Chapter 18
I question whether I should go to dinner. Whether—after what happened in the steam room—he’ll even be there. But then a card is pushed under my door confirming my reservation. For two. So it looks like I’m staying on the roller coaster. I’m trying not to forget that I just walked away from a man for wanting what I couldn’t give him. And now I’m getting involved with a man who wants something I can’t give him. Control. But isn’t that okay to an extent? To allow him some control? Take freedom from the pressure when I want it? Is that how this could work? And is that realistic?
Fuck, I don’t even know.
Talk to him. Just talk. That’s my plan for dinner. Lay my cards on the table and see what he says. I can take the fling. Want to, actually. What I can’t take are the interludes of drama and conflict spiked by his mood swings and extreme reactions. Possessive.
Except I’m not his to possess.
So why the fuck am I slipping into the underwear he’s bought me?
I close my eyes, hiding from myself in the floor-length mirror, as if avoiding explaining myself to myself, as I shimmy into my satin slip dress, pulling the straps into place. The material, cut on the cross, skims my hips, falling just below my knee, the low-scoop neckline sitting only a fraction above the balcony cups of the bra he chose. I sit on one of the armchairs and slide my feet into my slingback gold stilettos and stand, taking my hands over my shoulders and lifting my hair, pushing it away so it tumbles down my back.
Ready.
But not.
I leave the suite and make my way down to the restaurant, smiling mildly at Anouska as I pass her in the lobby. “Enjoy dinner,” she says, a touch of knowing in her tone.
“Thank you.” The moment I reach the doors to the restaurant, I see him. He’s at the far back of the Orangery, at a table for two, looking out across the rose garden. As if he’s sensed I’m here, he cranes his neck and looks over his shoulder. And the moment our eyes meet, my heart turns. I’m winded. He literally takes my breath away. His face. It kills me, the raw, rugged beauty. His eyes sparkle as he gets up, revealing himself in his full, devastating glory. He’s in a light-grey suit, his shirt stark white, his darker grey tie perfectly knotted.
I’m fucked. So completely fucked. It defies reason. It defies me . This guy, in all his visual perfection, has some serious issues—I should run in the opposite direction, end this slow creep into the unknown. And yet ...
I’m here begging for more. Begging for him . He’s definitely struggling with something, and I have an unshakable desperation to know what. I have to know him. What makes him tick, who he is, where he’s been, and where he’s going.
The ma?tre d’ approaches, and I point to Jude. “I’m with Mr. Harrison,” I say quietly.
“Oh yes, of course, please.” He sweeps an arm out, and I start walking on shaky legs through the tables to Jude, admiring his faint smile as he slips his hands into his pockets, getting comfortable in his stance, and watches me.
I slow to a stop before him, my heart going crazy. “I’m glad you came,” he says, his voice deep but soft. Did he think I wouldn’t?
“I wondered whether I should,” I admit, keeping his gaze. His eyes are a muted grey this evening, a hint of green around the edges of his irises. He’s calm. It’s insane that I can tell that from the shade of his eyes.
Nodding very slightly and removing just one hand from a pocket, he leans in, almost cautious, and slips it around my lower back, kissing my cheek. “You definitely should.”
That’s yet to be determined.
Releasing me, he pulls out my chair, and as I lower, I glance around the restaurant, feeling eyes on me. I’m not wrong. My presence has attracted interest from various guests, including the woman I saw in the lobby this morning. Katherine. She’s at a table with a man on the other side of the restaurant. She smiles, and I return it, smiling at another three people all looking this way before getting back to the man opposite me. The man who, obviously, doesn’t dine with women here often.
That settles something in me.
“Wine?” Jude asks, passing me the menu.
I don’t take it. Let me do all the thinking. “What do you recommend?”
He falters, retracting the menu, a wave of satisfaction travelling across his perfect face. He likes me handing the reins to him. It’s just wine. “I recommend Krug.”
“Champagne? Are we celebrating?”
He waves the waiter over and orders a bottle before looking at me across the table, resting back in his chair. “Why do people think they can only drink champagne when they’re celebrating?” he asks, his face straight but light. “Every day we get to live is cause for celebration.”
I sense a deeper meaning to his statement and think about his mother. The sadness I detected when he talked about her on the stage. But he didn’t talk about his dad. “So I should drink champagne every day?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Why not?”
“Because I’d be bankrupt,” I reply on a light laugh, and he smiles, his sparkly eyes squinting a little as he thinks, studying me. The intensity of his gaze constantly on me will have me sliding off this chair soon.
“Well, luckily for you”—his voice is quiet—“I have an endless supply in the wine cellar.” The waiter returns and pours, and Jude leans over the table and picks up my flute, offering it to me. “Tell me what you think.”
Accepting, I take a small sip and nod. “It’s lovely.”
“Agree.”
“Where’s the wine cellar?” I ask, wondering how many hidden nooks this place must have. It’s extensive, the gift that keeps on giving. Like its owner?
“Under Evelyn’s.”
“I love how you named the club after your mum.”
He smiles. “I don’t usually frequent Evelyn’s. I prefer the Library Bar.” He glances around the restaurant, prompting me to as well. We’re definitely tonight’s stars of the show. I hear him laugh a little as he returns his eyes to me. Then he stands suddenly and picks up his chair, moving it around the table, sitting next to me rather than opposite me. My eyes follow him back down to the seat, my frown mild as he collects his glass and holds it up.
“What are we drinking to?” I ask, lightly tapping my glass on the side of his.
“Today.”
He sips, turning his body more toward me, and leans forward, sliding his palm onto my nape and encouraging me closer until our lips brush. And he kisses me gently. So gently, but the impact hits me as hard as when he’s owned me with a kiss. I taste the bubbles on his lips, feel endless eyes on us. Is he making a point? I don’t know, and I don’t care, because in this moment I’m oblivious to the world around me. And isn’t that the beauty of Jude Harrison when he’s in my orbit?
