“He comes chasing after my fiancée and I’m just supposed to be okay with that?”
Well, if that didn’t toss kerosene on an already confusing fire. She’s not mine, not really. But fuck if I don’t feel possessive of her, possessed by her.
“Would you lose the pissed off look if I said I kicked him out on his ass and told him to have a good life?” Her smile is one of sass and confidence.
“Actually . . . yes,” I admit, sighing in insane relief. “Was I that obvious?”
“If he’d been here, you’d have thrown him off the balcony without a parachute.”
“Perhaps,” I reply, troubled, relieved, and gladdened by her news. “But simply because Radcliffe’s a douche who doesn’t deserve you.”
“We both didn’t deserve each other. I was never in love with him. I just wanted to have the fairy tale wedding . . . and wanted Papa to have that memory.”
Again, my heart leaps in my chest hearing she was never in love with him. This is getting heady, and it’s not the wine that’s making it happen.
“And he will,” I vow. “We’ll make his dreams come true. Yours and mine too.”
My voice is husky, promising so much more than a fantasy wedding. Hearing her talk about Colin, thinking about how easily she could’ve gone back to him, because at one point, she believed what they had was real. Even if she knows better now, it’s more than what our initial relationship is built on.
But where we started is not where we are now. Not by a long shot.
I set my napkin down and step around the table to stand beside her. She looks up at me through her lashes, feeling that the mood has shifted.
“Violet,” I say, not sure what I mean to say.
“I know,” she says, confusing me because how can she know if I don’t?
I take her hand and lead her down the hallway. From behind me, I hear the front door close with a small click and know the chef has left discreetly.
I lay her down on the king-sized mattress, crushing her underneath me as I kiss her hard. Trailing my lips down her neck, I kiss to the V of her blouse before unbuttoning the silk.
“Mmm . . .” she moans, losing herself in the sensations as I expose more and more of her silky soft skin to my mouth. I’m raging hard in my pants, but this isn’t about me. This is about her.
For the first time in my life, it’s about her.
Letting her gasps of pleasure guide me, I open her blouse to uncover the lacy edges of her bra. I lick where it meets her skin, teasing her until I see her delicious nipples harden to stiff little nuggets for my tongue.
Thankfully, she’s wearing one of those front-closure bras, and seconds later, I’m devouring her breasts, nibbling and sucking while my hands roam over her legs, squeezing her ass until she’s arching to my touch, begging for more.
“Ross,” she moans, guiding me lower as hunger and desire sweep through her body. I follow, unbuttoning and kissing my way down her stomach to the hem of her shirt.
She’s a work of sensual art, bra and shirt wide open, tits on display for me, her skirt working its way higher as she bucks. Her hair’s getting fluffier as she writhes, and her skin is flushed with desire.
“Watch,” I tell her, unhooking her skirt and peeling it off her legs before rolling her soaked panties down and off. Her eyes take me in silently, her chest rising and falling in deep breaths as I hook her knees over my shoulders and lift her up slightly, just enough to let her see as I drag my tongue between her pussy lips.
She gasps, grabbing my hair as I part her lips again, scooping up her wetness before circling her clit with the tip of my tongue.
I lick her.
I nibble on her.
I suck her.
I worship her.
With every sweep of my tongue, my grin grows until I’m wolfish, consuming her even as Violet bucks and grinds her hips against my ravenous lips. The only word that leaves her lips the entire time is my name, repeated again and again as her body is pushed into overload.
But my name is all I need. I can hear the differences, when she wants me to go faster, when she wants me to slow down, and when I find a spot that has her seeing stars. Each time is pure pleasure for me