Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 88270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
“You be good.”
Dora follows, nodding to Blake. "Everything's set, Mr. Bessant. I'll be retiring for the night as well, good evening."
I feel the heat creeping up my neck because it's obvious now that everyone's clearing the way for us. The house empties like a stage being set, whispers of orchestration in the air. It was supposed to be just a simple dinner. I’ve been here a while now and we haven't had any alone time like this. But now the occasion feels charged and inevitable. My pulse quickens at the thought.
Suddenly, all the noises die down. The car carrying Freya pulls away, Dora's footsteps retreat out of the house. Blake goes down into the cellar and comes back with a bottle of wine, the label dark and elegant. He pops the cork with a soft thunk.
I watch him from the back, stirring the sauce, my breath catching at the sight. His shirt stretched taut over his shoulders as he reaches for a couple of wine glasses, his black jeans hugging his hips. When he turns abruptly, his eyes land on me, and I feel exposed, heated under that gaze, my skin prickling as if he's already touching me.
He’s staring, and I can feel his eyes tracing every inch of me, the intensity making my cheeks burn. I try to smile at him, but his gaze is so intense, dark and hungry that I drop my spoon. The wooden handle slips from my suddenly clammy fingers, and clatters against the pot's edge.
Chapter Thirty-Three
BLAKE
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m5N9IHqqGcA
-I drove all night-
I can't take my eyes off her. The way she moves in the kitchen is like she owns the space. Unbelievable. I’ve never seen her like this. Every sway of her hips draws me in deeper, like a magnetic pull I can't fight. The room's warm from the oven's heat, the air thick with the savory scent of searing meat and roasting herbs—rosemary and garlic mingling in a mouthwatering haze. My stomach growls.
But not for food.
She's at the range. Her deep U-neck cream top clinging to her like a second skin, the soft fabric molding to the curve of her breasts. It dips low enough to tease, the long sleeves pushed up to her elbows, revealing the smooth lines of her forearms. Her white shorts hug her thighs, riding up just a touch as she shifts her weight. Her hair is in a messy bun with tendrils escaping here and there. It frames her face in soft, unruly waves that make her look effortlessly sexy, like she rolled out of bed and straight into my fantasies.
God, the way her ass rounds perfectly as she bends slightly to check the oven, the fabric stretching taut—it's torture. My cock is stirring, hardening against my jeans as I stand in the doorway, gripping the wine glass tightly. What on God’s sweet earth is this woman doing to me? One taste last night, and I'm hooked, craving more like an addict.
I go over with a glass of wine. Cabernet. I know she loves it from the way she's savored it before. She likes the bold notes of blackcurrant and oak.
"Thank you," she says softly, her fingers brushing mine as she takes the stem.
That fleeting touch sends a spark up my arm. Her eyes meet mine for just a beat, but it makes my breath come faster. She's flushed from the stove's heat, a faint sheen on her collarbone that I want to trace with my tongue… but I hold back. I lean against the island instead. There’s no rush. No rush at all. I’m not a caveman. I can wait.
I watch her drink, the way her lips part around the rim, the wine staining them a deeper red as she takes a slow sip, her throat working with a graceful swallow that mesmerizes me. The hunger to taste her is real. I need to break the silence building thick between us. My voice is deliberately pitched low and casual.
“It smells incredible—what's on the menu tonight?"
She stirs something in a pan with a wooden spoon, the steam rising in wispy curls. "Filet mignon with a red wine reduction, roasted potatoes, and steamed asparagus. I hope it tastes good. I'm not exactly a pro in the kitchen."
The humility is new. The old Carolyn would have boasted about flying in a chef from France. "I appreciate the effort," I say, meaning every word, my gaze lingering on her as she turns back to the pan. "So it'll be great, regardless."
“Food is ready. Why don’t you go sit in the conservatory, and I’ll bring it in.”
“I’m happy to help.”
“Nope. You’re not allowed to,” she says firmly.
“Aye, aye, boss.”
Bemused, I head to the conservatory, carrying my glass. The table has been set for two. I settle in, sipping my wine.
She brings the meal on a tray, balancing it with careful steps. The fragrant steam rises as she sets the food on the small table between us. I love that we’re at this small table because my knee can brush hers. The first accidental contact sends a jolt through me, her warmth seeping through our clothes. It makes my cock jerk with renewed interest. But I’m patient. I can wait.