Page 97 of Ardently Yours

Dark head leaning close. A hot, wet suction as he closes his lips around my nipple and flicks the turgid peak with his tongue. Heat gliding through me, all the way to my core. I barely remember not to arch into him and to keep my hands at my sides.

With a pop, he moves to my neglected breast and continues his sensual assault. I can’t help the inadvertent squeeze of my thighsor the way I shift against him. I’m supposed to stay still. “Sorry. Sorry.”

He lifts his head and rumbles in my ear, “I’ll let this one go. You’re trying so hard to be good.”

I entirely lose my capacity for thought. I am nothing but hot, liquidwant.

“Put two fingers in my mouth,” he says.

I almost do. “Simon didn’t say so.”

He narrows his eyes. “Brave of you to use another man’s name when I’ve got you nearly . . . nakedly . . . on my lap.”

I’m not a giggler. But with Arden, I do.

“Sir Says, ‘Give me those fingers.’”

I press my pointer and index fingers to his lips, but I’m confused by the request. It doesn’t sound sexy at all—

He draws me into his mouth, swirling his tongue over the digits, then sucking.

“Oh my gosh,” I breathe, because why does him sucking on my fingers feel like—? “If I did this to myself, I’d feelnothing. What witchcraft is this?” I both ask and accuse.

He draws back and laughs, then says, “Sir Says,‘Let me see you use those wet fingers to play with your nipples.’”

Cheeks blazing with heat that’s more than a result of the campfire or the night breeze, I pinch my nipple.

If possible, he hardens beneath me even more.

“Arden.” A male voice sounds from across the backyard, and I stiffen in response. Arden doesn’t seem to hear him, his gaze trained on my body.

“I’m sorry, man, but we need to talk. Now.”

Arden gives me a concerned look, then drops the blanket around my shoulders and looks back in the same direction he had when we first sat down. “What is it?”

Under cover of the blanket and burning with embarrassment, I scramble to pull my tank tops and bra back into place. Idon’t bother to latch my bra, but as soon as I’m adequately covered, Arden scoots me off his lap to stand and reaches for my sweatshirt. