Chapter 19
Meirna
Bronte follows, but not too close to rush. He stops to look at things himself, showing interest in the history and intricate artwork of the place.
It keeps my mind off the inevitable—almost. It’s hard not to fall back into place with what’s going on around me because Bronte’s strong presence doesn’t let me.
I know he’s not purposely trying to nab my full attention, but as long as I keep him behind me, I do better with enjoying the view and not the sophisticated stand-in titled my husband, whom I never said yes to.
Especially since he paid God knows how much money to shut the place down for an hour just so I can navigate it on our own.
I’m not sure how he got rid of the tour guide, but I’m selfishly not going to ask questions on the logistics. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and I’m not going to waste it on my moral compass and the tourists outside wanting in.
Stepping inside another room, I pause in awe of the beauty awaiting me past the threshold.
Walls of old books. Two stories full, overlooked by a hand-painted ceiling illuminated by lights.
The smell of wood and must fills my nostrils as I step inside.
A row of globes sits idly in the middle of the room, but it’s the intricate design and origin of this place that has me speechless and in utter awe.
My winter boots squeak across the tiled floors as I soak in every inch of the space. I feel guilty walking around with wet shoes, but I can’t help the conditions of winter, nor do I wish to.
It takes away the ambiance of Christmas, my dream of being in Prague, and the sheer reality that I’m finally here.
Hitting record on my cell phone, I’m definitely not going to let this be a distant memory, but a place I can go back to over and over again when New York feels too stuffy.
There are no words to describe how exquisite this place is. It’s textbook. It’s a masterpiece.
I feel Bronte step in behind me as I slowly catalogue the area. He’s quiet, allowing me the space I need until we get to the other side of the library along the windows.
His arm hooks around my middle, then gently yanking me to a stop and into his hard chest within the next second.
I freeze on instinct as I continue to record, and he reaches for my cell and presses the screen to where the camera view flips and is facing us now.
“I think it’s only fair that you should note I’m here with you, Daydream,” he says, looking into my phone at me, while he positions his head right over my shoulder. “And, with all due respect, I also believe we should make a memory here, too.”
My brows knit just as he turns his face and presses a soft kiss along the column of my neck.
Instantly, my lips part from the bold and dangerous move.
My eyes flutter and want to close at how instantly good it feels, but I can’t tear my gaze away from how close he is.
How my body senselessly reacts when his tongue lashes out in this slow, methodical movement that makes me warmer everywhere.
I feel his fingers splay over my sweater, wishing for a moment I had left my coat on when we arrived, but with our super private tour, they asked for it, probably, so we didn’t walk out with old books and a few things to throw up on eBay.
My breathing hitches when his hand navigates lower, travelling underneath the waistband of my jeans, which is a tight fit because his hand is so damn big.
“I need to respect the same,” he mumbles against my skin, then brings his head up to wrap his lips around my earlobe. “But I really don’t want to. Fucking you against four hundred-year-old books sounds like prison time.”
I smile at that, even though this is highly inappropriate, but I can’t seem to gather the words to make him stop.
Or continue.
Or get a handle on where we are and who could walk in here.
“There it is,” he praises gently. “I knew you had that smile waiting for me again, Daydream.”
Our gazes lock through my phone, and he gives me this panty-melting grin right back before one of his fingers brushes against my wet clit.
Groaning because apparently my brain has gone into shutdown mode and my body is answering to all his calls, Bronte delivers circles to my sensitive bundle of nerves and shows zero remorse for it.
“You may not see it yet,” he recites. “But I see everything when you’re with me.
How everything was supposed to be. How you’d thrive with me because I want to be your best friend and biggest fan.
I want to be the one you come home to and tell all your dreams to.
I want to take you home…to my family. The one who raised and made me a better man. ”
To my family.
He thought the Hardings were so bad that he moved on and away from the negativity.
I’m captivated to know more about them and how easily he’d bring me around his safe space. I haven’t given him an inkling as to what I’m going to do with mine because I don’t know.
I don’t know anything when he’s rubbing my clit in an ancient library filled with famous authors’ words. Where millions of people have walked through this same space, not getting their bodies played like an instrument, and again, once in a lifetime opportunity here.
“We’re going to get caught,” I warn, though it does nothing to help my case because it’s a blend between a pant and a breathless moan. “This has to be against some kind of rules or regulations.”
“Getting your pretty little clit rubbed inside a historic building?” he asks innocently. “I think this place could use some excitement.”
I suddenly grasp his forearm when his middle finger brushes lazily against my entrance. “You’re going to get us in trouble. And if you get us kicked out of Prague, I’m really going to kill you.”
“Daydream,” he muses, looking every part the hellion that he is. “We’re already in trouble.”
Then he demonstrates that when he shoves two thick fingers inside me and pumps.
I tense in shock as my arm begins to drop, but Bronte is in his starring role when he says, “Hold your phone up. Watch every facial expression you make and how I fell in love with you in the first place.”
He stares at me through my screen, but steals a kiss to my temple and closes his eyes while he does.
He may not know it, but he’s telling when he’s with me like this. The subtle drops and hints his body does. The way his green eyes gloss over with hunger and confidence.
The small things he does that Bobby would quickly do, Bronte takes his time with.
I gasp when his thumb grazes my throbbing clit, and my body weight presses against Bronte’s. He’s built like a wall, acts like one for me in the moment because I’m barely standing on two feet and just want him to fuck me at the nearest one available.
However, due to clothing and time restraints, I know this is the nearest I can get to an orgasm and the pleasure he’s always giving to break me.