My eyes closed, I absorb the light pressure of his lips on mine, floating, tingling.
Lost.
“Shall we order?” he asks, pulling back and dragging his hand onto my cheek. “The lamb is something else. It comes from the farm a few miles away.”
I nod my agreement and let Jude order.
“Any allergies?” the waiter asks, looking at me.
“Nuts,” Jude says. “Amelia’s allergic to nuts.”
The waiter nods and makes a note before leaving, and Jude pours more champagne. “Tell me about your family.”
“Oh, are we going deep?” I shift in my chair when his hand slips under my dress and rests on my bare knee. I know Jude Harrison has a habit of inappropriate behaviour in inappropriate places, so I’m bracing myself for a slow torture at this table.
“Deep,” he muses. “As deep as my tongue was in your pussy earlier.” His face is deadpan, watching me as I cough under my breath.
“Do you get a kick out of shock tactics?”
“No, I get a kick out of how badly you want me.”
I laugh, quite loudly, but he squeezes my knee, silencing me quickly. “You must be used to women wanting you.”
“Not the right ones,” he replies quietly, making me tilt my head in curiosity. “Your family,” he prompts again. “Come on, Amelia, let’s go deep.”
“I’m one of two children,” I say, his hand burning my skin on my knee. “I have a younger brother, you’ve met him.”
He pulls a pained face. “Clark.”
“Yes, he’s getting married soon.”
“Oh, the younger sibling is getting married?”
“Yes,” I confirm, almost tiredly, rolling my eyes at his not-so-subtle sarcasm. “Dad says he’s retired, but he isn’t really.”
“What did/does he do?”
“Finance.”
“Like you,” he says. “Runs in the family?”
“My grandfather set up the family company in 1959, Dad joined when he was twenty-two, Grandpa retired in 2007, my brother joined the firm after he’d finished university, and Dad retired two years ago and handed the reins to Clark. Or he claims he retired.”
Jude’s head cocks. “And you?”
“I joined the company fresh out of university and left when my dad bypassed me in favour of my younger brother.”
“Ouch.”
“It’s fine, I’m over it.”
Jude nods, clearly not believing me. “The stiffness makes total sense now.”
“I am not stiff, Jude Harrison,” I breathe, going for bold and slipping my hand under the tablecloth, sliding it into his lap. His eyes widen—they’re definitely greener now—his smile delighted as I stroke over his growing erection. I tilt my head as he sits up straight, the electric energy bouncing between us climbing a few more notches. “I left the family business to carve out my own career,” I say, squeezing lightly over his bulge. “It was the best decision I’ve ever made.”
He flexes his hips upwards, his lips parting a little. “Go on.”
“I started at LB she had no business being in the area.” I can see his mind travelling back in time. “She called me, told me she’d stumbled upon a beautiful building in the middle of nowhere and she wanted to buy it.” He huffs. “I was worried. It was so spontaneous, but I couldn’t bring myself to shit all over her excitement, so I let her drag me out here, and, Jesus, it was a fucking wreck.”
I smile. “Not anymore.”
“Not anymore,” he says, giving up on his dinner and placing his fork down, keeping hold of my hand on the table. “Mum died three years into the restoration.” He smiles at me, seeing my slight recoil. He lost them so close together? “She didn’t get to see Arlington Hall as you see it, and isn’t that a fucking tragedy?”
It really is. God, he looks so beaten all of a sudden. “I’m sure she would have been very proud of what you’ve done.”
“I know she would.” Abandoning my hand, he tops up our glasses. “Now, if you don’t mind, I didn’t plan on such a sombre mood during dinner with you.”
Lighten things up. “But you planned on sending me wild and bringing me to climax over conversation?”
“Of course,” he replies, simple as that. “But as you know, Amelia, you send me wild too.”
Speaking of which ... “Shall we talk about earlier?”
His face falls a little. “I’d rather forget it ever happened.”
“I’d rather understand why it did.”
He flicks his eyes up from the glass he’s fiddling with. “Is it wrong to want you to myself?”
“It is if we’re not on the same page.”
His eyes darken. He didn’t appreciate that. “What page are you on?”
“I don’t know,” I admit quietly.
“I’m not sure how much clearer I can be about what page I’m on. I want you.”
My next question should be for how long. But I’m reasonable enough to know that’s a stupid question to ask someone I’ve known a couple of weeks and not slept with. That alone seems crazy. I’ve not slept with him. Done many things, but not actually slept with him. “The possessiveness, the gifts. I feel like I’m in a relationship and we’ve not even had sex. Or is that all part of your seduction?”
“Seduction?”
“Isn’t that what this is? To get me into bed?”
“Amelia, I could have had you in bed the first time we met.”
“Are you saying I’m easy?”
“No.” He sighs, his body language screaming uncomfortable. “I’m saying I’m really—”
“Good at seducing women?”
“Stop putting words in my mouth,” he snaps, and I withdraw, stung. He breathes out, rubbing his forehead with the tips of his fingers. “I’m saying I’m really into you.”
“I don’t understand, Jude. You worked your arse off to make me surrender, and yet all the opportunities you’ve had to sleep with me you’ve passed up.”
He falls back in his chair, exasperated. “I don’t want you to think I’m nothing but a fuckboy.”
I inhale. Shit. Isn’t that exactly what I need him to be? A one-track-mind man. A man I can depend on not wanting more than I want to give? And there’s my problem. Jude feels ... different. This is all new. And he seems to want a lot of me.
“Why me?” I ask quietly.
“Aside from the fact I fancy the knickers off you?”
I hold back my grin. Just. “Aside from that.”
“You’re smart, obviously very ambitious.” He hitches an amused brow. “Determined.”
I laugh a little. “My determination has been squashed since I met you.”
“Determination to avoid me?”
“Exactly.”
“Why do you want to avoid me?”
I press my lips together. I don’t want to talk about my ex. I also don’t want to tell Jude that I’m scared of going too deep with him. “This is ... intense.”
