I'm barely holding it together as I finger fuck her. She is so aroused that my fingers make a squelching sound as they fuck her. My cock is throbbing urgently against her thigh, pre-cum beading at the tip. I position myself, rubbing the head along her entrance, teasing, feeling her clench and flutter desperately.
"Please... fuck me." Her cry is muffled against her palm.
I do as requested, and push in, inch by torturous inch, wet heat enveloping me until I'm buried balls deep. She gasps sharply, eyes squeezing shut, pleasure blinding as her back bows off the bed, nails digging into my shoulders hard enough to draw blood.
"Oh God... so full," she moans low, the sound raw and erotic.
I thrust in again, deep and rough, hitting that spot that makes her tremble. The need builds hot and messy. Her legs hook around me tighter, heels digging into my ass, urging me harder, faster. Her walls milk me with every stroke.
"Fuck... yes, harder," she begs in a whisper, grinding her clit against my base. I grip her hips, bruising, angling deeper, fucking her harder now, the pleasure coiling tight in my gut. It makes my thighs quake as she clenches tighter, fluttering wild.
She comes first, shattering around me. Her body seizes, a muffled cry tearing from her throat as she clamps down, waves pulsing hot and wet, soaking us both.
“I’m coming... oh my God…fuck,” she gasps.
It pulls me over the edge, my release slamming through me hard—thrusts stuttering rough and deep, spilling into her with a guttural groan.
The sounds of the party start to filter in again.
Chapter Fifty
JULIET
The bedroom air hangs heavy with our mingled scents, that musky mix of our mating. In the aftermath, it’s almost impossible to get up, my limbs heavy and boneless. This craving for him is like a drug now. His presence is something I've come to depend on, filling the empty spots I've carried since I was a kid. The distant hum of the party below is like a far-off dream—the quartet's strings, laughter floating up from the garden.
The event's only midway through, so we need to get back, especially since we are the hosts. I can't just stay here forever, no matter how much I want to.
"We should... get back," I murmur.
"Yup." He pulls away. His loss is immediate, making me shiver in the cooler air.
He kisses my still exposed pussy lingeringly, dips his tongue in, and sucks hungrily.
“You’re going to smell of my pussy,” I caution, with half a laugh.
Those icy-gray eyes go dark with satisfaction. “And so what if I do?”
He adjusts his clothes and walks to the door. "See you later," he whispers.
The door clicks quietly shut behind him, and I hope that it hasn’t been obvious we're both missing at the same time. I walk quite naked to the en-suite bathroom, and I get myself quickly back in order, cleaning myself and patting my neck with water to cool down my temperature. Once I’ve reapplied my lipstick and slipped back into the black gown, I comb my hair. Running the wide-tooth comb through the tangles quickly, working out the knots he left.
My reflection stares back flushed and alive, lips swollen from his kisses. A small smile creeps in despite the rush. It feels good, this secret fuck, but the party's waiting. I smooth one last strand, tuck the comb away, and head back out into the hallway.
On my way down, I spot Dora coming up the stairs. She’s carrying a small silver tray with Frances's spectacles on it. She pauses when she sees me, her dark eyes widening a touch. For a moment, she looks confused, her head tilting.
"Mrs. Carolyn! How did you get here so fast? I thought I just saw you upstairs in the west wing corridor on your way to see Madam Bessant.”
Her words hit like cold water, freezing me on the step. My hand grips the banister tight, the wood smooth and cool under my palm as instinct screams to me that something's wrong. She just saw me in the west wing. That most definitely cannot be. Unless… Unless… The only logical explanation of how this could even be remotely possible would be because the real Carolyn is here, in the house.
The very thought makes my heart start pounding hard in my chest. I can feel the blood rushing in my ears. No, it can't be, but it is. Why not? This is her house, not mine. Of course, she would know all the ways around and have full access to it.
“I haven’t been in the west wing, Dora.”
“Oh! That’s strange. I could have sworn I saw you.”
“Lots of ladies in black tonight, Dora. See you later,” I say, the pieces clicking too fast, as I bolt past Dora, my gown swishing as I run toward the west wing. Frances's room is at the end of the hall. I can’t even imagine why Carolyn would have wanted to see her. She hates Frances’s guts. Is this a set-up?
Something tells me I am the disposable pawn in this set-up.
