Chapter 46
Chapter Forty-Six
JULIET
I’m stepping into a scene from someone else's life, and yet it feels as if it is my life. Vibe is casual, he said, and yet here I am, walking into La Grande Boucherie, dressed to kill because I’m crazy about Blake and want him to be unable to resist me.
Besides, I had to. I need confidence. My heart's been fluttering like a demented butterfly with excitement and nerves since I agreed to come. Even now, my stomach feels like it’s twisted into one big knot.
I smooth down my dress and look around.
The place is alive and popping—red velvet booths hugging the walls, waiters in crisp white shirts weave between tables.
I spot Blake at the corner booth. His broad shoulders tense in his suit jacket.
His colleague and wife are chatting over glasses of wine, but as I approach, their eyes lift, and widen in that stunned way that makes me self-conscious.
Heck, have I gone too far? I can see that the woman is dressed in a simple black dress, and the guy is not even wearing a tie.
When Blake said casual, he really meant casual.
Blake stands as I reach the table, his hand brushing my waist in a quick, possessive touch, but his expression is guarded, those icy-gray eyes flicking over me without lingering.
"You look beautiful," he murmurs, but the compliment sounds polite and distant.
We settle in, and the dinner unfolds nicely enough.
The food is divine. We start with a shared charcuterie board from the menu.
Slices of Bayonne ham, Saucisson sec, Pate de campagne, Rilettes and rosette de Lyon, are draped over a wooden board together with pieces of Brie, Tomme de Savoie, Roquefort and Sante-Mare de Touraine.
Dotted amongst the meat and cheese are cornichons, walnuts, and fresh figs.
Blake spreads pate and grainy mustard on a crusty baguette slice and bites cleanly into it, while I pretend to nibble at some dry sausage.
Jason, Blake's colleague, mid-forties with an easy smile and a navy blazer over his shirt, keeps the conversation flowing, talking shop about some tech merger.
His wife Sarah chimes in and sometimes laughs at his anecdotes as she sips her Chardonnay.
Me, I cannot relate to anything they are talking about at all.
"This place is a gem," Sarah says in an effort to draw me into the conversation. "Their coq au vin is to die for. Have you tried it?"
What can I do, but shake my head and smile.
“Where do you normally go?” she asks curiously.
Oh God! We are stepping into dangerous territory here. I can feel Blake turn to look at me. “Oh, here there and everywhere,” I say, hoping it sounds friendly but imprecise, but it comes out sounding dismissive and arrogant, as if I am not interested in talking to her.
“Right,” she says and turns towards her husband.
Well, that went well. I stab my fork into a salad of seared tuna, nestled on crisp haricots verts and nicoise olives. The vinaigrette is described as tangy and light, and probably delicious, but I taste nothing.
Blake's quiet beside me. His knee brushes mine under the table now. and then, accidental or not, it sends little jolts up my leg. Though he barely looks my way.
"Yeah, the numbers look solid," he says in a clipped voice at one point to Jason, as he cuts into his steak frites.
That cold edge to him makes my chest tighten. I feel as if I've done something wrong without knowing what it is. The warmth and closeness of our garden episode feels like it is miles away now, replaced by this wall he's put up. It leaves me picking at my salad while laughter flows around me.
Dessert arrives, and it is tarte tatin, the caramelized apples warm and sticky under a dollop of crème fra?che.
Blake's silence starts to weigh more heavily.
My fork clinks against the plate without much enthusiasm, and I can't shake off the unease.
My fingers twist the napkin in my lap. Sarah is telling a story about their vacation in Provence, her voice animated, and I catch Blake's glance flicking to me, finally.
It's unreadable, and that stings. He always looks at me with desire in his eyes.
Why invite me if he's going to freeze me out like this?
Dinner wraps up with coffee—espresso for him, strong and black, nothing for me. I’m done pretending to eat and drink.
I excuse myself and walk towards the restrooms. Standing for a moment in the corridor where it is much quieter, and lined with framed black-and-white photos of old Paris, I try to calm my temper.
After I’m done with the bathroom, I feel a great reluctance to go back to the table.
In fact, I’m tempted to just walk out right now and leave him here with his friends to get on with it.