“You’re scared.”
“Wary,” I counter, and he nods thoughtfully as he plays with the stem of his glass. “So aside from the attraction, how smart I am, and the fact I was a very determined woman before I met Jude Harrison, what else is there?”
“Are you fishing for compliments?”
“Just trying to understand what I’m getting myself into.”
His eyes squint, and for a moment I think he’s flinched. Then he smiles. “I sense my wealth is of no consequence to you, given you didn’t know who I actually was until recently.”
Was that a ploy on his part? He said earlier he doesn’t get attention from the right women. Gold diggers. And has that been a past problem for him? “You don’t know that for sure,” I say casually, taking my champagne and sipping. “I might marry you, stake a claim on your fortune, then file for divorce.”
He laughs lightly, and the sound has me a quivering wreck, the light fans at the corners of each eye making them twinkle madly. “You’d marry me?”
Whoa. “Hold your horses, champ.”
“Champ?”
“Casanova?”
“How about Jude. Plain and simple Jude.”
“Jude,” I say quietly, taking a breath of confidence. “And the possessiveness?”
He pouts, giving me a boyish grin. “It’s new to me.”
New to him? Interesting. “What about the anger?”
This time, I definitely know it’s a flinch, which tells me anger is an issue for him. He has a temper. My only reassurance right now is that he’s aware of it.
“I can work on that,” he says, putting his hand on the table, palm up. If I give him my hand, I’ll be accepting him. Giving him my patience and understanding. Is he angry about his parents’ deaths? About how he naturally reacts to me?
It’s rare, in my experience, that people recognise their own faults, so I truly appreciate his admission and sincerity. He doesn’t want to be angry.
“Who was that guy?” I ask, giving him my hand. He lifts it to his mouth and kisses my knuckles before setting it gently back on the table.
“The one I found you eating alive in the steam room?” My fork hits the plate, my lips straight, and Jude peeks at me with only mild wariness. “Jenson,” he says. “A PT from the gym. I think I need to call him and apologise.”
That’s comforting too. He’s got self-awareness. Owns his mistakes. “And maybe offer him his job back,” I say. “I’ve been thinking about getting a PT for a while.”
“Stop it, Amelia.” Jude smiles down at his champagne. “If a man has something he wants, shouldn’t he guard it with his life?”
“Only if the other person wants to be wanted.”
“Do you want me to want you?”
My silence speaks volumes, but he wants more.
“Well?” Turning toward me, he leans forward, his elbow on the table. “Tell me, Amelia.” His spare hand slides up my dress again. “Do you want me to want you?” I go stiff in my seat as his finger slips past my knickers and reacquaints itself with the slickness. “I’d say you do,” he whispers, pushing deep and high, his moist lips parting as he watches me swallow and tremble. “I think we’re done debating this.” He pulls out of me and returns his body forward, sucking his finger and taking more champagne.
I shake my head in wonder, my attention caught by that woman, Katherine, again. She quickly looks away when our eyes meet. It’s beginning to get awkward. Everyone else seems to have lost interest, the novelty of Jude Harrison dining with a woman wearing off, but not for her.
“That woman,” I say, discreetly indicating with my glass. “With the blond guy.”
Jude doesn’t look, just hums.
“Who is she?”
“Nobody.”
My eyebrows raise in surprise at his quick, definitive answer. “You don’t even know who I’m pointing to.”
His jaw pulses a little, and he makes a meal of showing the inconvenience I’m causing him, turning slowly in his chair to look behind him. Then he turns back. “That’s Katherine Jenkins and her husband, Rob. They’re members of the golf club and health club and often dine and drink in one of the bars or restaurants here.”
“Oh,” I say quietly.
“And on that note.” Jude stands, and my gaze rises with him. He pulls the champagne out of the bucket and rests it on the table, letting the cloth soak up the melted ice on the bottom of the bottle. His eyes smoke, the green shining through, and my insides burst into flames. “I believe your pussy has a date with my cock.”
I stare up at his tall body looming over me, not as shocked as I should be.
Here he is. Jude Harrison.
Dragging the champagne across the tablecloth, he blinks lazily, his eyes making a thousand promises, before he turns and walks away. My stare is nailed to his back as he goes, his gait smooth, his strides long, the champagne swinging by his thigh.
“Fuck,” I whisper. This is about to go to another level. I gaze across the table, at our unfinished meals, my head and my heart at war.
Help.
I call the girls.
“How’s it going?” Abbie is first in, as always.
“Do I need to come knock some sense into you?” Charley asks.
“Probably.”
“Why?” they say in unison.
“Because I’m about to follow him into the unknown.”
I don’t wait around to see if they try to talk sense into me. Maybe because I’m worried they’ll succeed. I hang up and stand, knocking back the last inch of my fizz. I don’t know who I was trying to fool, convincing myself I was having dinner with him to talk. He proved that plan null and void the moment he put his hand on my knee. But we did talk, and damn him, damn me , I enjoyed getting to know him more. I liked what I heard, saw something more vulnerable and genuine beneath the confident facade and boldness.
But I like his boldness. I like that he overpowers the inherent, constant focus I have on achieving. I like the reprieve he offers me. The calmness I find in emptying my mind and being in the moment with him. Red flags be damned.
I follow Jude, mildly unsettled by the pull leading me. Only mildly. Everything inside is screaming at me to explore this. I’m laser focused as I walk through the tables, my eyes forward, my mind at peace. I can’t say no. Won’t say no.
When I make it into the lobby, I look up at the sweeping staircase as I move, seeing Jude halfway up, his suit jacket now off, the material of his crisp white shirt stretched across his broad back. I take the handrail and the first step, my heels steady, my heart steady, the beats sharp but consistent, my neck craned to keep my eyes on him as I ascend. He stops at the top and looks back at me following, reaching for his tie and tugging it loose.
