17. Jules #2
I’m more than happy to oblige.
Slower this time. I use my tongue to probe deep inside her, tasting her sweetness before returning to her clit with agonizing precision.
I lap at her, sucking and teasing until her composure disappears by degrees, until she is gripping my head between her thighs, pulling me in deep and no longer pretending she is unaffected.
The second time she breaks, it is violent; I feel it everywhere, the bond carrying the force of her climax through both of us as she screams into the quiet room.
When she finally moves, I expect her to lie beside me.
She does not.
Camille turns her attention to me with the same focused determination she brings to everything else. Her hands move over my body with maddening precision, stripping away every defense I still have left. She pushes me back, her fingers sliding down beneath my clothes to find my own wetness.
“Camille.”
“Focus,” she says.
“I can’t.”
She makes that impossible.
She slides two fingers deep inside me, stretching me open while her thumb grinds relentlessly against my clit.
She learns me far too quickly, finding every nerve ending and every reaction I cannot hide, pumping her fingers in and out of my pussy with a rhythmic, wet slapping sound.
She uses it against me until I am gripping the sheets, my back arching off the bed, losing whatever control I thought I still possessed.
When I finally come, it tears through me hard enough to empty my mind completely, my internal muscles clamping tight around her fingers in a series of crashing waves.
Pleasure tears through the bond, then rebounds. Camille’s breath catches above me, her fingers going still as my climax reaches her a fraction after it reaches me.
Afterwards, the room is quiet.
Neither of us moves immediately.
Camille eventually shifts away with careful precision, as though she is already recalibrating. I stare at the ceiling, breathing unevenly but feeling more grounded than I have in days.
Maybe longer.
She lies beside me.
Not in the chair.
Not on the other side of the room.
Here.
I smile.
The bond hums between us, comfortable and warm. For once, I do not feel as though I am seconds away from coming apart.
I turn my head. Camille is staring at the ceiling too, controlled again.
Mostly.
“See?” I murmur. “Good for the bond.”
She does not answer.
She does not argue either.
I reach for the room-service menu on the nightstand. “Do you think sex makes crema catalana more or less necessary?”
“Jules.”
“That sounded like more.”
She closes her eyes.
I place the order.
Room service arrives twenty minutes later, which gives Camille enough time to put herself back together with frankly insulting efficiency.
By the time someone knocks, she is wearing the hotel robe, her hair is smooth, and her expression suggests nothing remotely indecent has ever occurred in this room.
Meanwhile, I am still flushed, underdressed, and very aware that I can taste her on my tongue.
Camille answers the door before I can volunteer. Probably because she knows exactly what my face looks like right now and does not trust me around an innocent hotel employee.
Smart woman.
She signs the receipt while I inspect the spread: pa amb tomàquet, patatas bravas, grilled vegetables, and two perfect dishes of crema catalana.
“This is beautiful,” I say.
“It’s room service.”
“You have no romance in your soul.”
Camille closes the door. “You ordered four dishes for two people.”
“I performed strenuous physical activity. I need to replenish.”
Her gaze cuts to mine.
I smile innocently and steal a piece of tomato-covered bread.
The look she gives me should not be attractive after everything we just did.
It is.
We sit against the headboard with the tray between us. Camille starts with the grilled vegetables because of course she does. I go straight for the potatoes, then immediately make a sound loud enough to earn another narrow look.
“These are incredible.”
“They are fried potatoes.”
“With sauce, wifey. Show some respect.”
“Stop calling me that.”
“No.” I hold out a forkful to her.
She looks at it, then at me.
“Open,” I insist.
“I am capable of feeding myself.”
“I know. This is intimacy.”
“We have already established intimacy.”
Heat flashes through the bond so quickly she cannot possibly deny it.
My grin widens. “Oh, so we’re acknowledging that now?”
Camille takes the potato off my fork with her fingers and eats it without breaking eye contact.
Fine.
That works too.
I turn my attention to the pa amb tomàquet before I say something that restarts the entire evening. The bread is crisp, the tomato bright and salty, but beneath it I still taste Camille.
Every time my tongue passes over my lower lip, I remember her above me. Her fingers in my hair. Her control finally breaking.
Apparently, I am smiling.
“What?” she asks.
“Nothing.”
“That expression has never preceded nothing.”
“I’m enjoying the food,” I say.
“You’re looking at me.”
“I’m enjoying multiple things.”
Her mouth tightens, but the bond gives her away again. Warmth. Embarrassment. The sharp little spark of satisfaction she would rather file under operational success.
I point my fork at her. “You know, for someone who claimed sharing a bed introduced too many variables, you adapted beautifully.”
Her gaze drops to her plate.
I catch the faint color rising along her throat and decide not to push.
For at least thirty seconds.
We split the first crema catalana. The sugar cracks beneath my spoon, and Camille watches me take the first bite with the serious attention of someone monitoring a medical trial.
“Oh my God.”
“It is custard.”
“Why do you keep reducing beautiful things to their technical components?”
“Because that is what they are.”
I offer her the next bite. “Try experiencing joy.”
“I experience joy.”
“Name one example.”
She looks at me for a long second, then takes the spoon from my hand.
The answer moves through the bond before she can bury it.
Me.
My breath catches.
Camille turns her attention to the dessert as though nothing happened. “The sugar is slightly overdone.”
I recover quickly. “You’re impossible.”
Later, when the dishes have been abandoned on the cart and the lights are off, Camille lies beside me beneath the same blankets she insisted we would not share.
Her breathing gradually steadies.
Satisfaction curls warm through my chest.
This might be my best idea yet.
Because there is one small detail I neglected to mention.
The hotel did not mishandle our reservation.
I booked the room.
One bed.
On purpose.