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“Say it.”
I bite my bottom lip. I don’t want to say it. But I didn’t know it was going to be like this. He’s usually so quiet and gentle, and I was unprepared for how amazing it feels to have his big, powerful body taking me, and how I feel overwhelmed not just from the pleasure, but from the thought that he wants me.
He thrusts harder. “Say it,” he demands.
Tears run down my face. “I’m yours.”
He slams into me a few last times, then stiffens. His hips jerk, and I feel him twitch as he comes, the muscles in his arms hardening to rock where he’s supporting himself.
He groans as he empties into me, and then his breaths come in huge gasps as his body finally relaxes.
We stay like that for a moment, unable to move, like two wolves knotted together. Then, eventually, he withdraws and lowers onto the mattress, so he’s facing me.
“Jesus,” he says.
I can’t move. I lie limply, tears trickling down my cheeks, looking at him helplessly.
“Ah, baby,” he says. He reaches down, retrieves the duvet, and tugs it up over us. Then he says, “Come here.” He puts his arms around me and pulls me close.
I curl up against him. He smells warm and sexy. I wipe my face as he strokes my hair. Half of me expects him to apologize for upsetting me, for demanding that I say I’m his.
He doesn’t. But he does lower his lips to mine and give me a long, gentle kiss.
I snuggle up to him, and I feel his lips press against the top of my head.
“Go to sleep,” he says, stroking my back.
And, worn out from the emotion and the pleasure, I do.
Chapter Six
Juliette
I come to slowly, the way night turns into day, with the sun gradually rising above the horizon. I open my eyes and discover I’m still lying on my front. Jeez—have I moved at all during the night? Oh, I did get up at one point to visit the bathroom. The room was still spinning at that point, and when I was done I just slid back into the bed and fell straight asleep again.
I’m looking at the window. The sliding doors are still open a crack. The breeze is cool now, and carries with it the scent of morning—fresh grass, and the smell of baking croissants and coffee. The sky is a beautiful blend of tangerine, coral, and lemon. It’s early, then, sunrise, not even six. Thank God. It’s our last day in the office, and I don’t want to roll in late.
I’m lying with my arms tucked beneath me. I usually keep my hair in a braid at night, but this morning I can feel it lying over my skin like a silk blanket. The duvet rests across my hips.
Someone is stroking my back.
I close my eyes as what happened last night comes flooding back. Oh God, Henry.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. I let him bring me back to his hotel room. And I let him make love to me.
No, own up to it Juliette. Remember your whole internal debate about intention? You didn’t ‘let’ him do anything. You made the decision to come back here. You knew perfectly well where it was going to lead. You’re not a victim. You’re the perpetrator of this crime.
Although… at this moment it doesn’t feel like a crime. It feels like heaven, lying there sprawled on my front, so relaxed I’m almost comatose, with Henry’s fingers trailing lightly over me. He touches my hair, moving strands of it aside to expose my skin, then when he’s done, begins to stroke my neck with a finger. Beneath my ear. Down my throat. Around to the nape. Across my shoulders. Back to my nape. Down my spine. Up the sides of my ribs. Sometimes with one finger, and at other times with his whole hand, big and warm, brushing over my skin. Mmm…
After a while, he slips his hand beneath the duvet and continues stroking down. Over my bottom. Down the back of my thighs. Across the sensitive skin at the back of my knees. Then up again, stopping to circle a finger in the dip at the base of my spine before continuing up.
Over and over again. Until I’m like caramel warmed by the rising sun.
I screw my eyes shut. Oh dear God, I’ve got to stop him. He’s turning me on, and that’s not going to end well.
What do you mean, Juliette? Isn’t an orgasm a rather nice way to start the day?
No! I can’t give in again. In the cold light of day, I think about Cam, and I shrivel inside like a poked spider. Last night when he walked out, I asked if he was coming back and he said No, I’m done. I told myself it was all over, but this morning I know nothing is certain. It’s not the first argument we’ve had, or the first time he’s slept on the sofa or even at his brother’s, and he’s usually contrite and upset the next morning. We always make up. And now I’ve jeopardized a seven-year relationship with one simple act.
