Chapter 27
The lobby is buzzing with weekend guests arriving as I pass through, luggage and golf bags being carried in by the staff, and glasses of welcome drinks being handed out. I dip and weave my way to the Library Bar, halting on the threshold when I see him at the end of the bar on his mobile. The exact spot Jude Harrison was in the first time I laid eyes on him. He’s slightly to the left of the smoky-blue, ribbed glass shade, giving me clear sight to him. And I’m as shook as I was on that day, my stomach fluttering.
“Oh, you beautiful, confusing man,” I whisper, as he looks up and spots me. He places his phone down, sitting back on the stool, arms crossing, studying me studying him. Doomed.
“Get your arse over here,” he says seriously, jerking his head in order. “Now.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Are you arguing with me?”
I chew my lip, uncharacteristically coquettish. “Maybe.”
Revealing a hint of a smirk, he leans forward and rests his forearms on the bar. “Then I look forward to punishing you later.”
“Can’t wait.”
A beautiful, wide smile breaks, and he sighs, holding his hand out. “Come to me, baby.”
Melting.
I walk to him and take his hand, letting him hold it as I slip onto the stool next to him. Clinton raises an interested brow as he heads our way. “Good to see you again,” he says, turning his interest onto Jude.
I just catch Jude’s tired look before he shuts the lid of his laptop and pulls a file closer, flipping it open. I wince at the sight of his scuffed knuckles. “Let’s do this,” he says.
I crane my neck to try and see what he’s looking at. “What are we doing?”
“Cocktail tasting.”
“You said I’m helping you with work.”
“You are.” He reaches for my lips and drags his thumb across the bottom one, watching me come over all hot and bothered. “Clinton’s been working on some new recipes for the cocktail menu, and we have to try them.”
“It’s ten a.m.”
Jude smiles mildly, and another whoosh of tingles bursts inside me. “We’re tasting, Amelia, not getting out-of-our-skull drunk.”
“First up is the Arlington,” Clinton says, drying his hands on a cloth before pinching the stem of a coupe glass and setting it in front of us.
Jude folds his arms and nods for me to go ahead, so I do, taking the glass as Clinton leans on the bar, studying me.
“Can I just check something?” I admire the huge decorative cube of ice that’s encasing a cherry. “There’s no nuts in any of these, is there?”
“No nuts.”
“Shit,” Jude breathes, his face falling. “I should’ve checked that.”
“I checked myself.”
“But I should have.”
I frown at the irritation growing before me. “It’s not your responsibility to investigate everything I put past my lips, Jude.”
The irritation seems to escalate before my eyes, and I lower the glass, stumped. Why is he getting so worked up over nothing?
“I should have checked,” he mutters, using the foot stand on his stool to push himself up and peek over the bar. “Those there,” he says, pointing to a few glass jars. “Do any contain nuts?”
Poor Clinton is as bemused as I am as he picks up a jar. “Almonds.”
“Why the hell do we have almonds?”
“To top the Celeste.”
“The sweet martini cocktail?”
“Yeah.”
Jude swings his gaze to me. “Never try that one.” Then he scans the bar as I watch, slightly concerned. “And those there, what are they?”
“Chili nuts,” Clinton replies. “And those are pistachios, and those are walnuts, and those are dry-roasted cashews.”
Jude looks like he’s about to have a hernia. “Why the fuck do we have so many nuts?”
“It’s a bar, Jude,” Clinton says. “People like a bowl of nuts with their drinks.”
“Okay, we need to get rid of them.”
“Jude,” I whisper, exasperated. “The nuts are fine where they are.”
“What happens if you eat nuts?”
“I don’t eat nuts,” I point out. “Because I’m allergic.”
“What if Clinton touched one and then handled the glass you’re drinking from?”
I drop my gaze to the glass. “Have you touched any nuts today, Clinton?”
“Only my own, but I washed my hands.”
I burst out laughing, placing the glass back down.
“This isn’t fucking funny,” Jude snaps.
“Will you chill out?” I chuckle, patting his knee. “I’ve survived thirty years managing my allergy. I’m still here.” What on earth has gotten into him? I pick up the glass and take a sip, widening my eyes over the rim, humming. “Oh, that’s good.”
Jude pouts. “I can’t believe how laid-back you are about it.”