To break my barriers.
To break my doubt.
To question the last two years of my life and how big a role he played in my relationship with Bobby.
He’s the reason I ended up with Bobby.
“Now,” Bronte says matter-of-factly along the shell of my ear. “After you’re done coming, we’re going to dinner. Then you’re going to force me to eat a bite of all those desserts. And then, we’ll watch whatever Christmas movie you want. I know you’re big on—”
“Deeper,” I moan because, goddamn it, if he says one more thing to make this whole damn day perfect, I’m going to scream and summon security.
Bronte doesn’t goad me to expand on that needy response, there to give me exactly what I need as he somehow moves like his big hand isn’t tightly inside my jeans.
He makes it work, however, and I’m not in the headspace to evaluate his skillset, how he’s able to do it, nor do I care.
I can’t stop watching him watch me through my screen as he wedges his fingers deeper, forcing me to study us together. How I react to how he strokes and finger fucks me.
The pink blush along my cheeks and the way his light green eyes drop to my lips.
You’d think it’d be a duplicate of Bobby and me in pictures. Of all the random snapshots I’d take to savor moments for later when we were older.
But, there’s a difference between Bronte and Bobby that I never noticed before until now, since I’ve been staring at him for the last two or so minutes.
It’s not only Bronte’s eyes that are lighter, but that his hair is darker. The stubble along his jawline is thicker; there’s a hardness in his cheekbones that makes Bobby’s look like a baby’s ass.
Bobby is a boy.
Bronte is a man who has me on the verge of coming in the middle of a gothic library with my pussy clenching tightly around his fingers.
“I have something I want for Christmas,” Bronte claims softly in my ear, not coming close to penetrating through my lust-filled daze. “Can I tell you what it is?”
I slowly bob my head; words not something I’m capable of at the moment.
“I want your pretty little lips wrapped around my cock. I want to see you suck me with those honeyed eyes up and waiting for my cum.”
My cunt seizes around his digits, and the bastard smiles victoriously like he had already won what he wanted before I had a minute to verbally answer.
“I knew you were made for me,” he tacks on confidently. “Think about it. I’ll be impatiently waiting for your answer, and you still have two days.”
I want to say yes because seriously fuck Bobby.
God only knows what he did behind my back the whole two years we were together, and I don’t want to know.
I already saw and heard enough.
Bobby doesn’t deserve my empathy or guilt for messing around with his brother. If there were no Jolene, no using me for leverage or for his image, I’d be screaming at the top of my lungs.
But Bronte…as much as I have a hard time digesting it, he makes me feel as though I’m worth something.
Not money.
Not to save face.
Not as a stand-in wife or someone to use.
As his wife.
A wife, he paid a million dollars to her non-profit to gain resources that will make my seniors’ lives easier, better, and more enjoyable.
Someone he just wants to spend time with.
To give him a chance.
The chance he was supposed to have in the first place.
“I’m going to cover your mouth,” Bronte mutters, his deep voice this piercing depth that seeps in my veins and calms me. “Because you’re going to come in about three minutes.”
He doesn’t wait for permission. His large hand wraps around my lips when his head drops, and his own begins lapsing at my neck again.
His pace quickens, and so does his thumb along my clit.
He works me like it’s his favorite thing to do. Something he’s studied and spent time on. Something precious and worthy of having this private, intimate moment with.
My body grows rigid from the buildup of my release that threatens to break free at any moment.
I watch Bronte kiss and gently suck on my neck. How attentive and focused he is on making me break apart for him.
It’s one of the sexiest things I’ve ever done.
That I’ve ever seen.
An objectively attractive as hell guy is trying his damnedest to make me come, and I’m surrounded by my dream settings.
It’s like being in a movie. The bad boy is trying to work his way into the female protagonist’s heart.
And you’re rooting for him.
You’re cheering him on because you know he’s perfect for her and will protect her through every life challenge along the way.
He’s devoted because he was just waiting for the right one to show up and make him change.
“If…” Bronte starts, running his mouth up closer to my ear.
“You stay with me, Daydream, and we celebrate our first anniversary. I’m bringing you back here, in this very room, and I’m fucking you against one of these walls.
I want this to be a part of our history.
” He clasps his lips around the lobe of my ear and whispers, “I want you forever.”
He thrusts his fingers deeper, holding them there while he still pumps, and I’m teetering on my orgasm.
I want you forever.
I wish I had found you and not him.
Bronte tightens his hold around my mouth, knowing something I don’t, apparently, when he adds a third finger and I bow over from how full and stuffed I feel.
He pumps some more, making me move and ride his fingers with each nudge.
And he gets his wish.
Me, shattering and bursting with colors in my vision, and a muffled moan caught within his palm.
Bronte doesn’t let up as I come around his digits. He continues stuffing me as full as he can when my body gives up and begins to tremble from the massive explosion of pleasure my body just gave off.
I continue to plead for relief and more against his skin, but it falls on deaf ears.
Or maybe ones he can’t understand.
Regardless, I’m fully aware he never would’ve stopped if he had. Bronte gives me things I never realized I needed or wanted.
Dirty sex.
Crazy fingering in historical places that people only dream of standing in.
And a husband who’s asking for a chance to be everything someone else was supposed to be.
The wrong man.
The wrong twin.
Bronte kisses my neck one more time, alluding that he’s finally going to give me some relief.
But, honestly—right now—I don’t want any.
I just want to stay here, in this library, with food, and away from the reality that awaits when Bobby tries to make his case.
Too bad I’m in the judging mood and plan on convicting him to life without me in it.