The undeniable fact is, he ignored me all evening.
What an asshole. I look at myself in the mirror and suddenly feel foolish.
Maybe he’s embarrassed by me. Maybe I shouldn’t have dressed up.
Fine. I decide to leave and send him a text from the car that I’ve gone home with a headache. He can make my excuses to his friends.
But as I exit the Ladies, to my surprise, I see Blake approaching, his presence filling the space before he speaks. I would have ignored him and walked on, but his hand catches my elbow gently but firmly, and turns me to face him.
"Where are you going?" he asks, his voice low and edged with something that looks incomprehensibly like anger. What has he got to be angry about? His gray eyes darken as he steps closer. The hallway narrows around us, the faint music from the dining room muffled.
I pull back, my own anger flaring hot in my chest, my skin tingling where he touched. “Back home,” I snarl harshly.
“What’s wrong?” he asks with a frown.
I don’t hold back. “I’m bored. You've barely spoken to me all evening, haven't even looked at me. I really don't know what I'm even supposed to be doing here. At least Jason looks at his wife now and again. I suppose if I want attention, I should look elsewhere."
His jaw tightens, that anger sharpening, his hand not letting go as he leans in. His breath is warm against my cheek. "Bored? Spending time with me isn't interesting enough for you? Maybe you’d prefer to be with that gardener boyfriend of yours? That's where you'd really prefer to be?"
The words hit like a slap, jealousy raw in his tone, and I stare at him, hurt twisting deeper. My pulse races as I try to pull away again. "What? You—that’s not— oh my God. Just… just leave me the hell alone.”
I fight him, but he catches me fully then, his body pressing close, one hand on my waist as he plasters me against him, the solid wall of his chest crushing into mine.
The heat of him seeps through our clothes, igniting every nerve, and I gasp just before his mouth crashes down on mine.
It's hard, urgent, his lips claiming me with a raw hunger that steals my breath, bruising in the best way.
His tongue thrusts in, possessive and deep, and tangles with mine in a fierce dance.
I taste his espresso—bitter, warm, addictive—as he devours me like he's been starved for years.
I feel his cock against me, rock hard through his slacks, the thick length grinding insistently into my hip, pulsing with a need that sends a flood of heat rushing to my sex.
My knees buckle, weakening under the onslaught, and I clutch at his shirt, fists twisting in the fabric as a desperate moan vibrates from my throat into his mouth.
His free hand slides up my back, fingers digging into my skin through the silk dress, pulling me impossibly closer.
Until there's no space left, just the frantic rhythm of our breaths mingling, hearts pounding in sync.
He doesn't let up, his kiss turning wilder, teeth nipping at my lower lip before soothing it with a suck that draws out another whimper from me. My body arches into him instinctively, hips rolling against that hardness, seeking friction that makes him growl low in his chest, the sound vibrating through me like thunder. His scent—clean cologne mixed with the faint musk of arousal—envelops me. It’s dizzying, and I lose myself in it.
My nails scrape down his back as the world narrows to this hallway, this moment, this fire he's unleashed inside me.
A long time later, he pulls back slightly. His forehead rests against mine, and our breaths are ragged and hot between us. His eyes are dark storms, locked on mine with an intensity that pins me in place.
"Is this enough interest for you?" he mutters, voice rough and gravelly, laced with that edge of desperation, his hand sliding down from my waist to grip my hip tighter, fingers bruising in their hold as if afraid I'll slip away.
I nod wordlessly.
"I asked you to join us so we... we could spend time together, not for you to blow my mind like this. How are you this mind-blowingly hot, and I've never noticed? I've been married to you for four fucking years."
The words sink in slowly, his vulnerability cracking through his anger, and I understand then.
The quiet and the cold was just him holding back so he didn’t look like a fool in front of his colleagues.
He didn’t look like he wanted this too much.
My heart swells, aching and soft, and I kiss him back, my lips gentle at first, then deeper.
Just then, someone clears their throat behind us, and we break apart. My cheeks flush hot as I find that it is Sarah, heading to the bathroom. I instantly flush with shame, especially at the sheepish smile on her face.
"Don't let me stop you," she jokes lightly, waving a hand as she passes on her way to the Ladies.