I’m not in control. I’m owned, my moves manipulated by the pure intent in his eyes. When I’m only a few steps behind him, he continues, walking casually down a corridor and through some doors, stopping to hold it open for me before carrying on. We’re in a private lobby, another set of white-gloss doors ahead of us, console tables lining each side, all with a vase of roses set upon the top. Reaching the double doors, he taps his phone on a keypad and opens the doors, stepping inside. I stop on the threshold, looking up and around, searching for the source of the music everywhere. Jan Blomqvist. “Dancing People Are Never Wrong.”
I take a breath, my flesh pulsing harder as he places the champagne on the round table immediately inside the suite before turning and closing the door. Then he faces me, his eyes on mine, and he swallows, holding his hand out. I watch as mine lifts and our fingers brush, sparks firing. I inhale. Jude curses.
And he hauls me into him, his mouth on mine in a heartbeat, hungry but soft, his body swathing me, his hands in my hair, his tongue plunging into my mouth.
And I’m his.
Crippled by the instant rush of blood to my head, dazed by the intoxicating chemistry.
I grab his tie, returning his kiss hard, pulling it off and tossing it aside as he walks backwards, taking me with him. My dress is scrunched at the sides, lifted over my head, and dropped to the floor, and his hands are soon back in my hair as I work his buttons, my impatience off the charts. Abandoning the final one, I rip it open, shoving it down his arms as a supressed grunt hits my ears. I throw it down with force, getting my hands back on him, feeling his chest, his pecs, his stomach, before I grab fistfuls of his hair and force him harder onto my mouth, moaning. My bra is discarded and tossed to the floor, and his palms cover my breasts, making my torso concave, my nipples stinging with the pleasure of his hands brushing across them.
“Jude.” I’m so fucking frantic for him.
“Amelia,” he pants, ripping his mouth off mine and holding my face, his jaw so tight beneath his stubble. He stares into my eyes as I grasp his wrists, our faces so close, our loud breaths colliding. He looks almost angry as he gazes at me. I must look so dazed. But I am far from confused. Him. He’s like a hit of life to a part of me I never knew was dead. This feeling is consuming. The connection is bending my head. Is this what happens when you meet the one? Explosions, fireworks, a burning heat inside that might make you disintegrate? As I look into his eyes, I know I could drown in them.
And I am.
Sinking, struggling to breathe. “What’s happening?” I whisper, my mouth out of control, something taking over me.
His eyes dart across my face, his palms increasing their pressure on my cheeks as my hands grip his wrists tightly. “I don’t fucking know,” he breathes, tackling my mouth again, kissing me hard and purposefully, walking me to the nearest wall and pushing me up against it. “Let’s talk about that in the morning.”
I’m not going to argue. If he doesn’t sate this fire inside soon, I’m going to lose my mind. I yank his belt loose, push his trousers over his arse, and dig my fingernails into the solid globes of flesh. He hisses, kissing his way over my cheek, onto my shoulder, across my décolletage, onto my boob. I smack my head against the wall and look up at the ceiling, my lungs burning. His warm mouth covers my nipple and sucks as my hands drag up his back and grip his shoulders.
“Trousers,” he demands hoarsely, placing his hands on the wall on either side of my head, his eyes heavy. I slide down the wall, exhaling at the outline of his erection as I pass. Urgency has me lifting one foot in turn and pulling his shoes off, then his socks, before I reach for the waist of his trousers and fight them down his legs. He kicks his way out of them and hauls me back up his body, my legs wrapping around his waist. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he breathes, turning and carrying me across the room blindly, his lips back with me, our chests splattered together, his neck craned back to accommodate my mouth. Soft sheets meet my back, his front splayed on mine. Our kiss is chaotic and loud. He moans, I moan. He fists my hair, I fist his. Then he rolls us so I’m straddling him.
Biting his lip, I drag it through my teeth, and he groans, squeezing his eyes shut briefly before opening them and watching me kiss my way down his chest, onto his stomach, over his boxers.
“Shit, Amelia,” he barks, reaching down and yanking me back up, rolling us again and returning the favour, licking and biting his way across my breasts. I whimper, my back arching violently, desire overwhelming me. Air is hard to find, my panting loud as his mouth crosses my stomach, his thumbs slipping up the sides of my knickers. Sweat starts to bead on my forehead as he inches the lace material down my legs, kissing his way onto the inside of my thighs.
Then he licks through my slickness and I cry out, my stomach muscles tightening, the stabs of pleasure sharp. Discarding my knickers, Jude gets to his knees and pulls me to mine, taking fistfuls of hair, holding me in place, his eyes wild, his hair in disarray. I breathe in his face, reaching for his boxers, and slip my palms inside onto his arse, stroking, feeling, watching him bracing himself as I edge them down and drag the tips of my fingers over his tight hips to his lower stomach. I brush lightly through the hair, down, down, down, as my tongue leaves my mouth and licks across his parted lips. A low, supressed grunt vibrates at the back of his throat, and he waits, his body rolling with mine as I move my touch to the very root of his arousal, delivering teasing, feathery strokes with the tips of my fingers across the length of him. I reach the weeping head and wrap my fist around him, rubbing my thumb through his precum, fascinated by the darkening of his hooded eyes, starting to work him, slow and steady. His grip of my hair increases. His face strains beautifully, his head dropping back, giving me access to his neck. Moving in, I worship his throat with my mouth, his dark-blond scruff rough against my lips and tongue.
His Adam’s apple bulges from his swallow, and his hand is suddenly over mine on his dick. “Stop.” He strains the word, his breathing becoming rapid. “Just give me ... I need ... Fuck, give me a second.”
I wait while he gathers himself, feel him throbbing in my unmoving hand, returning to his neck and inhaling his manly scent, tasting the salty sweat on his skin. He suppresses a low, deep growl, pulling me away by my hair.
Looking down at me, he scans my damp face, moving his hands onto my cheeks, stroking softly. “I didn’t expect this, Amelia.” He pushes me down to my back and crawls up my body, blanketing me. “There’s no going back after this.” He shifts his hips and slides into me, inhaling sharply, and his eyes clench shut, the strain on his face just fucking beautiful.