“I can’t believe how uptight you are.” I hand the glass over. “Try it.”
He curls a lip playfully and accepts, nodding his approval. “Very good.”
“Like sweet and salty.”
“And no nuts,” Clinton adds, slamming the lid on his mixer and shaking it vigorously. “Is it a yes?”
“It’s a yes from me,” I chirp. “What’s next? I like this game.” But I will have to mind my pace or I’ll be pissed out of my mind before we make it to lunchtime and useless for our girls’ night out tonight.
I peek at Jude, feeling him looking at me. “What?”
“Nothing.” He reaches for my knee and squeezes over my trousers. “You dirty stop-out.” His eyes fall down my clothes from last night.
“I’m a dirty stop-out because you demanded I stay the night.”
“You’re staying tonight too.”
I shake my head. “I have plans with the girls.”
“Oh,” he grunts, disappointed, but his disappointment soon disappears when he glances past me, and of course, I look to see what’s caught his eye and distracted him from the fact I’m not staying tonight.
Katherine.
She glances between us and lifts her chin, heading to a table in the window and lowering to the chair, facing this way. What is she doing? I return my body forward, my eyes on the wooden bar, feeling her glare burning into my back. Jude’s hand is suddenly in mine, his stool moving closer.
“Next up,” he says, pointing to the martini glass Clinton’s put down.
“What is she doing?” I ask, the atmosphere shifting from easy to extremely un easy.
“Ignore her.” He picks up the glass. “Drink.”
I try to ignore her. I try so hard, sipping the cocktail. “Nice,” I say, forcing a smile and passing Jude the glass.
He doesn’t take it, but instead leans in, getting his face close to mine. I look into his eyes as he licks from one side of my mouth to the other. “Delicious,” he whispers, and all my woes are forgotten. There is only him.
Until I hear a dramatic huff, a chair scraping the wooden floor, and the stamping of heels.
I bite my lip, seeing Katherine storming out. “That was bold of you,” I say to Jude, not looking at him. Not until he pulls me back around.
“It’s a yes from me,” he says quietly, stroking my thigh.
“And me,” I reply, pushing Katherine out of my mind.
“Two down, eight to go,” Clinton sings, getting back to work. Eight? Jesus. “The next one’s yet to be named. It’s a fast invasion of your senses and packs a punch.”
“Let’s call it the Amelia,” Jude says drily, squeezing my thigh. Clinton lets out a bark of laughter, while I turn a narrowed eye onto Jude. His nose wrinkles as he bends forward and offers me his lips. “I bet it’s got a fiery aftertaste too.”
“Let’s find out,” I murmur, edging closer, his gaze burning into mine. Drowning.
A cough snaps me out of my mesmerised state. “The Amelia,” Clinton declares, presenting me with a flute. “Enjoy.”
I take a sip and moan my appreciation. It could be the best thing I’ve ever tasted.
With the exception of Jude Harrison.
“Here,” I say, passing it to Jude. “I think that’s my favourite so far.”
He nods mildly, taking a little sip, humming. Holding the glass up, he observes it as he tastes, thoughtful. Then he turns his calm eyes onto me. “ Definitely my favourite,” he says quietly.
I feel a little foggy by the time we’re done, despite strictly only having a sip of each. Admittedly, I could have finished most of them. Especially the temporarily titled Amelia . That was a gift in a glass.
Clinton thanks us and disappears through the door behind the bar.
“You’re staying the night,” Jude says again, this time more surely, swivelling my stool to face him and leaning close. I can see he’s about to deploy the big guns.
I shake my head, and he pouts—it’s quite cute, even if there’s an edge of seriousness to his expression—laying his hands on my thighs. “Are you sure?”
No. “Very sure.” I lift his hands and return them to him, and he narrows an eye, obviously running over in his mind how he might convince me.
“Tomorrow?” he asks, surprising me.
I should say no. Should. “Tomorrow.”
Nodding, Jude stacks his file and laptop. “Tell me about the meeting you had with the partners last night.”
And again, I’m surprised. He’s interested? I cross one leg over the other, charmed. “It wasn’t a meeting, more an insight.”
He tilts his head as he reaches over the bar and helps himself to a jar of crisps, opening it and dipping in. “Tell me more.” Slipping one past his lips, he crunches, and my eyes root on his mouth as he slowly eats it.
