Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
JULIET
The dream pulls me under like cool silk sliding over bare skin.
My skin is damp with sweat and my body feels heavy and languid on the massive bed.
There is a dim glow of moonlight filtering through the curtains, and the air is sweet and scented with lavender from the sachets in the drawers.
Restlessly, I kick at the duvet, drifting in that hazy space between sleep and want, my breath coming in fast and shallow.
A knock on the door—soft at first, then insistent, jolts me just enough to stir.
I open my eyes groggily, and before I can even call "come in," the door swings open, and Blake steps into the moonlight.
His broad shoulders fill the frame. He looks like he's carved from my deepest fantasies, bare-chested, his honey-glazed skin gleaming in the soft light, every muscle defined like a marble sculpture comes to life.
Those abs ripple with each breath, and a trail of dark hair leads down to the low-slung waistband of his pants.
His icy-gray eyes are locked on me with a hunger that makes my pulse race.
Damnit, but he's fucking gorgeous—bristling raw power wrapped in elegance, the kind of man who could ruin you with a touch.
He closes the door behind him, the click echoing in the quiet, and moves toward the bed with the predatory grace of a stalking panther.
“What are you doing here?” I croak.
His voice is low and rough, gravelly with need. “Why do you think?”
I shiver and stare at him wordlessly.
"I missed you," he says, echoing the gardener's words from earlier, but twisting them into something deeper, more possessive.
“Have you really?” I whisper in awe.
"Yes. I can’t stop thinking about you. What have you done to me?"
I wonder at this, hazy confusion swirling through.
He is supposed to be a cold fish, and yet, here he is, eyes burning with lust. I shouldn’t, but my body betrays me, heat pools low despite the alarm bells.
I want to run, to push him away and escape this forbidden pull, especially as he comes over, and the mattress dips under his weight.
His hand flicks the duvet away and exposes my nearly naked body.
He looks down greedily, possessively. Slowly, his hand finds my thigh, fingers tracing slow, deliberate circles on the sensitive skin there, sending sparks racing up my spine.
To my shock, he grabs my legs without warning and tugs them open, his touch sliding higher until his fingers brush the edge of my panties.
I gasp as they dip beneath the lace. The sensation is electric.
Wet heat builds as he plays with me, one finger circling my clit with agonizing slowness, before slipping inside, curling just right to make my hips buck.
"Blake," I whisper. Part of me wants to push him away, but when my hands find his chest—God, that rock-hard chest, warm and unyielding under my palms—something odd happens to me. I don’t want to push him away anymore because I am his wife, aren't I?
The lines blur. I must resist. I really must. But desire wins out as he leans down, his breath hot against my inner thigh.
Maybe just this once…
He sucks, open-mouthed and ravenous, his lips hot and velvet-rough against the tender skin of my inner thigh.
His teeth grazes just enough to make me shiver.
The stubble on his jaw scrapes deliciously as he moves higher, breath fanning over my slick folds in a slow, deliberate exhale that feels like fire licking across already-sensitive nerves.
His fingers tear hungrily at the scrap of cloth covering my sex.
When his tongue finds me, it’s a shock of wet heat, broad and flat at first, dragging up the length of me in one long stroke that tears a broken moan from my throat.
He just claimed me for himself. The taste of me seems to drive him wild; I hear the low growl and feel it vibrate against my clit.
My hips jerk involuntarily, chasing more.
His mouth closes over me, sucking, sucking, lips sealing around that swollen bundle of nerves while his tongue flicks in tight, merciless circles.
The pleasure is immediate and blinding, a white-hot pulse that shoots straight up my spine.
My fingers tangle in his dark hair, thick and silky between my knuckles, and I pull helplessly, needing an anchor as the storm builds.
He answers with a rough sound of approval.
His voice hums through me, then two fingers slide inside, thick and sure. They move in and out slickly.
They make my vision spark.
The rhythm he sets is perfect, cruel, devastating: long, deep thrusts of his fingers, knuckles dragging against my walls, while his tongue never stops its relentless worship.
The wet sounds fill the quiet room, slick and shameless, the obscene proof of how much I want this, how soaked I already am for him.
Every nerve is alight, and my thighs tremble violently around his head.
Muscles I didn’t know I had, clench and flutter around his fingers as he stretches me, fills me, owns me with every stroke.
His free hand splays across my stomach, pinning me down when I start to writhe too hard, the pressure of his palm branding my skin, grounding me even as he pushes me higher.
I’m panting now, ragged little cries I can’t hold back, my back arching off the bed as the coil inside me winds impossibly tight.
He feels it, knows exactly what he is doing to me, and doubles down.
Tongue pressing flat and hard, fingers jamming faster and faster.
The heel of his hand grinds against my clit in faultless sync.
The whole technique is ruthlessly perfect.
The orgasm slams into me like a tidal wave, sudden and all-consuming.
My entire body bows, my spine lifting clear off the mattress as a raw, broken cry rips from my throat.
The scream echoes off the high ceiling as pleasure detonates behind my eyelids in blinding bursts of white.
It pulses through me in violent, endless waves.
As my walls clamp down around his fingers again and again, as if milking him, I come apart.
My thighs shake uncontrollably, as every muscle locks in exquisite, shattering release.
Even when he knows I’m done, he doesn’t stop, just gentles his mouth, lapping softly through the aftershocks, drawing it out until I’m gasping, slick and utterly spent, boneless against the tangled duvet, the taste of salt on my lips from where I’ve bitten them raw.
He raises his head, and his eyes are glittering like an animal’s. “Liar,” he whispers. “You’re a fucking liar, Juliet Redgrave.”
What the fuck! I wake up suddenly with a jolt.
The moonlight is now brighter, but the humid air is sticking to my flushed skin.
I check myself, hand slipping between my legs under the covers, and God, I'm wet—soaked, the ache still throbbing, making me wonder what the hell is happening to me.
The memory of his mouth between my legs still clings to me, my body betraying me even now, and my clit is still swollen, aching from the phantom touch of his illicit tongue.
That was so damn real. It felt too vivid.
Blake's touch seems to linger still. Heat floods my body as shame and confusion mix with unsatisfied longing.
God, why him? Why now, when I'm supposed to be playing a role, not unraveling?