“Yes,” I breathe, as he fills me inch by inch until I’m full to the brim with him, my walls throbbing, gripping. The fullness, the rightness. It makes my head spin. I feel so incredibly free trapped beneath his hard body.
“Breathe,” he whispers, remaining still, allowing me to meld around him.
I didn’t realise I was holding my breath. I exhale, bending my legs, opening them wider. “God, you feel good.” I can feel every pulse of him inside me.
“Yeah?” he replies, gruff, wedging his fists into the mattress to hold up his torso. He grinds, withdrawing, advancing, and every move makes the muscles in his arms and chest swell and ripple.
The heels of my feet wedge into the backs of his thighs. “Yeah.” I roll up, meeting his next drive, and his chin drops to his chest, his teeth clenched. Taking another moment. And I’m happy to let him, happy to watch him dealing with the sensations. He looks so stunning, his face pained with pleasure. Tilting his hips, he starts moving again, driving in and out methodically, the friction perfect, each thrust hitting me satisfyingly deep.
My head is empty except for my appreciation and the pleasure being inflicted on me. I could stay here forever. Watch him forever. Feel like this forever.
I reach for his face, smooth over the creases as he looks up through his lashes, his hair falling onto his forehead. I would walk off the edge of a cliff if he told me to right now. That’s the level of impact. That’s the deepness of this moment.
Balancing on one hand, Jude moves one of mine to above my head, then lowers to a forearm, stroking his other hand up the inside of my arm and lacing our fingers, gripping hard.
“Kiss me,” he whispers against my lips, and I obey, tackling his mouth fiercely, my urgency upping the pace of his drives. I hum, moan, flex my hand in his, claw my nails into his shoulder. The pressure is building, the heat travelling through my body to my head. His dick expands within me, and he squeezes my hand tight, pushing it into the mattress.
Then he’s suddenly moving, rolling onto his back and taking me with him, still buried inside me as I come to rest on his hips. I cry out at the deeper invasion, splaying my palms on his stomach as I breathe through the mild stab of pain, and Jude pants, his hands falling to my thighs. I gather myself, filling my lungs.
“Okay?” he gasps, waiting. I can only nod, rolling my hips a little.
His fingers dig into my flesh, a rough groan rumbling deep in his throat, and once I know I’ve got a handle on things, I start to move, rocking back and forth, dragging my heavy head and heavier eyes up.
He holds up his hands to me, fingers splayed. “Hold on to me,” he says softly, prompting me to place my palms against his and watch as he slowly folds his fingers over mine, our hands entwined tightly. My anchor as I ride him. His gaze constantly moves from my thighs to my bouncing boobs to my eyes, his face straight, his jaw tense. He starts to flex his hips, and I whimper, blood rushing to my head. Jude nods, seeing I’m close, holding my hands tighter as I ride him harder. “Fuck, Amelia,” he barks, using my hands to pull me down, kissing me with force before pushing me back up. My hair falls all over my face, and I toss it back, focused on the building pleasure and grabbing it until I’m smashing down onto his hips and he’s pounding up. “Fuck!” I’m pulled back down, flipped onto my back, and he’s inside me again, his arms cradling my head, my nails scratching at his back. He hisses, kissing me hard and chastely, biting my lip, moving his mouth to my ear, breathing into it. “I want to come with you,” he whispers, sending tingles from my ear to my pussy. “I want your pussy sucking every last drop of my cum out of me.”
His words serve as a catalyst, and the creeping pleasure starts to steam forward.
“I feel it coming,” he growls, thrusting on, his hips meeting mine every time I lift them into him, his mouth kissing across my face to my other ear. “Do you feel out of control, baby?”
Black dots start to hamper my vision, my head feeling like it’s going to burst with my body. “Jude,” I say, begging.
He licks the shell of my ear. My hands grapple at his back. “It’s coming,” he whispers.
“Jude.”
“Coming.”
“Jude!”
He stills and I yell, slipping my hands into the hair on his nape as he lifts his head and gazes down at me. The look that passes between us is charged. Understanding. This is ... something.
“Coming,” he breathes, gritting his teeth as he retreats and rolls, recapturing my climax and nudging me over the edge, in total control of my pleasure.
The intensity paralyses me, and Jude barks his release, starting to shake, to the point he’s forced to drop his head into my neck. The heat of his breath on my skin, his hot body engulfing me, it’s stifling.
And yet natural.
“Jesus,” he gasps, shuddering.
Our bodies roll, the music melding with our loud, chaotic breathing, the beats sinking into my recovering body.
What just happened?
I stare at the ceiling, overcome, exhausted, hot, sweaty.
And fucking terrified.
“Okay?” he eventually whispers, remaining where he is. I can’t help but think he doesn’t want to see my face or he doesn’t want me to see his.
“Are you?” I throw it back at him.
“I think I’m in more trouble now than I was an hour ago.”
“Me too,” I reply quietly, an unexpected lump forming in my throat. What the fuck? I fight it with all I have, trying to make sense of this, as my body recovers from my orgasm and my heart tries to find its normal rhythm. I question if it ever will again. Marked. Oh God, what’s happening? I am not going to cry after sex. How pathetic. And proof if ever anyone needs it that people do not think clearly during the throes of passion.
I blink back the building tears, praying Jude stays exactly where he is until I have this strange bout of emotion under control. But then he moves. Fuck.
As he slips out of me, I wince, the soreness instant. He rests on his forearms and takes some hair from my face, pushing it over my ear. “You look as fucked as I feel.”
I have no idea how I should take that. Physically fucked, or has he noticed the sheen in my eyes? “And you look beautifully fucked.” I scrunch my nose, as I admire Jude Harrison postclimax. It’s a sight to behold.
He smiles, kissing the corner of my mouth before getting up and walking away.