“I don’t know what to tell you.” He’s eating a fucking crisp, and I’ve come over all unnecessary. “Or think, really.” Someone cool me down. “I know I’m on their radar. Me and the nice fellow you attacked.”
He rolls his eyes, taking another crisp. “I caught my foot on the leg of his chair. Total accident.”
“Sure.”
“I didn’t appreciate his body language. Or the way he was looking at you.”
“Me either,” I agree. Jude smirks. It’s dirty. “All the signs point to them offering me partnership, but I don’t want to assume.” I take a crisp and bite into it, semi-scowling at his amusement. “And numbers play a big part.”
“Are you on track?”
“I am.”
“And the nice fellow whose chair I accidently kicked from under him?”
“Leighton’s a prick, but he’s successful. He’s also ruthless. He has a certain type of client, if you know what I mean.”
“Women.”
“Yes.”
“Then you need to watch your back.”
I smile. “There’s an adviser, Tilda Spector. She’s independent and starting to ease herself into retirement, so she’ll be dispersing some of her clients.”
Jude nods, thoughtful, offering me the jar. “And she’s got her eye on you?”
“I think so.” I take another crisp. “These are really good.”
“I know.”
“We talked at the conference,” I go on between chews. “She’s super knowledgeable. Recommended I get a mentor to help me with my journey.”
He hitches a brow. “I’ll happily mentor you.”
“In the bedroom?”
“Everywhere.” He purposely crunches another crisp, his eyes smoking, and I clear my throat, giving him a warning look. “Why don’t you just let me exterminate this Leighton prick and clear the path for you?”
“You’d do that for me?” I ask, my hand on my heart, serious.
His gorgeous smirk breaks at the corner and slowly spreads across his face, and I laugh when he grabs me and hauls me onto his lap, giving me a teasing dig in my ribs. I squeal, buck, but I get nowhere, trapped in his arms, at his mercy. It’s apt. He eases up on the torture and kisses my neck, working his way up onto my face.
I sigh happily as he pushes my hair back, looking into my eyes. “I think you’re incredible, Amelia.”
I puddle on the spot. This whole feeling is new to me, is amazing me more every minute, and his sincere interest in my career and ambitions is intensifying this unfamiliar but incredible sense of contentment. “Thank you,” I whisper, looping my arms over his neck.
“You’ve got this.”
He’ll never appreciate what it means to hear that. Unable to stop myself, I lower my mouth to his and savour his hum of pleasure as he opens up to me and circles his tongue slowly with mine.
Last night’s drama feels like a world ago.
“Come with me, I want to show you something.” Jude stands and pockets his phone, putting his laptop behind the bar before leading me by my hand through Arlington Hall. And I follow, no objections. We take the outside route to Evelyn’s, which is closed, but the lights are on and the staff are cleaning or restocking. Jude leads me through a barn-style door and down some brick stairs, and some lights pop on, not bright, but just enough to see where we’re going. Which is where? “Watch your step,” he says, looking back to check I am, in fact, watching my step. He smiles mildly at my heels as I negotiate the bricks.
“What?” I ask, taking the rail for extra support.
“Bad shoe choice,” he muses.
“Well, they’re my only choice, so here we are.” We reach the bottom, and I stop dead in my tracks. “Oh my God,” I breathe, taking in the brick tunnel.
“It was an air raid shelter before it was a wine and champagne cellar,” he says, giving me a moment to take it all in. “Are you cold?” He comes in behind me and starts rubbing my bare, chilly arms.
“Not too much.” I break away, gazing around as I wander slowly down the long passageway. Racks of wine line each side, and brick arches stretch the width every ten metres or so. “This is incredible.”
“I know,” he says quietly behind me. The chink of my heels on the cobbles echoes around the vast tunnel. I see a few big wooden barrels dotted around. “We offer wine tasting days.”
“Of course you do,” I muse, smiling to myself as I drag my fingertips across one of the wooden racks, taking in the corks of the hundreds and hundreds of bottles. “How many are there?”
“Two thousand.”
I look back at him in astonishment. “You do nothing by halves, do you, Jude Harrison?”
A wicked glint in his eye blinds me. “Keep walking,” he orders, picking up his feet and slowly following me, his hands buried in his pockets.
