Chapter 9 Scarlett
SCARLETT
I imagine this is who we are. We are newlyweds escaping from Paris, getting away for a week. A week where we won’t even leave the bedroom. Satin sheets will be tangled, hands and bodies will collide, and fantasies will play out over and over again in a hotel room.
There is no question that right now I am this woman. This woman who’s incredibly turned on by her new husband.
So turned on she can’t even wait.
I don’t want to wait.
I want to indulge in every single second with him.
With my pretend lover on the train in the dark.
I invite him to continue traveling. Continue taking that sensual journey up my thigh. I spread my legs a little more, giving him more room to roam, but mostly giving him the signal to keep going.
That’s exactly what he does. His hand glides up my thigh, the fabric of my dress sliding along with it, revealing more of my skin.
His fingers are on a slow, tantalizing course for my hot, wet center.
He’s mere inches away. I push my back against the seat, my head pressing into the cushion, my chest arching.
We’re doing this. Oh dear God, we’re doing this.
A noise climbs up my throat, dances across my lips. It falls across them. But it’s louder than I would like.
He leans closer, his nose against my neck. “Darling, can you be quiet if I take you there right now? If I take you there right here on the train, can you be quiet? I don’t want anyone else to hear you.”
Can I be quiet?
The question means so much more. The question is about so much more than silence and skills.
What he’s really asking is . . . Can I touch you?
Can I get you off?
Can I make you come on the train when we’re ten minutes away from our stop?
I have no plans to say no.
I turn toward him, my cheek against his stubbled jaw. Then I pull back the slightest bit, my lips nearly grazing his. “Quiet me with your lips,” I tell him, uttering a seductive command.
One that gives him all the permission he could ever seek.
But I don’t stop there. I’m playing my part. And it feels so good to be this woman.
It’s freeing.
I shed my daytime self, sliding into a woman I no longer let myself be.
A naughty, hungry woman. “Remember what you did to me at the restaurant the other night? I was too noisy. And you kept me quiet by kissing me ferociously. The only thing that kept me quiet enough was your lips,” I say, inventing a story.
“Dear God,” he rumbles, sounding filthy, sounding aroused.
“I remember that perfectly. I was like iron in my trousers the whole time. I wanted to fuck you.” He picks up the narrative, telling the tale of our lust so seamlessly.
“Wanted to take you out of that restaurant, steal around the corner to that little passage, push you up against the wall, put your leg around my waist, and fuck you hard right there.”
My body is on fire. My brain is electric. I ache for him. “I wanted that too. I wanted that raw roughness, and I loved everything you gave me. How you made me be quiet.” I lick my lips. “With your mouth.”
He slides his nose along my neck again, reaching my ear, licking the shell. “I’m going to do that again right now, love.”
All my fantasies of my business partner, of us together, are coming true as he kisses me for the first time. On the train. After dark. In between here and there.
He’s sweet at first, his lips brushing over mine, his tongue flicking open the seam of my lips.
It’s tender and lush.
It’s passionate and lingering.
I want to groan and moan and cry out. I want to let him know what he’s doing to my body.
Nerve endings are sparking. Electricity is flowing.
Hot, wild breath is caged in my lungs, fighting to escape.
My pulse surges, beating between my legs. I open them wider, urging him on.
He heeds the call. Covering my lips with his, kissing me harder, hot and urgent, while his fingers slip under the lace of my panties.
I melt.
My brain melts.
My body melts.
I want to sink into the delicious, divine feel of his strong, confident fingers as they slide through my wetness.
My body shudders as he strokes me.
I want to move and writhe.
I want to rock my hips into his talented fingers that brush across my arousal, that slide over where I want him most.
I want to toss my head back and call out his name.
But I can’t. Because he locks in all my noises with a heady kiss. And because we’re in public. Even though it’s quiet and even though we’re kissing, I need to stay as still as I possibly can.
I grip his arm hard like I did on the platform. Maybe I was signaling then that this would happen. Maybe I was telegraphing in advance what I wanted.
I dig my fingers tighter, my nails digging into his skin, and his fingers fly fast, rubbing me harder.
Our tongues tango; our mouths explore.
White-hot pinpricks of lust flash before my eyes in neon bursts of pleasure. I slide my other hand around his head, tangling in his hair.
He kisses me more deeply, and I rock my hips into his hand, riding his palm closer and closer to the cliff.
Pleasure coils in my body, winds tighter in my belly. My thighs quake; my center quivers. My every molecule pulses, cries out, and bliss sails through me as I surrender to it, then burst in a frenzy of ecstasy.
He doesn’t even need to thrust his fingers inside me. I’m that aroused, that turned on.
All I need is him stroking me and then I’m coming in his hand on the train as we pretend we’re newlyweds who can’t keep their hands off each other.
As I come down from a wild high, he pulls away, lifts his hand, brings his fingers to his lips, and licks off my taste.
I gasp, loving the way he seals my orgasm in his mouth.
His wicked blue eyes meet mine, and his are etched with wanton lust as he removes his fingers, dragging one across my bottom lip. “My filthy, beautiful wife tastes so fucking good.”
And in this moment, that word, all of those words, feels true. I feel filthy and beautiful.
And I have no idea where we go next.