“Lord have mercy,” I whisper, propping myself up on my elbows to get the best view of his back. His arse.
“Mercy granted.”
I gasp quietly. “You heard that?” I’m thrown back to our spa day when Charley and Abbie caught sight of Jude in the Library Bar and joined me, a puddle on the floor.
“I heard that,” he calls as he disappears through the door.
I drop to my back, grabbing a pillow and covering my mortified face. I should be smiling, on a postclimactic high.
I think I’m in more trouble now than I was an hour ago.
What have I let myself in for? It’s a ridiculous question. I knew what would happen if I came here. But I honestly never expected that. The most powerful experience of my fucking life. “Oh, Amelia,” I whisper, throwing the pillow aside and, for the first time, taking in my surroundings. A bedroom. A very large bedroom, decorated in an array of neutral tones, the soft furnishings various textures—velvet, chenille, suede. I get up and go to the window, biting my lip as I look across the glass roof of the Orangery to another window. My suite. He stood here, naked, enticing me.
And here I am.
Backing up, I follow my feet to a door across the bedroom, entering a dressing room, each side lined with sliding doors. I push one open and peek inside. Suits. Many suits. Another reveals an array of ties in endless colours. I close it and open the next. It’s empty. Except for a pair of beautiful green mules perfectly positioned on the middle shelf. I reach for one on a frown, feeling the expensive silk material, and the questions multiply. Whose shoes are these? And will the knickers he took of mine join them? Pouting, I replace them and close the door, carrying on through to a bathroom that’s drenched in cream granite and gold fittings. The shower spans the entire wall on the far end, a glass screen stretching most of the width, leaving a gap at the end to walk in. An egg-shaped tub sits in the middle with a gold floor-standing tap curling over the lip. A sink wide enough to bathe in is on the wall adjacent to the shower, and another door leads to an enclosed toilet. I go to the sink, scanning the male products scattered across the surface, smiling to myself as I pick up a bottle of cologne, popping the lid off and smelling. My eyes close in bliss. It’s Jude in a bottle. I check the label. Creed.
“Do I smell good?”
Turning, I find him comfortably resting his shoulder on the doorframe, his arms folded. Still beautifully naked. As am I. I flash a guilty look and place the bottle down. “Do you live here?”
“It’s my apartment, yes.”
“Apartment?”
He holds his hand out to me. “Come, I’ll show you round.”
I look down my front. “Can I get dressed?”
“No.” He claims my hand and pulls me out of the bathroom. “Dressing room,” he says as we pass back through it. Looking over his shoulder, he gives me a mild grin. “But you already found that on your snoop.”
I roll my eyes, desperate to ask him who owns those beautiful green mules. “Like you snooped through my spa questionnaire?”
“It was an essential part of my investigative work,” he says, and I laugh as we emerge into his bedroom. “Where I sleep.” He doesn’t slow, making his way out into an open-plan living space. “Lounge, dining.” He walks on, tugging me behind him, and we enter a huge separate kitchen.
“Wow.” I release his hand and wander around the oak island, taking in the white cabinetry, handmade for sure, the intricate woodwork and detailed edges stunning. A huge fridge with mirrored doors is a focal point, making the space feel even bigger. Baskets line some chunky oak shelves on the far wall, a few plants are scattered around, and a round basket full of oranges, lemons, and limes is positioned dead centre of the wooden island. It’s spotless, hardly looks used.
I go to the sink and find the dishwasher, tugging it open, surprised to find it half-full of dirty dishes and cups. “So you cook.”
“All the time,” he says, resting his naked arse on a stool. “Did you think I wouldn’t?”
“Just for yourself?” I ask as I close the door and circle the island slowly, dragging my fingers across the oiled wooden surface. I peek at him. He’s smiling a little. It’s still knicker melting, though. If I had knickers on.
“Just for one,” he confirms. “I was tempted to cook for you tonight, but I thought you might have resisted being with me in private.”
“What, in case you tried to finger fuck me under the table?” I ask seriously, eyebrows high.
“You’re so crass.”
“Says the man who finger fucked me under the table.”
Reaching for my arm, he drags me close and puts me between his spread thighs, and God help me, I’m immediately short of breath. His hands slide onto my arse and mine slip onto his shoulders. “Would you have let me cook for you?”
I shake my head. “Too personal too soon.”
“But this isn’t?” One hand slips around my hip to my front, moving down into my throbbing flesh. Fuck. I push myself closer and kiss him gently, moaning into his mouth as he starts to work me. “Greedy.” His whisper vibrates against my lips as he finds my hand and guides it to his lap, forcing me back a little. I take him in my grip, relishing his low growl. I am greedy for him. It’s unapologetic, unquenchable greed.
His fingers slide through my desire in time to my fist thrusting up his shaft, our mouths becoming firmer, our breathing louder as we both climb to another high. It hits me unexpectedly, and my torso folds in, pushing me closer to him, my hand losing its rhythm, becoming clumsy and erratic, forcing Jude to knock me away and finish himself. He tears his lips from mine as his fingers slow and soften, watching me ride my release. It goes on and on, relentless, holding me prisoner to the pleasure he’s inflicting as he works himself to meet me at the peak. His eyes darken, his face straining more, and as gorgeous as it is, I have to see him pleasuring himself.
I pull back, dropping my eyes to his groin, and just the mere sight revives my fading orgasm. My God, he is something else, his big fist clawed loosely around his raging hard-on, thrusting, the beautiful, swollen head glistening. I don’t know what compels me, but I bend, replacing his hand with mine around the base and wrapping my lips around the pulsing length. I advance and retreat slowly.
“Fuck, Amelia!” he chokes, his hands moving to my hair.
I suck, lick, advance again, feeling him hit the back of my throat.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
My head bobs as I gorge on his cock. I swear, I’ve never tasted anything so delicious.
“Baby, I’m coming.”
