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)
“Fuck me as if we’ve only got tonight. You’ll never see me after tonight.”
“Got it.” I shift, positioning myself at her entrance. "Tell me if it's too much," I rasp, voice rough with restraint.
She nods, her hands clutching my back now, nails digging in as I push in, feeling her tightness envelop me inch by inch. She gasps, a mix of surprise and pleasure, her walls clenching around me in hesitation before relaxing, pulling me deeper with a wet slide that draws a shared moan—hers high and breathy, mine low and ragged.
"Oh... God," she moans, the sound drawn out, echoing in the quiet room as I bottom out, buried fully, our hips flush, pulsing together.
We stay like that for a moment, frozen in the intensity, her breath coming in short, heated pants against my shoulder, my own growl rumbling low as I start to move. I pull back almost all the way, the drag exquisite and torturous, her whimper protesting the loss before I slam in deep. Each stroke draws out more whimpers. She gasps my name in broken syllables as I put in place a punishing rhythm, the slap of skin on skin mixing with the raw, wet sounds of my cock pummeling her tender pussy.
Sweat slicks between us. Breasts bouncing wildly, her legs are wrapped around my waist, and her heels dig into my back as she meets my merciless thrusts, her hips rolling up boldly to take me harder.
"Fuck... yes," I groan, the heat coiling tight in my gut, my hand slipping between us to circle her clit, feeling her jolt and cry out, as she clenches around me tighter, her body trembling.
Our movements turn into pure fire, her nails raking down my back, leaving trails that sting deliciously.
Her fingers twist in the sheets, knuckles white, as I lean down, capturing a nipple in my mouth, sucking hard as I thrust deeper. Her keening moans are muffled against my shoulder.
"Don't stop," she gasps, voice desperate now, head thrown back against the pillow, exposing her throat for me to kiss, suck, and mark her with my teeth and tongue.
I feel her building, her body trembling under mine.
“Blake, I'm... oh God…" And when she comes, it's with a shattered cry, her walls pulsing around me in waves that milk me relentlessly, pulling my own release. A guttural roar rips from my throat as I spill into her. Still thrusting hard, we ride the wave together.
When it’s over, we lie in the afterglow, tangled, breaths ragged, and sweat cooling on our skin. Before sleep pulls us under, I remember to mumble. “Goodnight, Juliet. We should do this again.”
Chapter Forty-Eight
JULIET
Weeks slip by in a blur of checklists and phone calls. The prep for the event weighs heavily on everyone, turning the estate into a whirlwind of deliveries and last-minute tweaks that keep me up at night. My mind races through vendor lists and seating charts. Sometimes we have baking sessions, Freya and I. Blake comes down to join us and taste our creations.
The air's turned crisper now, early October bringing that sharp bite to the sea wind. Leaves are starting to yellow on the oaks. There is chaos outside where workers are hammering tent stakes into the lawn by the lake, their voices carrying faintly through the open window. But inside the library, it's cozy and still. The leather-bound books on the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves throw some of the light from the tall windows, and cast a warm glow over the rug where Freya and I sit cross-legged, paintbrushes in hand.
We are putting the last finishing touches to the family portrait, and I'm teaching her to mix colors on a palette. Simple stuff, like blending cadmium yellow with a touch of burnt umber for that perfect autumn gold. It’s mostly to calm my own nerves, but Freya seems to like our painting sessions.
The room smells like linseed oil and old books. Freya's giggles bubble up as she dabs at her own little section, paint smearing on her painting smock.
"Like this?" she asks, her small voice eager, holding up her brush dripping with too much ultramarine. I nod, leaning over to guide her hand gently, our fingers sticky together.
The door opens, and I quickly turn the canvas away, my heart skipping a beat. Good call because Frances steps in, her silver hair catching the light, a soft laugh escaping her as she sees my hurried move. Her cane taps lightly on the wood floor.
"No need to hide it, dear," she says, her voice warm with amusement, eyes twinkling behind her reading glasses as she eases into the armchair nearby. The velvet upholstery sighs under her. "Freya already let slip—the three of you forgot to add me to the portrait."
I glance at Freya, who grins back quite unrepentant and mischievously. There is a dab of paint on her button nose, and I can't help but laugh too, the sound bubbling up light and surprised.