Chapter 16
Jules
For the rest of the night, I’m plunged in the warm, effusive joy of our “engagement.” Russell keeps his hands on me, possessively, guiding me through the room, holding me against his body as we dance.
Each time he needs to tell me something, he drops his lips down to my ear, and his hot breath blows over my neck.
I’m just a woman. I’m not a fucking saint, or a superhero—of course I’m turned on, my core practically glowing, my skin hot and sensitive. It’s been the longest foreplay of my life, all the little touches, the attention, the way he defended me against Evony without a second thought.
And, of course, the kiss.
The I like the sound of that, Jules, right in my ear, not a performance for the people around us but something soft and gentle, delivered right to me. It made my body pulse with joy, with confusion, with wanting.
It wasn’t for me, though. I made it clear to Russell that this was a fake arrangement. He made it clear to me that this isn’t about sex. It’s about him getting his inheritance and saving the clinic.
This is not real.
This is not real, and it’s not about sex.
It’s what I tell myself as we coast through the rest of the gala, and I get to play the part of the sparkling, wealthy, care-free fiancée.
It’s what I tell myself each time Russell tugs me closer to him or talks me up, telling anyone who will listen that I’m in PR, and I’m great at my job, and he knows I’m going places.
And it’s what I tell myself when the night ends, and we wave goodbye to everyone, heading up to the hotel room. We’re just far enough outside the city center that it would be a slight hassle to make it home, which I suppose warrants a hotel stay for anyone with the money to throw around.
I’m hyper-aware of everything as Russell pulls the hotel key card from his wallet, and the door buzzes slightly before clicking and allowing us entry to the room.
I notice the shining marble under my feet, the glowing sconces on the walls.
I notice the slight, wafting scent of his cologne—warm, sweet, liquid, and golden, with just a hint of spice.
Russell opens the door, and I walk into the room first, momentarily stunned out of my hazy lust by it. In the center of the room is a massive four-poster bed with intricately carved posts and what looks like the most comfortable layering of blankets I’ve ever seen.
The pillows are stacked and stacked, nearly spilling out over the end of the bed onto the duvet bench.
The floor is shining hardwood, but there’s a plush, ivory rug rolled out under the bed that stretches nearly all the way to the sitting area near the floor-to-ceiling glass doors, which lead out onto a balcony.
I’m turning slowly, like a pauper-to-princess in a Disney movie, and I catch a glimpse of the bathroom, seeing the edge of the most magnificent tub I’ve ever seen in my life.
There’s no tub in my apartment—just a stand-up shower.
When Gus was little and I could no longer bathe him in the sink, I had to just hold him, use a cup, and pour the water over his body.
“You like it?”
Russell’s voice is so deep it seems to vibrate my bones, and when I turn to face him, our chests are nearly touching. We each had less than a glass of champagne tonight, but he’s looking at me like his inhibitions are gone, his pupils blown out, his cheeks flushed and his stare determined.
He’s looking at me like he wants to eat me alive.
Rather than answer his question, I just step forward, testing the waters—he said this wasn’t about sex, but he also said I was gorgeous. He said it would be fun. But does that mean he’s interested?
I get the answer to my question when his hand finds my waist, hungrily pulling my body flush with his. His other hand slides into the hair at the nape of my neck, and he’s tugging on it, tipping my face up to his and kissing me again.
The conversation about whether or not we were going to do this was a split second. A glance, a step forward, and I know we’re going down a path, making a choice we can’t undo later.
It doesn’t matter, because this kiss is even better than the one in the ballroom earlier. It’s deeper, searching, like something he’s held close to the vest and brought out just for me. He lets out a noise from the back of his throat, and I realize he’s walking us toward the edge of the bed.
“Do you have any idea how fucking good you look in that dress?” he asks, his lips against mine, his hands running up my spine to find the nearly invisible zipper at the back of the garment.
I shiver as he pulls it down, loosening it around my shoulders.
His mouth drops hungrily to my clavicle, and I melt in his hands like an actress in an old movie, eyes fluttering closed as his lips trace a path over my collarbone, up under my jaw, then back down to my chest, where he noses between my breasts and pushes the dress even lower.