It doesn’t stop me. Nothing would stop me, an overwhelming animalistic urge overcoming me. The vein on the underside throbs against my tongue, Jude solidifies beneath me, yelling, and then he jerks, and I feel the hot, salty essence of him hit the back of my throat.
I close my eyes and swallow, sucking my way to the tip and exhaling, circling my tongue around the head before kissing my way up his stomach, his chest, and onto his neck, climbing onto his lap, straddling him, and working my way to his lips. He hums, cupping my arse, indulging me for a few moments before taking my jaw and pulling me off his mouth. He holds my face as he gazes at me. He’s not smiling. In fact, his expression is unreadable. Almost questioning. But I don’t shy away, my arms looped loosely around his neck, my eyes on his.
“What?” I eventually ask, waiting.
His lip tips a little at the corner. “Nothing.” His hand moves from my jaw and strokes through my long tresses as I play with the hair that flicks out at his nape. “Thirsty?”
I nod, and he stands with me hanging from his front, placing me on the stool and going to the fridge. The sound of my mobile ringing in the distance pulls my attention over my shoulder.
“I should get that.” I get down off the stool. “It’ll be one of my friends making sure I haven’t been savaged by the mysterious rich man who’s been stalking me.”
“Savaging can be arranged,” he calls.
I smile and find my bag, pulling my mobile out, but it rings off before I can answer. My eyes widen at the screen. Ten missed calls? “Dramatic, Abbie,” I mumble, going to the couch and calling her back.
“Thank God,” she breathes in answer.
“What’s up?”
“Just checking you’re alive.”
“I’m alive,” I confirm. Died of pleasure a few times, but I’ve come back to life. Silence falls, and it stretches for a while. “And ...?”
“Oh fuck off,” Abbie hisses. “Have you ...?”
I press my lips together and glance at the doorway to the kitchen. “I’m in his apartment.”
“Apartment?”
“He has a private apartment in the hotel.”
“And . . . ?”
“And I’m naked,” I whisper, clenching my eyes closed, trying to stop the stupid girlie grin stretching across my face as butterflies explode in my belly.
Abbie gasps. “Your voice.”
“What about it?”
“Oh my God, you’re catching feelings.”
“No.” I grimace. “People don’t catch feelings after one date.”
I think I’m in more trouble now than I was an hour ago.
Me too.
“Fuck,” I whisper, getting up, walking back to the bedroom, through the dressing room, and into the bathroom. I close the door behind me. “I really like him, Abbie,” I say, admitting it out loud, resting my arse on the edge of the bath, my face in my palm.
“Oh shit,” she breathes. “I guess that means he’s as good as he looks like he’d be in bed.”
“Better,” I say quietly into my hand. “But it’s not just that.”
“Oh, you mean the dirty great big luxury hotel and the fact he was clearly first in line when God gave out good looks is swaying you?”
“He’s charming.” I fill my lungs and come out of my hiding place. “We talk, he sounds genuinely interested in what I say, he’s funny in a dry, serious way, seems to have his head screwed on, says all the right things. And I’ve seen vulnerability. He told me he lost both his parents. His dad when he was just twenty-four, and his mum during the renovation of Arlington Hall. She never got to see her dream completed.”
“Wow, that’s tough.”
“I know.”
“Are there any cons?”
“Apart from the fact I’ve just stepped out of a relationship and need to concentrate on my career?”
“Yes, apart from that.”
“I think he could be a little possessive.” A little? No, a lot. And there’s no thinking about it. “And he maybe has a bit of a temper.” Maybe?
Abbie hums. I’m not sure I like that hum.
“What are you thinking?” I ask, desperate for her thoughts.
“I’m thinking you’re at risk of being in my boat.”
“What?”
“But at least you know who blew your world apart.”
It clicks. “The man in France,” I say quietly. She’s never got over that brief, explosive encounter with the nameless guy she met in a backstreet café. Compares every man she’s dated since to him. “Do you still daydream about him?”
She laughs. “Every fucking day, and it’s been two years, Amelia. The universe was definitely being plain fucking cruel giving me that gift.”
I chuckle, looking up when Jude appears with two glasses of champagne. “Hey, listen, I have to go.”
“Call me,” she demands.
I hang up and stand. “Abbie.”
“She’s a good friend.”
“She is.” I go to him and take a glass. “Now she’ll be reporting back to Charley.”
Jude nods, taking my hand and walking us back to his bedroom.
“I should probably get out of your hair.” I look around for the speakers when I hear music again. Moby. “Porcelain.” Christ, he has the ultimate playlist for seduction.
“No, you shouldn’t.”
“No?”
“No.” He sits me on the end of the bed and pushes between my boobs, sending me to my back. I yelp when the champagne splashes out of the glass all over my chest. “Oops,” he whispers, setting his glass down and wedging a fist in the mattress by my head, his eyes sparkling as he claims the flute in my hand and sips. And I’m utterly rapt again. Standard . Dipping, Jude hovers his mouth over mine and releases, trickling the cold bubbly liquid over my lips.
Here we go again.
And I’m here for it.
My tongue dashes out and gets one sweep before he sucks my bottom lip into his mouth, releasing it on a pop, kissing down my neck and licking across my chest. My body bows, my arms reaching above my head, looking for something to hold on to. I’m too far away from the headboard. So I find his thick waves and grip.
Hard.
“Jude,” I groan, my head turning from side to side as he works his way across my body. “Jude.”
My pleas go unanswered.
Standing, he reaches for a candle that’s burning on the bedside table, and I inhale as he gets on his knees on the bed, straddling my stomach. He takes one arm and puts it by my side, holding it there with his bent leg. Then he switches the candle to his other hand and repeats, immobilising me. Watching me as he makes his moves. And I let him. My breathing turns into pants, my chest rising and falling violently, anticipation swirling.
Resting on his forearm, he brings his face close to mine. Smiles mildly. Dips and bites at my cheek. Even that sends shock waves through me, my body trying to buck and failing.