“Yes, sir.” I do as I’m bid, venturing farther into the tunnel, my cool skin heating as he pursues me. Up ahead, there’s what looks like a glass screen, and it’s not until I’m closer I see it’s a glass box.
“The champagne store,” he says, his voice getting closer. I stop and take in the end of the tunnel that’s closed off by a huge pane of glass, seemingly endless bottles of champagne stored from floor to ceiling beyond, the wooden grid built in the recess of the brick arch. A ladder on wheels rests at one end. An oval wooden table is in the middle, flutes lined up precisely.
It’s incredible.
His hand comes over my shoulder, his finger pushing a button that makes a hissing sound as the glass slides open. Cool air coats my skin. I look back at Jude, and he nods his instruction to enter.
Stepping over the threshold, I walk the length of the room, totally enchanted. “Why is it kept separately from the wine?” I ask.
“Temperature variations.” Jude pulls a bottle out and checks the label. “Bollinger La C?te aux Enfants 2013.” He peeks up at me with hooded eyes, and that’s all it takes for the thrum to start between my legs. Peeling the foil off, he walks over to a button inside the glass room and hits it, making the door slide across.
I don’t know much about champagne, but I know the year counts, and that’s over ten years old. “Jude, I’ve really had enough alcohol for one lunchtime.” I’ll be fit for nothing come this evening when I’m out with the girls.
“You’re not drinking it,” he says, watching his working hands as he pulls the foil off. “Take your trousers off.”
I stare at him, not that he would know. He’s quite engrossed in what he’s doing. I take in the glass wall. The wine cellar stretching as far as the eye can see. “Jude, I—”
“Take your trousers off,” he says again, this time looking at me. “Or they’re going to get wet, Amelia.”
Oh my fuck.
I pull down the zip on the side and let them drop to the floor, stepping out of them.
“And your camisole.” His smirk is dark but oddly playful. “And your bra.”
God help me.
“And your knickers,” he adds, resting the bottle on the table, casual, waiting. He tilts his head expectantly.
He will. He’ll be the death of me.
Compliant, I do as he’s bid and strip until I’m naked, heels on, my skin an arousing mix of cool and flaming hot.
“Come here.”
I pace to him, anticipation swirling, and he pushes his palm in between my breasts, forcing me back to the table. I lower my arse, my eyes on his, my hands wedged into the wood behind me, and wait for what comes next. Jude steps back, twisting the metal on the side of the bottle until the caging comes off. Then he pops the cork, and I jump at the sound, just before champagne bursts from the lip. All over my chest. I inhale sharply, stiffening from head to toe as a river of bubbly, insanely expensive liquid streams down my torso and straight between my thighs. My mouth opens on a gasp, I fall to my back, and Jude wastes no time taking my ankles. I don’t have a moment to brace myself.
His mouth meets my pulsing, begging, wet flesh, and the heat mixed with the chilliness of the liquid sends me through the roof. “Fuck!” I yell, my body snapping violently into an arch. My hands fall to his head, tug at his hair, as he feasts on me hungrily, sucking on my clit, biting at my lips, plunging his tongue into me. “Jude.” The pressure is building already, my body rolling, the scratch of his scruff on my tender flesh sore but wonderful. I look down at his head between my legs, out of my damn mind on him and his devilish ways. My heart beating erratically, I close my eyes and rest my head back on the table, my toes pointing in my heels, my legs squirming around him. “Oh God,” I pant, pushing into the back of his head. “Jude,” I say again, warning him. “Jude, I’m coming.” My words seem to egg him on, the sounds he’s making pure indulgence. “Jesus, Jude.” He bites my clit, then sucks it hard, and blood rushes to my head, my body goes up in flames, and my climax bursts out of me on a scream of his name. “Jude!” I come undone, pleasure racking me, having me jerking on the table under his mouth. The room starts to spin, my lungs shrink, the spasms so strong they’re lifting me off the wood. I can’t see straight. My poor heart is screaming for relief as I’m held prisoner to the pleasure of his mouth sucking my orgasm out of me. “Oh, fucking hell.” I exhale the words, loosening my hold of his hair, certain I’ve pulled tufts out.
