"Don't stop," she gasps, voice desperate now, head thrown back against the pillow, exposing her throat for me to kiss, suck, and mark her with my teeth and tongue.
I feel her building, her body trembling under mine.
“Blake, I'm... oh God…" And when she comes, it's with a shattered cry, her walls pulsing around me in waves that milk me relentlessly, pulling my own release. A guttural roar rips from my throat as I spill into her. Still thrusting hard, we ride the wave together.
When it’s over, we lie in the afterglow, tangled, breaths ragged, and sweat cooling on our skin. Before sleep pulls us under, I remember to mumble. “Goodnight, Juliet. We should do this again.”
Chapter Forty-Eight
JULIET
Weeks slip by in a blur of checklists and phone calls. The prep for the event weighs heavily on everyone, turning the estate into a whirlwind of deliveries and last-minute tweaks that keep me up at night. My mind races through vendor lists and seating charts. Sometimes we have baking sessions, Freya and I. Blake comes down to join us and taste our creations.
The air's turned crisper now, early October bringing that sharp bite to the sea wind. Leaves are starting to yellow on the oaks. There is chaos outside where workers are hammering tent stakes into the lawn by the lake, their voices carrying faintly through the open window. But inside the library, it's cozy and still. The leather-bound books on the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves throw some of the light from the tall windows, and cast a warm glow over the rug where Freya and I sit cross-legged, paintbrushes in hand.
We are putting the last finishing touches to the family portrait, and I'm teaching her to mix colors on a palette. Simple stuff, like blending cadmium yellow with a touch of burnt umberfor that perfect autumn gold. It’s mostly to calm my own nerves, but Freya seems to like our painting sessions.
The room smells like linseed oil and old books. Freya's giggles bubble up as she dabs at her own little section, paint smearing on her painting smock.
"Like this?" she asks, her small voice eager, holding up her brush dripping with too much ultramarine. I nod, leaning over to guide her hand gently, our fingers sticky together.
The door opens, and I quickly turn the canvas away, my heart skipping a beat. Good call because Frances steps in, her silver hair catching the light, a soft laugh escaping her as she sees my hurried move. Her cane taps lightly on the wood floor.
"No need to hide it, dear," she says, her voice warm with amusement, eyes twinkling behind her reading glasses as she eases into the armchair nearby. The velvet upholstery sighs under her. "Freya already let slip—the three of you forgot to add me to the portrait."
I glance at Freya, who grins back quite unrepentant and mischievously. There is a dab of paint on her button nose, and I can't help but laugh too, the sound bubbling up light and surprised.
"You little traitor," I tease, scooping her up as punishment. Her small body squirms with giggles, her legs kicking playfully against my chest, the dress bunching up as I hoist her higher.
"How could you betray us like that?" I ask with mock anger, as I drop her little body to the ground and start tickling her relentlessly. She starts squirming, begging, screaming, and shrieking before she gives in to uncontrollable laughter. Frances too, laughs joyfully in a way I have never heard her do. The whole library becomes alive with our laughter.
Freya is still panting and gasping when Dora comes in with a tea tray. She sets it on the side table and pours tea into a cup, adds a slice of lemon to it and takes it to Frances. She asks if Iwould like a cup, but I refuse. I have to go outside in a minute to check on the workers. She offers Freya a choice of buttery shortbread biscuits or animal-shaped strawberry jam cookies.
Frances thanks her, then turns to me as Dora leaves and shuts the door quietly behind her.
“Carolyn, come and confirm some last-minute details with me before you head back outside. The florist called about the arches—peonies or dahlias for the entrance? We haven’t concluded.”
Freya runs towards the tray and grabs a cookie.
“Of course,” I say, wiping my hands on a rag. "I’m happy with peonies if you are.”
“That would have been my decision too,” she says with a smile. “You’ve become quite the little painter, haven’t you?
“I'm just looking for ways to try and calm my nerves a bit—painting helps."
Frances pauses, her cup halfway to her lips, surprise flickering in her eyes. “You? You’re nervous? But you've done a great job, dear. The event's coming together nicely, I have to say, much better even than usual.”
Her words warm me. "Thanks, Frances—that means a lot. I think it’s the hosting on that night that’s worrying me. All those people.”
“Oh, you’ll be just fine,” she dismisses. “If memory serves, that’s what you excel at."
All warmth I might have been feeling dissipates instantly. Carolyn would have been in her element hosting a glamorous charity event. I’m not sure I can step into her shoes so effectively. I glance at Freya. She is humming to herself as she nibbles at a cookie and paints a blob that might be a flower.
“Well, I guess I better go out there and see the progress."
Frances nods, and rising slowly with the help of her cane, she goes out, the wood tapping on the wooden floor. Through the tallwindows, I watch the tents going up by the lake beyond, white sailcloth billowing in the breeze.
It's peaceful here, the library's hush wrapping around us. Truly, now more than ever, I can't understand what Carolyn was so unhappy about. How could she have hated this wonderful family? This amazing life she had? The beauty of the sprawling estate. The cuteness-overload nature of Freya. The quiet but strong support of a mother-in-law like Frances, and a husband who is passionate and devoted.
