Chapter 24 #4
“I trust you had a reason for not telling me about her. And I’ll want to know why—just not now.” My eyes stay on a crack in the marble. “I just can’t listen to your explanation right now.”
The words tremble. Not from doubt, but from the effort of containing too much. I turn away from him, pacing toward a pool of light near one of the muraled alcoves. My fingertips trail along the cool wall as if contact with stone might keep me from spiraling.
“I’m not angry with you,” I murmur, almost to myself. “It’s her. The way she looked at you. The way she talked about you.” The image flares and I grimace, as if I’ve tasted something spoiled. “As if she could still have you.” A mirthless laugh slips out. “I didn’t even know I could feel this way.”
“This way…?” he asks, brows furrowed.
“I hate her!” I blurt. “I hate her so much, Nathaniel. I hate her for having the audacity to bring up your history. I hate that she’s ever had you at all.” My hands clench. I press them to my stomach as though I can hold the feeling in place.
He approaches slowly, palms lifted in truce. “No, Olivia. Anne has never had me.” His voice doesn’t waver. “No one’s ever had me. Not like you do.”
I believe him. I can feel the truth of it down to my marrow, but it’s not enough to calm this brewing storm inside me.
“I can’t stand it…” The feeling swells through me, hot and consuming, leaving no space for reason. “You’re mine. I won’t let her have you.”
He exhales—something reverent unfurling across his face, awe braided with relief and desire. “You’re…jealous,” he says, almost disbelieving.
“Yes!” I snap, lightheaded with it. “I’m fucking jealous!” I step closer, pulse thrumming. “You’ve spent all this time losing your mind over me, and now I finally understand it.”
It hits me in a dizzying rush—how the world looks from his side of the glass. I see it now, the current that drives him, the logic of his obsession that I could never wrap my head around…until now. Every irrational thing he’s ever done suddenly makes perfect sense.
Something in him shifts. The fear of me bolting dissolves and fascination takes its place.
“Finally,” he murmurs, a thrilled, disbelieving laugh caught in his throat. “Now you know what it’s like.”
But I barely hear him with how loudly Anne’s taunts are echoing in my mind.
“I can’t stop thinking about it,” I say, voice rising. “How you used to go to her. The way you wanted her so badly one night you could barely sit through dinner before—” My breath snags as I force the rest out. “Before you had to have her.”
“Olivia, no,” he cuts in, sharp, the first edge of temper in his voice. “I don’t want her—”
“But you did,” I press. “You were starving for her!” The words rush out, wild now. “Why? Did she taste that sweet? Is she sweeter than me?”
Nathaniel snaps. His hand seizes my wrist—firm, unyielding—as he drags me flush against him. My spine meets the lip of the oak table, wood biting through silk. A champagne flute tips, rolls, and shatters.
His mouth finds my temple, breath ragged. “No one tastes sweeter than you,” he says, voice gone dark with certainty. “You are an aphrodisiac. My drug of choice. I’d inject you in my veins if I could, and you fucking know it.”
Heat arcs through me, jealousy transmuting into power. “Prove it,” I say, low and steady. My fingers fist in the front of his tux, yanking him closer until fabric strains over the buttons.
I angle my knee between his, deliberate, forcing him down half a step. “Prove she doesn’t compare to me.”
He catches himself on my hips, breathing hard. A slow, dangerous smile curves his mouth as the realization settles over both of us—this is mine to take, and his to give.
Nathaniel sinks to his knees.
His eyes—clear, steady, impossibly blue—find mine. “May I?”
It’s a question he’s already asked many times before—his assurance that no matter how heated things get between us, I hold the line.
I will always get to decide how far we go.
It’s in that power I realize I’ve never felt safer with any man than with him.
All my reservations slip away, and I surrender to the basest part of my desire.
My fingers slip into his hair, tracing his scalp before curling in. “How can I refuse,” I breathe, “when you’re asking so nicely?”
My grip tightens. I tug, tilting his head back, exposing the strong line of his throat.
“Now be a good boy,” I tell him, “and don’t keep me waiting.”
My words inflame him.
His hands are on me at once, sliding up my thighs, bunching the silk higher until it gathers at my waist. His fingers hook into my panties, drawing them down my legs and tucking them into his pocket. Then, his lips are soft against my bare skin.
He flicks his tongue against my clit. “Sweet.”
He slides lower, tracing down the lips of my pussy. “So fucking sweet.”
He parts them to expose my wet, pink center before leaning in to swirl his tongue around the deepest part of me. My hips buck involuntarily, grinding my pussy against his mouth.
Then, he’s guiding my leg over his shoulder to open me wider to him.
This position makes it easier for him to push a long finger inside me, then another.