“I’m sure you do,” he goes on, murmuring, the vibration of each word traveling through my body and lingering between my legs. “That’s why you picked it out. You knew what it would do to me.”
Have I ever felt this turned on before? This willing to turn to complete putty in a man’s hands?
I ignore the reply: yes—just once. It sounds in the back of my mind, but I ignore it and instead focus on touching as much of Russell as I can.
With shaking fingers, I yank the dress shirt up and out from where it’s tucked into his pants, a low sound growling out of me when I skim over his abs—his fucking abs.
The kind of body you can only get with time, preparation, and attention to detail. I knew it from looking at him with clothes on, but touching him is different altogether. Enjoying something he’s prepared just for me.
Of course. That sounds just like Russell, and for some reason, the knowledge of his planning, working out, nourishing his body—it’s even more of a turn on than the abs themselves.
We make quick work of each other’s clothes.
I unbutton his shirt sloppily after he presses me up against the wall.
He slides a thigh between my legs and tugs the dress down sharply so my breasts—pushed up in a bra that’s more expensive than all the ones at home combined—practically shine in the low, golden light.
“Fuck,” he rasps, before lowering his mouth and kissing the top of one, sucking it into his mouth until he’s definitely, definitely going to leave a mark.
For a long time, my breasts—and my body, as a whole—felt like nothing but a tool.
A vehicle to take care of other people. It feels impossibly good to be worshiped again, to feel and hear Russell’s pleasure at touching me, having me under his fingers.
I let my head fall back against the wall when he reaches around me, deftly unfastening the bra and letting it slide down with the dress.
I want to caution him, remind him of how much it costs.
Tell him to wait so I can pick the dress up, at least drape it over a chair, rather than leaving it in a crumpled heap on the floor, but the urge flutters away the moment he brings one large hand to my breast, palming and squeezing possessively.
“So, fucking soft,” he says, his mouth returning to my neck, leaving wet kisses and words of praise for my body as he goes. I squirm between him and the wall, a sense of familiarity rising up inside me.
Of course, I’m having a good time—this is just like before. The night I spent with another man who made me come so fast and so hard I saw stars in the center of New York City.
No—I’m not going to think about my mystery man while I have a very real, warm-blooded, sex-focused set of abs, pecs, and hands right in front of me. I’ve spent enough time daydreaming about that night, remembering every single detail of the best orgasm of my life.
With all the buttons undone and his shirt hanging open, I push his jacket and shirt off his shoulders in one motion, dropping them to the floor with my dress, a graveyard of the people we were just twenty minutes before, the shining, glittering characters who drifted around the ballroom all night.
Or maybe we’re still those people. If I really was Russell’s fiancée, and he really had proposed to me, this is exactly what I’d be doing right now.
Sliding his hand under the waistband of my black lace panties, Russell brackets me against the wall, breathing hard and hot against my shoulder as he finds me wet for him. I shudder against him as he drags a knuckle along the length of me, humming in appreciation at the way my legs go weak.
He presses me against the wall to hold me there, pinning me down, and it sends another course of searing desire through me, pulsing behind my eyes and between my legs, sparking at every place his body and mine make contact.
Without pause or preamble, he presses the flat of his thumb against my clit, and my gasp is swallowed by a second, louder one when he presses two fingers inside me.
My hands fly to his biceps, and I hold onto him, breathe shallowly, the slow, sweet burning stretch nearly enough to send me right over the edge.
“Rus-sell,” I gasp, his name barely making it out, the waves of pleasure blinding me, making my throat thick. My mind fizzes to black for a moment, and struggles to reboot, to remember where I am and what I’m doing beyond that vast, space-like ocean of pleasure that’s cloaked over my body.
“Yeah, baby?” he murmurs, and I can feel his smile against my feverish skin.
“I’m—I’m going to—” but I can’t finish. Or, rather, I do—tightening around him so hard I feel every molecule of myself shifting when he curls his fingers inside me. His name comes bubbling out of me in a shriek, and I put a hand over my mouth, embarrassed, only for him to reach up and pull it down.