Chapter 14 Scarlett
SCARLETT
I shed my shorts and my underwear. Damn panties are useless already, soaked all the way through.
I climb up his body, sitting on his face.
That’s exactly where he wants me. His hands fly to my hips, and he tugs me down tighter, and then he goes to town on my pussy.
I’m so aroused, so ready, so craving another orgasm.
This man is intent on giving it to me. He flicks his tongue across my clit. I cry out, urging him on.
Yes.
Just like that.
Don’t stop.
I rock against him, and he holds my hips, gripping them tighter as I find a rhythm, fucking his mouth. My hands trail up my body, gripping my breasts, squeezing them.
I meet his gaze for a hot, delirious second. His blue eyes are searing, glittering with filth and lust.
He lets go of my hips, runs his hands up my belly, then pushes mine away, grabbing my tits.
I shove my hands in my hair as I rock against his mouth while he squeezes my breasts, kneading them, pinching my nipples.
Like he promised he’d do.
I feel like his depraved wife.
Like his wild midnight lover.
Indulging. Relishing. Savoring.
And fucking his face as he grabs my breasts harder, twisting my nipples, sending pinpricks of pain through me.
Pain that’s pleasurable.
Sharp, hot pain that’s so delicious it goes straight to my clit.
As he licks me ferociously, I fly over the edge, my pretend husband coaxing a powerful orgasm from me.
The world goes blurry and beautiful. As I cry out, panting his name, he grabs hold of my hips so that I don’t fall as I come hard on his face.
I’m moaning and murmuring and so drugged out from my climax that I barely have time to process what’s happening next.
He scoops me up, carries me in his arms, and brings me to the king-size bed.
I half expect him to leave, but instead we slide under the covers together.
He wraps his strong biceps around me and kisses my neck, whispering, “You’re so beautiful when you come, darling. I want to do that to you over and over again.”
I am a woman unleashed.
I speak from the heart of both desire and trust in him when I say, “I want all that and more.”
Forget water lilies.
Monet’s blue kitchen is the artist’s true masterwork.
I discover it in its colorful glory the next day as we visit Giverny’s most famous spot—the artist’s garden where he drew so much inspiration. But I’m more lured by the artist’s house.
“Why didn’t anyone tell me about this slice of heaven?” I ask as I gawk.
Yes. Gawk.
There is no other way to describe what I’m doing in the spacious kitchen of the home of one of the greatest artists ever.
It’s a robin’s egg of a room, a dreamscape of this one sumptuous color, with sapphire-blue stone on the stove, shades of pastel blue splashed across the table, and colorful patterns of ocean blue, sea blue, and tropical blue on the mosaic tiles on the wall.
I wheel around, turn to Daniel, flick my blonde hair off my shoulder—today I am platinum—and arch a brow sharply.
“You’re in trouble,” I say.
He smirks. “So it’s my fault that you didn’t know about Monet’s house before?”
I spin in a circle, gesturing to the pinwheel of blues before us.
“Yes. Because a blue kitchen is magnificent, and since you’re the one who’s brought me here, you must have known about it previously.
” I raise my chin defiantly, stepping closer to him, getting in his face.
I poke his chest. “What kind of husband would keep this a secret from his wife?”
His smirk turns into a devilish grin. “Maybe I only kept it a secret because I’m just now getting to know what you like. I’m only now discovering all these sides to my brilliant, beautiful wife.”
I shiver at those words, at our games, because these roles with him are delicious. “Still, you should have brought me here sooner. Perhaps when you were courting me,” I say, like this is a version of naughty improv theater, and it’s his turn to decide where to take the flirty scene.
His eyes twinkle with mischief as he wraps an arm around my waist and yanks me close, my body flush to his. “I would have, if I could have gotten you out of bed,” he says, painting the details of our pretend romance.
“I could say the same of you,” I tease, gliding further into the parts we’re playing. “You were relentless, always wanting me.”
“I still always want you, Mrs. Rousseau,” he says, using my name for today.
“But your amorous nature is precisely why I couldn’t bring you here when we were courting.
Don’t you remember all you ever wanted to do was fuck and fuck and fuck?
” he asks, whispering in my ear, heating me up until my skin is blazing.
I drag my nails down the front of his casual mint-green button-down. “Can you blame me? My husband is a filthy man in bed.”
His eyes narrow, flickering with heat. “My wife is an absolutely filthy woman who craves hot, dirty sex all night.” He tucks a finger under my chin, stroking his thumb along my jaw, leaving sparks in his wake.
“So, as you can see, when I have to satisfy your insatiable appetite in bed, it makes it hard to whisk you away to places like this.”
I take the bait as I inch away, roaming my eyes up and down his muscular frame. “Is it? Hard?”
His smile is wicked as he runs a hand over my hair. “Around you, yes.” He leans in, brushes a soft kiss to my forehead, and whispers, “But I’m so glad you like Monet’s house, Scarlett. I’ve been here a few times and always love it. But more so with you.”
I relax, returning to myself, following his cue.
