Chapter 36 Gracie
I can’t stop pacing when I make it to the walk-in pantry before Jude, who said he’d check in with Phoebe before we temporarily disappeared. I’ve never played hooky like this before, and even though no one will miss me for a little while, I still feel jumpy.
Taking off my earpiece to turn on speaker mode (just in case someone does break an ankle on the dance floor), my mind is whirring with all the end-of-night tasks still ahead of me. According to wedding planner math, I definitely don’t have time to be getting frisky in a butler’s pantry. Unless—
An idea comes to me like my hardwired efficiency and horniness had a brainchild.
Without giving myself time to second-guess myself, I slip my hand to the discreet side zipper of my dress and pull.
The garment slithers off me like it’s my most devoted collaborator in this scheme to get laid as quickly as possible.
Carefully stepping out of it with my heels, I’m bending to pick it up when the door to the pantry opens.
My head snaps up as Jude drops the handle, and the door swings open. The kitchen beyond him is dark, but the soft light of the pantry illuminates the mute shock on his face. Reflexively, I bring the dress up to hide behind. Stepping in quickly, he closes the door behind him.
With the click of the latch, the air in the room undergoes an immediate reconfiguration.
Molecules rearrange into something far less oxygenated as his eyes rake over me.
There are three, maybe four steps between us, allowing him to take in everything from my neat chignon to the pointed toes of my shiny black stilettos.
In between, there isn’t much else. Sheer black stockings held up by tiny satin bows and an equally sheer black garter belt.
Matching black panties and every single trembling ounce of my vulnerability.
“I know you like undressing me, but we have to be quick, so—”
“Drop the dress,” he says quietly. At his shift into a tone that my body has begun associating with earth-scorching orgasms, I shiver. Let the silk slip out of my hands, where it’s been blocking my naked chest.
“Come here,” he commands gently. Breath becoming thready, I slowly walk toward him, carefully stepping over my discarded dress and all the unchecked wedding tasks that have fluttered from my mind.
When the click of my heels stops in front of him, he lifts a hand, and I notice for the first time that he’s holding a crystal plate with two slices of cake.
“You didn’t eat your dessert,” he notes. “Why not?”
I look away, embarrassed. I could say I was too busy, but that’s not the full truth, and he’ll know it. So, I try for honesty.
“I was saving it. You made me promise to…” Somehow, I say the rest, but it’s a mumble that sounds a lot like lulu fumu.
He crooks a finger beneath my chin with his free hand and tilts my head up. “What was that?”
I raise my eyes to his, taking a shaking breath. “You made me promise I’d let you feed me cake,” I repeat.
“Mm,” he says, like he’s glad I’ve recalled my promise. His thumb strokes the underside of my bottom lip. “You’re good at following instructions, aren’t you?”
I try not to whimper as I’m flooded with heat. I nod.
“Is that because you like being told what to do?”
I clasp my hands in front of me, twisting my fingers together. This is all so new to me, it’s hard to articulate. I do enjoy being told what to do, but it’s not my end game, either. It’s more…
“Or do you just want me to tell you what a good girl you’ve been?”
At this, my thighs press together against the corkscrewing heat between my legs. My lips tremble, a breath shuddering out of me.
“That’s what I thought,” he murmurs, caressing my cheek.
“At first, I was sure I was just imagining it. That shake in your thighs whenever I praise you,” he trails off, eyes moving to my lips.
“But you crave it, don’t you? You’d plan your ex’s wedding.
Bend over backward for your thoughtless family.
Strip down in a pantry when you should be working, just to please me. To get a little affection.”
Shame prickles the inside of my stomach. What does it say about me that he’s right?
He must see my expression fall, because suddenly he’s cradling my face, tilting it back up to his.
“Baby, no,” he says, his eyes steady on mine.
“Shame on them. Shame on everyone who took, and took, but never returned your generosity. Who never appreciated your kindness and talent. They never chose you, Gracie.” His deep voice catches in his throat.
“But I do. I want to choose you every day until you can’t believe you were ever scared of this. ”
I’m overcome. Overwhelmed by this outpouring of love. Because that’s what this has to be, right? My heart isn’t just beating—it’s sprinting right toward him, ready to dive.
“I choose you, too,” I say in a rush. “Even the parts you can’t show me yet. I trust you, Jude.”