All the while, as he’s pumping his fingers in and out, his mouth is latched onto my clit, alternating between licking and sucking, plunging me into a state of delirium.
I’m pulling everywhere at him, his hair and shoulders and neck, grinding my pussy against his face. He moans every now and then—especially when I fist his hair harder, rock against him faster—clearly just as eager to please me as I am to be pleased by him.
He looks so devastatingly handsome all rumpled and wet-mouthed on his knees. My mind is empty of all thoughts except of how much I love him…and how badly I need to come.
I writhe against his fingers and mouth, my orgasm just within reach.
“Make me come, Nathaniel,” I demand breathlessly, holding his face to my cunt. “I want it. I need it.”
So he does, his tongue licking in all the right places as his fingers massage that bundle of nerves deep inside of me. And in no time at all, I detonate. It’s a full-body experience, and I don’t know how I manage to stay upright.
I don’t have the presence of mind to even attempt to stifle my moans. Not with the way Nathaniel works me through it, coaxing a second, shorter orgasm out of me, his blue eyes pinned to my face the whole time.
When it finally ebbs, I manage a breath. “You did so well for me, my love.”
He looks wrecked. “Say it again,” he pleads. “Please—say I was good for you.”
A small, indulgent smile tugs at my lips. “You were perfect,” I tell him. “My good boy.”
The words seem to knock the wind out of him. His breath stutters and his eyes fall shut with an exhale, forehead coming to rest on my thigh.
“Only me, right?” His voice breaks on the question. “Tell me it’s only me.”
I cup his face, coaxing him to lift his head. My thumb traces the corner of his mouth, his lips still slick from my arousal. “Look at me,” I say. “You know it’s only you.”
He nods, but the motion is almost frantic. “Yes, I’ve been good,” he concurs. “I’ve been so good for you. I made you feel good. Please—please let me have you. Let me fuck you. I need it. I need you.”
He rises slightly, still on his knees, his breath breaking against the fabric of my dress as he reaches for me, hands trembling now not with want but with need.
I rest a hand on his cheek, caressing the hollow beneath his eye.
“Shh,” I soothe. “Of course you can have it, my sweet boy. You’ve earned it.”
The effect is immediate. His breath stutters; the words seem to unravel him from the inside out.
He rises quickly. His hands fumble at his belt as he leans in, mouth finding mine in an urgent kiss.
Then—footsteps.
He tears himself away with a curse, his body tensing just as a cautious voice calls out, “Mr. Caldwell? Mrs. Caldwell asked me to find you. They’re lighting the candles in five.”
I blink past the haze to see a poised woman in black cocktail attire standing a few paces away, headset glinting under the low light, clipboard tucked against her chest. I recognize her—the same PR assistant who had choreographed the red carpet.
She hesitates, eyes darting between us, and says, with forced neutrality, “Shall I…give you a minute?” Her tone is brisk but not unkind—the voice of someone who has interrupted worse.
Nathaniel turns sharply, instinctively stepping in front of me, his body a shield even though I’m fully dressed. “We’ll be right there,” he says, voice clipped.
She nods once, wisely retreating. The rhythmic click of her heels fades down the hall.
Nathaniel closes his eyes, drawing in a long, ragged breath. “Of course,” he mutters in disbelief. “Renée Caldwell’s timing is always impeccable.”
He glances down at his half-undone belt, then up at me, exasperated and laughing in the same breath. It’s contagious. I find myself giggling too.
“Duty calls,” I tease softly, adjusting the lapels of his jacket.
He groans under his breath, but the frustration in his eyes has softened to something almost tender. I smooth my gown, still catching my breath, the jealousy that had gripped me earlier now melted into a languid, satisfied warmth.
“Don’t pout, my love,” I murmur. “I promise I’ll finish what I started…later.”
His eyes darken, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. Before I can pull away, he catches my wrist, pressing a kiss to the inside of it. “I’ll hold you to that.”
He tugs me closer to fix the clasp of my necklace, his thumb brushing against the base of my throat before smoothing a curl off my shoulder. I reach up to tame his hair—disheveled from my hands—but only manage to make it worse.
“You’re a mess!” I exclaim with a laugh.
“Good,” he murmurs, a grin spreading slow and rakish. “I hope everyone notices.” He leans in just slightly, his voice dropping to something conspiratorial. “Especially her.”
I think, to my own surprise, that I’d very much like that too—to walk back into that glittering hall and have Anne take one look at us and know.
He offers me his hand and I thread my fingers through his. As we walk toward the archway, our reflections flash briefly in the marble—his bow tie askew, my cheeks still flushed.
Together, we descend the staircase back into the golden light of the gala—claimed, claiming, and entirely unashamed.