barista from Nolita, who used to pull on a pair of jeans and a tank top for a night out. Right now, I look like the actual Carolyn, polished and poised, every inch the wealthy socialite with her flawless makeup—smokey eyes, nude lips glistening with gloss, and loose curls framing my face like a halo.
The dress is a vision, a masterpiece of elegance laced with undeniable sexiness, and it’s pretty astonishing how it molds to my body as if it was made for me—or rather, for Carolyn, but tonight, it feels like mine.
It's a floor-length gown, the kind you'd see on red carpets or at high-society galas, crafted from midnight-blue silk that shimmers under the light like liquid fire. The fabric is so smooth it whispers against my skin with every subtle shift. The bodice is scattered with delicate crystals and fitted, hugging my curves with a pleated detail that accentuates my waist, and the plunging neckline reveals just enough cleavage to be tantalizing without being overt.
Then, there is the thigh-high slit on one side that adds a spicy edge to it, allowing a glimpse of leg with each step, the hem pooling elegantly on the floor. I twist slightly, watching how the silk clings. The dress is breathtaking, truly—the way it transforms my figure into something regal and seductive, the blue contrasting against my fair skin and bringing out the deeper shades in my contact-lensed eyes.
It makes me feel exposed, and yet empowered, like a seductive siren ready for the greatest battle that can be between a man and a woman. For a while, as I tilt my head and watch the light play off the gown's sheen. I feel like Carolyn, not Juliet—the orphan scraping by in a cramped walk-up, but a woman who belongs in this world of luxury. Beautiful and wealthy, with credit cards that never get declined and a chauffeur waiting downstairs to take me wherever I want to go. And she has a husband, a totally gorgeous hunk of a man.
A secret thrill goes through me. It is warm and intoxicating, and my heart flutters as I smooth a hand down the silk, feeling the cool glide over my ribs, but it's laced with a pang of something deeper, a reminder that this is borrowed, fleeting.
Fake Carolyn—that's who I am tonight.
And soon at the charity gala at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, I will be mingling with the elite of the city under crystal chandeliers, sipping champagne and watching them bid on art for causes they only half-care about.
At that moment, there is a knock on my door, jolting me from my reverie. My pulse spikes, a rush of extra nervousness flooding my chest because I suspect it's Blake. We agreed to meet by a quarter to seven downstairs, so why is he coming to my room rather than waiting in the foyer for the car? Am I late? My hands tremble slightly as I walk to the door, the gown swishing around my legs.
I open the door and usher him in with a soft "Come in," my voice breathier than I intend. He steps inside, filling the space with his mighty presence. The air shifts immediately to throbbing anticipation.
He holds a velvet box, his icy-gray eyes locking onto mine in a way that makes my stomach twist. "I have a necklace for you," he says, his voice low and velvety, pausing as he takes me in, his gaze sweeping down the gown in a way that sends heat prickling across my skin.
My heart pounds as he moves behind me toward the mirror, the box opening with a soft snap. He lifts the necklace, and it is breathtaking.
“Oh,” I gasp.
It’s a platinum chain, delicate yet substantial, dripping with a cascade of pear-shaped sapphires that catch the light and glitter with a brilliance that makes my breath hitch. The central stone is a gorgeous solitaire flanked by smaller stones. It's exquisite, the kind of heirloom that screams old money and timeless elegance.
“Turn around,” he says coolly.
For a second, I can’t move, then I nod and obey. The metal feels cool and heavy as he places it around my neck. His fingers brush the back of my neck as he fastens the clasp. The fleetingtouch is electric, sending shivers racing down my spine, my skin tingles with his warmth, the fine hairs standing on end. I feel his breath against my hair, close enough that the scent of his cologne—rich tobacco and citrus—wraps around me, making my mouth dry and knees feel weak with desire.
Our eyes meet in the mirror, his gaze is dark and intense, desire burning raw and undeniable, mirroring the heat pooling in my core. My reflection shows flushed cheeks and parted lips. There's hunger in his stare, a pull that draws me in, and I see it echoed in my own eyes, that forbidden spark igniting despite the danger he represents.
I look away quickly, breaking the connection, my hand fluttering to the necklace as if to steady myself; the stones are cool under my fingertips.