I flash him a smile—not a flirty one, not a naughty one, but a genuinely happy one. I’m glad he loves being here with me, because I enjoy touring this spot with this man, whether as newlyweds or as us. Both suit me fine.
He takes my hand as we wander into the dining room, which is painted brightly in bold shades of yellow.
I lower my eyes, shifting my gaze. “I’m almost ashamed that this is the first time I’m seeing the gardens and the house. I can’t believe I haven’t made the trek out here yet.”
Daniel squeezes my fingers. “Ah, but that’s only because you are a Parisphile. It’s hard to peel you away from the city.”
I grin. “True. Paris is my soul mate. Have I ever told you that before? That I feel that way?” My voice pitches up, colored perhaps with some nerves. Aside from my parents, I’ve never told anyone how deeply I care for the city, but confessing this part of myself feels right. Necessary too.
He smiles, stroking my cheek. “I sense that about you.”
“How so?”
“You belong in Paris. Whenever I meet you at a café or a brasserie, and you’re sitting outside at one of those small round tables with the high-backed wicker chairs, drinking a glass of wine, reading a book, I always think, ‘She is this city. She doesn’t simply blend in. She is Paris,’” he says.
Warmth bubbles in me. I might actually be glowing. “It makes me happy that you see that.”
He gives a shrug, like he can’t help it. “It’s how you look to me. You’re like this goddess who owns the town.”
“I think Paris owns me,” I say, then point behind us to the blue kitchen. “But if I lived here, Giverny might own me. Making a meal in that kitchen must be like cooking in the sky. Can you see me in there? Wearing only an apron?”
He hums, a low rumble in his throat. “Perhaps, Mrs. Rousseau, we can play that game sometime. When I come home and find you in next to nothing.”
I purr, running my fingers down his arm, loving the freedom to touch him like this. To experience all of him in this cocoon of make-believe. “I’d do that for you. Put on only lacy lingerie, answer the door like that, ready for you.”
“Is that so?” His voice dips low as he backs me up into the yellow wall in the empty dining room. “You’d turn off the oven, then I’d bend you over the counter and take you hard after a hard day.”
The image lights me up, sending waves of desire through me. “You could take anything out on me with the way you fuck me,” I offer, gripping his shirt, tugging him close as the prospect of pleasure coils in me. “I’d want that. Hard and rough, your hands everywhere, squeezing, gripping, kneading.”
He groans savagely, then flicks his gaze from side to side, like he’s making sure no tourists from other rooms are about to wander in. But the house is quiet. “Is this what you were promising me last night, darling?” He runs his fingers down my arm. “Spending the day getting worked up?”
My hand dances down the front of his shirt on a determined path for his pants, sliding over the hard ridge of his erection. I shudder as I brush my hand over him, savoring his arousal. “Yes. Are you worked up?”
“You tell me,” he rasps out, rough and hungry, pressing my hand against his cock.
An appreciative murmur falls from my lips. “I’d say so,” I purr.
He lets go of me then ropes that arm around my waist, his fingers landing on my ass. He tugs me closer, pressing his hard-on into me. “Is this what you truly want, Mrs. Rousseau? Because I’ll take you into the kitchen right now, set you on the table, and have my wicked way with you.”
I half believe he would fuck me in Monet’s home. I half want it too. But I also want to be teased, to be pushed. “Keep pushing me. Like you’re edging me. It makes everything better. Makes me even hotter for you. More worked up.”
He growls, his eyes darkening, nearly feral with lust. “I’m so worked up, Mrs. Rousseau. So damn turned on that I’m going to need to change the subject just so I can survive being here in public with you.” With a so there expression, he does just that—shifts gears. “Speaking of, do you cook?”
I laugh, loving the sharp turn in the road as we pull apart, strolling around the dining room, cooling off. I tap my chest. “Vegan here. I definitely cook. It’s very hard to get exactly what I want otherwise.”
“And why are you vegan?”
“I love animals. I’d rather not eat them.”
“Makes sense. I like that you have your reasons. Have you always cooked?”
“My parents love to cook. I learned from them. I think it’s the scientists in them. They are mad scientists testing out all sorts of recipes, reveling in the physics and the chemistry of the kitchen. I’ve always loved to cook or experiment on my own as well. And when I was with my husband.”
The latter is a topic I rarely bring up with Daniel, or anyone else besides Nadia. But once I say it, I know why.
I want him to know me.
“Did you like doing that?” he asks.
“Very much so. I loved it. It was one of my favorite parts of being married. Perhaps the only part that doesn’t feel marred,” I say, heading toward the window.
He follows me, stops when I do, then runs a knuckle over my cheek, tilting his head as he studies my face. “Is it hard for you? Playing pretend like this?”
“Because of Jonathan?” I ask tentatively, wanting to make sure he’s ready to wade into these waters.
With his trademark directness, he answers, “Yes. Do our games bring you back to times you’d rather forget?
I don’t know the details of what happened in your marriage, but I know sometimes you’re sad.
And I know sometimes you’re distant and you pull away.
Does it bother you at all, what we’re doing? ”
That’s an excellent question.