I start to gyrate, circling my pelvis in teasing loops that draw deep groans from him, the sounds vibrating through his chest into mine. I grind down harder, the friction building that delicious pressure, our bodies slapping together with wet, urgent sounds that disappear among the roses.
He pulls the neckline of the shirt I’m wearing with a rough tug, exposing my naked breasts to his gaze. His mouth latches onto one nipple, sucking hard with relentless pulls until it's taut and throbbing. The sensation sends jolts of pleasure straight to my core, amplifying every thrust, my head falling back as our moans fill the air—spilling out uncontrolled, his groans low and guttural, muffled against my skin. The wild abandon takes over, no holding back in this hidden spot, our sounds raw and primal. The secret garden becomes alive with our frenzy. The rustle of leaves, the contented drone of bees, the melodious chirping of birds, the distant lap of the lake, but nothing drowns out our gasps and groans.
I come. The orgasm crashes through me in relentless waves that leave me trembling from head to toe. My body clenches tightly around him, my inner walls pulsing in rhythmic squeezes that milk him, as ecstasy blinds me. Stars burst behindmy eyelids. My cries muffle against his shoulder, high and desperate. He buries his face in my neck, his breath hot and ragged. His teeth graze my skin in a possessive nip as he follows me, spilling into me with a final, powerful thrust. His groan is like thunder in my ear, deep and shuddering, his hips bucking up to meet mine one last time.
Our musk mingles with the sweet scent of roses. I collapse against him, shaking and spent, my breath coming in ragged pants as I wonder how this wild, forbidden moment could feel so utterly right.
Chapter Forty-Three
JULIET
The gravel path crunches under our feet as we make our way back from the garden, that secluded spot by the lake still humming in my veins like a wonderful secret that I will take to my grave. My thighs brush together with every step, the wetness a reminder of the ache lingering there. I feel warm and satisfied.
Blake's hand stays wrapped around mine—his fingers strong, a little possessive, his thumb tracing idle patterns on my skin that send tiny sparks up my arm. I glance sideways at Blake. There is a small, satisfied curve to his lips, and it makes my stomach flutter all over again.
We reach the side entrance, the French doors off the terrace propped open to let in the air. The house feels quieter now. Blake squeezes my hand before letting go, his eyes meeting mine with that intense gray stare that always makes me feel seen in a way that's both thrilling and terrifying.
“I'll check on Freya," he murmurs, leaning in to brush a quick kiss to my temple, but his warm lips linger. And then he's gone,striding off toward the stairs with that confident gait. My skin is still tingling where he touched.
I exhale slowly, running a hand through my hair, which is probably a mess now. God, that was intense, out there in the open like that. I’ve never had sex outdoors, but now that I’m back inside, reality creeps in. The charity event, this "Affair in the Garden" thing that's apparently an annual big deal which I have zero clue about the details of. The logistics of creating all the nonsense I had sprouted to Blake seem mind boggling. In fact, the whole project feels like a gaping hole I could fall right through.
I pick up my phone from the table in the conservatory and send a message to Carolyn’s number. My fingers hover for a second, heart picking up pace as I type:
Blake mentioned the charity event? What's the usual setup? How was it handled last year? BTW: Had to improvise and tell him I’m doing it in the garden this year. Please provide all relevant details.
I hit send and stare at the screen like it'll buzz back immediately, but nothing. Just the little "delivered" note, mocking me.
Minutes tick by as I wander towards the painting. Quickly, I start adding Grandma Frances into the setup. The painting is done, and still no response. I check the phone again, willing it to light up, but it's silent. A knot starts twisting in my gut—nervous, yeah, but more than that, like a low hum of unease that's been building since she told me she saw me curled against her husband.
What if she's ignoring me on purpose?
Or maybe I’m just being unreasonably suspicious.
Or worse, what if I’ve not understood this whole thing? There is something more that I’m not being told. Something else isgoing on. My mind races, and my palms sweat a little. I tell myself to calm down and stop with the paranoia.
I told Blake about the garden theme idea in a vague way earlier, but without her input, I'll be flying blind. Or maybe I’ll be able to pull it off. I’m good at organizing things. If I need help, I can always ask Dora.
I can't just sit here stewing; it'll drive me crazy. Pushing up from the sofa, I tuck the phone away and head toward the kitchen, figuring Dora will be my best bet. After all, she's been around for years and knows the ins and outs of this place better than anyone. Even though it is her day off, I can hear the faint sounds of her pottering about in the kitchen.
The hallway's quiet, my espadrilles whispering on the polished hardwood, past the gallery wall with its framed photos of Freya as a baby, Blake looks younger and less guarded in some of them, and Carolyn looks cool and composed in all of them.
The kitchen door's ajar, and as I push it open, the warmth hits me first—the oven's on, filling the air with the savory scent of roasting garlic and herbs, maybe a chicken or something bubbling away inside. Dora's at the island, her back to me, chopping vegetables with quick, efficient strokes, the knife thudding rhythmically on the cutting board. She's in her crisp white blouse and black slacks, her salt-and-pepper hair pulled into a neat bun, and she glances over her shoulder as I enter, her expression softening just a touch.
"Mrs. Bessant," she says, wiping her hands on a dish towel, her voice steady with that faint accent I think is from somewhere in Eastern Europe, maybe Poland. "I’m making myself some dinner. Can I get you something?"
I hesitate in the doorway, feeling a bit like an intruder even now, but I step in fully. "Actually, yeah—if you have a minute? I’d like to pick your brains. And maybe some tea? I've got a bit ofa headache coming on." It's not entirely a lie; the nervousness is starting to throb at my temples, and tea might settle me.
“Of course,” she says with a nod, and moves to fill the kettle at the sink. “What kind of tea would you like?”
“Anything will do, but green tea, if you have it, would be nice.”
“We have green tea,” she says, moving towards the cupboards, and pulling out an expensive black and silver tin.
While the kettle boils, she pulls a teapot, cups and saucers from the cabinet, white porcelain with a gold rim. “Please sit," she invites, gesturing to one of the barstools, and I do, perching on the edge, my fingers tracing the veined pattern in the granite.
The kettle whistles after a minute, piercing the quiet, and she pours the steaming water into the teapot to warm it first, then pours it out before spooning loose tea into the pot. The aroma flowers instantly—as calming as freshly cut grass.
“We’ll let it brew for a few minutes.”