Jude slows his assault, dragging his tongue up my centre to my stomach. Finding the strength to lift my head, I peek down at him lapping up the sparkly liquid from my stomach, humming his pleasure. I drop back down to the table on a sigh, letting my arms fall over my head. The brick ceiling stretched above blurs as my eyes close and Jude takes his time licking me clean.
“Recovered?” he whispers in my ear when he makes it there. I only have the energy to shake my head. My jaw is taken in his grip, directing my face to his. His eyes are the darkest green. “On your front.” He takes my hips and encourages me over. “You’d better hold on.” He guides my hands to the edge of the table, and the sound of his trousers hitting the floor has me tensing again. He takes a fistful of my hair, pulling my head back, the crown of his weeping cock pushing at my entrance. “Ready?”
For Jude Harrison? Never.
I grip the edge of the table hard and stare forward, down the dimly lit tunnel. “Ready,” I whisper, crying out when he pounds into me and holds himself deep, letting me mould around him. He’s done with foreplay. He’s got me soaked. It’s his turn.
I catch the reflection of him in the glass, his chest bare, and though the sight of him looming behind me isn’t perfectly distinguishable, I still see the strain on his face. His jaw is pulsing. He slides out slowly, pauses, and slams back in on a grunt from him, a moan from me. Out slowly again. My clawed fingers flex where they’re gripping. Bang! I grunt, feeling every inch of him sliding back out calmly and painfully slowly. Bang! My scalp tingles with the pressure of him holding my hair, my eyes drowsy. Bang! I zone out, my legs jelly when he grinds deeply before retreating. Bang! I give in to my heavy lids and let my eyes close. Bang! The darkness swallows me, the heaviness between my legs revived. Bang! His pace is increasing. Bang! I’m climbing again. Bang! The pressure of his taut shaft against my walls stimulates more pleasure. Bang!
Faster.
Bang!
Faster.
Bang!
He bellows my name, and it bounces around the glass room as I drag my eyes open and look over my shoulder, needing to see him when he comes, about to tumble over the edge again. His heavy eyes, his damp brow, his jaw pulsing, his straight, serious face. Stunning. Jude releases my hair and flips me onto my back, getting my legs over his shoulders and slamming back into me on a yell.
And my view is suddenly unmatchable. My God. His face tight, he drives into me on constant grunts, his fingers digging into my thighs, the slaps of our bodies meeting ringing around the room.
Sparks ignite between my legs, my stomach aching from tensing. I’m going to come again.
“Shit!” It takes me out completely, and I free-fall, the orgasm ripping through my body viciously. Jude’s head drops back, the veins in his neck bulging as he roars his release, slamming into me wickedly one last time, holding himself deep. The ripples of his own orgasm mix with the pulsing of mine.
My body heaving with my laboured breathing, I drag air into my burning lungs, my chest pumping as he folds down onto me, crushing me to the wood, his breathing in my ear loud and fast. “Jesus,” he wheezes, his wet chest slipping across mine.
And we lie there, recovering, getting our breathing back to a safe rate. “That’s definitely worth a five-star review,” he whispers.
I’m fucked, knackered, beat. But I still manage a wide smile as he slips out of me and helps me to my feet. He pulls his jeans up, and I take the time while he’s buttoning his fly to feel across his chest. When he’s done, he slides his hand into my hair, massages a little, as if sensing my scalp has suffered. “Sore?” he asks, his eyes sincere.
“Everywhere,” I confirm, knowing I’ll be feeling him between my thighs until the next time.
“Good.” He pushes his lips to my forehead before fetching my clothes and slowly dressing me. I watch him, fascinated, loving the mess of his waves. His eyes flick to mine as he fixes the straps of my camisole. His lip lifts a little. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Have I convinced you to stay the night?”
God, I wish I could. But I reluctantly shake my head, and he sighs, claiming the half-empty bottle of champagne and my hand, hitting the button with the neck of the bottle to open the doors.
“How much is that bottle worth?” I ask as he walks us out, my legs on the rickety side of stable. “Or was worth.”
“Fifteen hundred,” he says, casual, unaffected, as I baulk behind him. He looks back, serious. “Best fifteen hundred I’ve ever spent.”
I scrunch my nose, content. “You need to take me home.”
“If I must,” he murmurs, unhappy.
We’re back on track.
And I’m feeling the most content I ever have.