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)
I smile at her and ruffle her curls. “Okay, sweetheart. You can go too.”
Instantly, she hops down, gives me a quick hug around the neck, then scampers off, her little footsteps pattering up the stairs.
Now it’s just us. My wife and I.
The dining room feels cavernous suddenly, and the long table a ridiculous distance between us. The candles flicker and dance. The air is warm, heavy with the scent of fish and melted butter.
I draw a slow breath. “Have a nightcap with me.”
It’s not a request. More like an order wrapped in velvet. My pulse is kicking hard now, a steady thrum under my skin, because I need to be with her alone. I need the noise of the house gone, the audience gone, so I can figure out what the hell is happening to me, between us. Because, unless I’m losing my mind, the woman sitting at the far end of this table in a casual sundress is not the same woman who left for “surgery” a month ago.
And whatever she is now, she’s got me hard under the table, aching in a way I haven’t ached in years, questioning every cold, bitter certainty I thought I had about this marriage.
She looks up, those blue eyes suddenly wary, catches mine across the candles, and for a single, suspended second the room narrows to just the two of us - her parted lips, the quick rise of her chest, the way the polka-dot cotton shifts when she breathes.
The air between us crackles, alive and waiting.
She doesn’t move.
Well, well, what are you afraid of, little rabbit?
Chapter Fourteen
JULIET
Iagree reluctantly, my voice barely above a whisper. "Okay." The word slips out before I can swallow it back.
The last thing I want is to be alone with him. He makes me feel all hot and shivery just being near him, his presence like a magnetic field pulling at me, making my skin flush despite the air-conditioned chill. But I don't have a choice—refusing would shatter my cover, raise questions I can't answer—so I nod, forcing a small, brittle smile on my lips.
He stands, his shirt stretching across his broad chest, and I follow him out of the dining room, the polka-dot sundress swishing against my knees with each step. The house feels even larger at night, the lights dimmed to a soft glow, and shadows pooling in the corners of the hallway like secrets waiting to be uncovered. Outside, through the open tall windows, I can hear the waves crashing faintly in the distance, a rhythmic pulse that matches my erratic heartbeat.
We head back to his study, and I sigh inwardly as he pushes the door open, the space enveloping us in its regal intimacy—dark walnut panels absorbing the light from a single desk lamp, leather-bound books lining the shelves like silent sentinels. A crystal decanter of amber scotch catches the glow. It's even more intimidatingly intimate at this hour of the night. This room is so him—powerful, controlled, with the faint scent of masculine cologne. Doesn't help that I'm dressed like I’m going to a picnic. I feel exposed and underdressed next to him, like a peasant wandering into a king's chamber.
He heads in, and I shut the door behind me with a soft click, the sound sealing us in. My hand lingers on the knob. My nerves are buzzing out a warning.
Danger, danger. Run, Juliet. Run.
I ignore the portents and follow him. Then he turns around suddenly, and I almost bump into him—God, he's so close, his chest inches from my face. I smell his scent: cleanliness, warmth and masculinity. As rich as aged leather and spice with a hint of citrus underneath. It wraps sensuously around me like smoke.
I swear, I nearly swoon, my knees weakening. I tilt my head back to look up at him—he's so goddamn tall, towering over me in a way that makes my breath hitch. He was sitting earlier, contained behind that desk, but now, standing, I barely reach his shoulder, my eyes level with the hollow of his throat where his pulse beats steady.
The urge hits me like a flash—I just want to mount him, wrap my legs around those hips and ride, feel that rock-hard body under me, driving deep until I forget my own name. What the hell? I should slap myself for the thought. Heat flooding my face, mortified by the raw want surging through me, my swollen clit throbbing in response.
He stares at me as though trying to see into my soul, those icy-gray eyes locking onto mine, intense and unblinking, searching for something I pray he doesn't find. My heart stutters. I suddenly become scared. Terror coiling cold in my belly, because maybe he has noticed, maybe I’ve been too careless. The differences are screaming at him: the nervousness, the casual dress, the breaking of Carolyn’s rigid dietary rules, the way I can't hold his gaze without trembling. What if he has already figured out that I'm not his wife?