“Keep still,” he says, sitting up, his cock lying across my stomach.
He holds the candle up, scanning my torso, settling on my boob.
“Oh, God, please,” I murmur, throwing my head back and clenching my eyes closed.
“Come on, Amelia.” His hand wraps around my jaw, shaking. “Watch.”
I gather some resistance and open, meeting his eyes. Dark, dark green. “Do it,” I whisper, clenching my fists where they’re held. His smile of satisfaction is blinding and beautiful, every muscle in his stomach rippling as he sits back up and tips the candle a fraction. I hold my breath and gasp when the wax hits my boob just to the right of my nipple. “Fuck.” The burn is instant and intense but brief, the heat fading quickly, the clear, perfect round drop of liquid turning opaque. I exhale, taking a moment, because I know he’s not done.
The approval in his eyes is incredibly motivating. “Again?”
Swallowing, I relax into the mattress, bracing myself for the next drop as the candle hovers over my nipple and tips. Two drops this time, and I grunt under my breath, gritting my teeth, my back arching. This man will be the death of me.
No.
I blank my mind, not letting it go to places that could ruin this. “More,” I whisper, tensing everywhere as Jude tips the candle again. “Fuck!” Three drops this time, the burn more intense, more prolonged. I throw my head back, my body bending into a rigid arch.
“Too much?” he asks, definitely short of breath himself.
“No,” I snap, adamant, returning my eyes to his. “Never too much.”
His head tilts, his moves faltering. “Never too much,” he murmurs, lowering and kissing me gently. “You’re going to be my ruin, Amelia Lazenby.”
“Not if you ruin me first,” I breathe, plunging my tongue into his mouth, hungry, determined to get everything I can. It’s like my subconscious is telling me to make the most of this. That I won’t have this feeling again.
Jude accommodates my demand.
Before he suddenly pulls back, breathless.
My head slams against the mattress. I scowl hard, and it clearly delights him. I don’t know how much more of this I can take. The suspense, his godly chest in my face, rippling and swelling, his hair all ruffled and damp, his lips wet and ready.
“Jude,” I whisper, flexing my arms pointlessly.
“What do you want, baby?” he asks, his gaze moving slowly and seductively across my skin.
“You,” I grate.
He looks up. “Oh, you’ve got me.” Then he tips the candle and moves it slowly from side to side, dripping the hot wax continuously. “The question is, can you handle me?”
I cry out, jolting, hissing my way through the prolonged pain until it starts to subside. “I’m asking myself that question all the time.” I gasp, my endurance waning.
“You can handle anything.”
“That’s enough.” I find his eyes and see he hears me. Releasing my arms, he crowds me, rewarding me with a deep, long, worshipful kiss.
“One more,” he says quietly, unbending his body. “Give me one more.”
I see his intention in a second and hold my breath as he levels the candle.
And tips.
The heat hits my nipple, and fuck, it’s intense. I cover my face, battling through, and then jolt, but not because of the pain. No. The pain’s gone and sparks of pleasure have just shot like bullets down to my pussy. Jesus. He pulls my hands away from my face, and the moment I have his eyes, I just have to ravish him. I shoot up and climb into his lap, devouring him.
“Fuck,” Jude blurts. “Amelia, the candle!”
I rip my mouth away, my breathing laboured, as Jude grabs the glass container off the bed and blows out the flame, tossing the candle aside before tackling me back down to the sheets, smothering me, our kiss loud and frenzied, hard but soft, hands everywhere.
“Hot?” he asks.
“Really fucking hot,” I confirm.
“Let me fix that.” He rolls us, getting me on top of him, then pushes me up so I’m standing by the bed, him sitting on the edge before me. He reaches for the ice bucket, and his intention clicks. My God, he’s hell-bent on breaking me. Taking a cube, he works it in his hand for a few moments, and I’m quickly calling on my strength again, holding my breath.
He places the cube on my breast and rolls it around my nipple. My head drops back.
Then it’s gliding down my stomach.
Between my legs.
And he pushes it into me.
I gulp at the shock invasion, my muscles naturally clenching around the ice, the cold almost unbearable. “I don’t know if I can hold it.”
Jude drops to his back. “Sit on my face.”
Oh God.
“Get on my fucking face, Amelia.” Taking my hand, he pulls me forward, my knees hitting the bed on either side of his legs. He helps me into place, my thighs framing his face, and I look down at him as my pussy comes to rest on his lips.
Air leaves my lungs on a long, loud gust when the heat of his mouth mixes with the ice, the pleasure instant and out of this fucking world. “Oh my God,” I gasp as he licks, sucks, laps, and swirls, his eyes glistening up at me. Reaching back, I lean on his stomach with one hand, looking up at the ceiling, concentrating. Focusing.
Coming.
So hard.
I start to rock on his mouth, the pressure building.
I rock harder.
Building.
“Fuck!” I yell, a lightning bolt hitting me straight between my thighs. I crumple, folding forward over his head, completely covering him, gasping and panting, squeezing my eyes closed. The power of my release is incapacitating. I can’t move. Can’t speak. Jude’s probably suffocating beneath me, smothered in my pussy.
So I force some strength into my arms and push myself up, and he helps me shuffle down his body so I’m sitting on his stomach. He smiles at my torso and reaches for the dots of wax, peeling them off one by one and flicking them away.
“How was it for you?” he asks.
“One star.”
His brows pinch, and he shoots up, tackling me to my back. And what do I do? I squeal like a little girl, my head thrown back. I laugh so fucking hard as he ravishes my throat.
“You’re staying the night,” he says, matter-of-fact.
“Okay.” I feel his hair, smiling at the ceiling. His face is suddenly in my field of vision. His perfect face, sexed-up hair, his twinkly eyes, his dark-blond scruff. Adorable.
Something shifts in my chest as his mouth lowers slowly to mine and he kisses me softly. With a gentle purpose. Like I mean something to him.
And I match it.
Fuck.
Way, way, way more trouble.