edge, my pretend husband coaxing a powerful orgasm from me.
The world goes blurry and beautiful. As I cry out, panting his name, he grabs hold of my hips so that I don’t fall as I come hard on his face.
I’m moaning and murmuring and so drugged out from my climax that I barely have time to process what’s happening next.
He scoops me up, carries me in his arms, and brings me to the king-size bed.
I half expect him to leave, but instead we slide under the covers together.
He wraps his strong biceps around me and kisses my neck, whispering, “You’re so beautiful when you come, darling. I want to do that to you over and over again.”
I am a woman unleashed.
I speak from the heart of both desire and trust in him when I say, “I want all that and more.”
Forget water lilies.
Monet’s blue kitchen is the artist’s true masterwork.
I discover it in its colorful glory the next day as we visit Giverny’s most famous spot—the artist’s garden where he drew so much inspiration. But I’m more lured by the artist’s house.
“Why didn’t anyone tell me about this slice of heaven?” I ask as I gawk.
Yes. Gawk.
There is no other way to describe what I’m doing in the spacious kitchen of the home of one of the greatest artists ever.
It’s a robin’s egg of a room, a dreamscape of this one sumptuous color, with sapphire-blue stone on the stove, shades of pastel blue splashed across the table, and colorful patterns of ocean blue, sea blue, and tropical blue on the mosaic tiles on the wall. I wheel around, turn to Daniel, flick my blonde hair off my shoulder—today I am platinum—and arch a brow sharply.
“You’re in trouble,” I say.
He smirks. “So it’s my fault that you didn’t know about Monet’s house before?”
I spin in a circle, gesturing to the pinwheel of blues before us. “Yes. Because a blue kitchen is magnificent, and since you’re the one who’s brought me here, you must have known about it previously.” I raise my chin defiantly, stepping closer to him, getting in his face. I poke his chest. “What kind of husband would keep this a secret from his wife?”
His smirk turns into a devilish grin. “Maybe I only kept it a secret because I’m just now getting to know what you like. I’m only now discovering all these sides to my brilliant, beautiful wife.”
I shiver at those words, at our games, because these roles with him are delicious. “Still, you should have brought me here sooner. Perhaps when you were courting me,” I say, like this is a version of naughty improv theater, and it’s his turn to decide where to take the flirty scene.
His eyes twinkle with mischief as he wraps an arm around my waist and yanks me close, my body flush to his. “I would have, if I could have gotten you out of bed,” he says, painting the details of our pretend romance.
“I could say the same of you,” I tease, gliding further into the parts we’re playing. “You were relentless, always wanting me.”
“I still always want you, Mrs. Rousseau,” he says, using my name for today. “But your amorous nature is precisely why I couldn’t bring you here when we were courting. Don’t you remember all you ever wanted to do was fuck and fuck and fuck?” he asks, whispering in my ear, heating me up until my skin is blazing.
I drag my nails down the front of his casual mint-green button-down. “Can you blame me? My husband is a filthy man in bed.”
His eyes narrow, flickering with heat. “My wife is an absolutely filthy woman who craves hot, dirty sex all night.” He tucks a finger under my chin, stroking his thumb along my jaw, leaving sparks in his wake. “So, as you can see, when I have to satisfy your insatiable appetite in bed, it makes it hard to whisk you away to places like this.”
I take the bait as I inch away, roaming my eyes up and down his muscular frame. “Is it? Hard?”
His smile is wicked as he runs a hand over my hair. “Around you, yes.” He leans in, brushes a soft kiss to my forehead, and whispers, “But I’m so glad you like Monet’s house, Scarlett. I’ve been here a few times and always love it. But more so with you.”
I relax, returning to myself, following his cue.
I flash him a smile—not a flirty one, not a naughty one, but a genuinely