His Adam’s apple bobs as his eyes search mine, and all the hunger that’s built between us over the last two months reaches a precipice I’m ready to jump from.
“You want to give me your trust?” he repeats softly.
I nod, eager to prove myself beyond words of declaration. I can hardly take a full breath as I watch him lift the crystal plate and break off a small piece of frosted pink Battenburg with his fingers. He holds it aloft between us.
“Open your mouth.”
I do it without thinking, hungry in ways I’ve never felt before. He makes a quiet, pained sound as he slips the piece of cake between my waiting lips. I moan, half from the sweetness, half from his lingering fingertips, sticky with frosting.
“Fuck yes,” he whispers, pushing them deeper. “Suck them clean.”
I whimper and do as I’m told, hollowing my cheeks as his lips part, watching me from under heavy lashes.
An unexpected surge of gratification twines irrevocably with desire.
Knowing praise and affection lie on the other side of whatever task he gives me is like pressing an untouched dopamine button at the very base of my skull.
I could almost cry from how simple it is.
From how clearly he saw this unslaked thirst in me.
When he draws his wet fingers from my mouth, I reopen my eyes, vision glazed.
He’s staring at me like I’m not the only one in the middle of a life-changing sexual revelation.
“Is this how you need me to take care of you, Gracie?” he asks, dropping his hand to the level of my breasts before circling my right nipple with his wet fingertip.
It’s already as hard as possible, but at his feather-light touch, I gasp.
“You need me to give you a to-do list? Reward you for every check mark?”
I arch into his touch, seeking more pressure as he lightly trails his fingertip across the slopes of my breasts to the other side. “Yes,” I pant, dying for him to tell me what to do next.
“Open up,” he says. “You haven’t tried the chocolate yet.”
My jaw drops instantly, and he repeats what he did with the Battenburg. This time, I can’t help the way my lashes flutter as I swallow, whimpering around his fingers from the taste.
“You like this one better?”
I nod as best as I can.
“Why?” he asks, removing his clean fingers from my mouth to drag them down my neck.
I squirm in my heels, uncomfortable from how wet my panties have become. “It tastes like you,” I say breathlessly. “Like your mouth when we first kissed.”
He lets out a strained breath. “Would you like to taste more of me?”
“Please.” I moan, wanting nothing more than to rip his perfect tux to shreds and get my mouth all over him.
“Do you remember what else I asked you to let me do?” he asks, placing the plate on a nearby shelf.
My brain is a scrambled egg, but there’s no forgetting words that felt like a hot slap between my thighs. “You asked to fuck up my pretty lipstick,” I recite dutifully, wanting a little kiss on the forehead for my efforts.
“That’s right,” he says, his voice ragged as he brushes his thumb beside the corner of my mouth. “Is that something you’d like to do on your knees?”
My legs collapse like a fawn’s in my hurry to drop in front of him, my tights doing nothing to protect my knees from the cold, hard tile.
But somehow, I like that feeling, too. I like everything about this, but nothing so much as the way he groans when I stroke him through his trousers.
Fumbling in my haste to release him from the extra layers of his buttoned jacket and black silk cummerbund, I earn a grunt when I finally free him.
At my touch, his shoulders fall back against the door with a loud thud.
“Christ. Look up at me. Let me see those eyes,” he says, grabbing the plate off the shelf again. Hands skimming his heavy length, I watch him drag a finger through a thick dollop of light pink frosting before saying, “Stick your tongue out. Keep it soft.”
I follow his instructions, and then his finger is swiping creamy frosting on my tongue until I’m coated and salivating.
It’s so hard not to close my mouth and swallow, but then he murmurs, “A little more. You’re doing such a good job,” and my toes curl from the affection in his voice.
I open my mouth a little wider, pleading with my eyes.
He drinks me in, like he just needs a moment to burn this image into his core memory bank. Finally, he nods with a shaky exhale. “Put me in your mouth. Want to get you messy.”
I hum with relief when I finally sink my mouth over his first jaw-stretching inch.
I take more and more until there’s not enough room for him and all the frosting.
Within one greedy minute, it’s everywhere, slick and sweet and delicious.
I feel it dripping down my chin as his palm cups the underside of my jaw, squeezing it open.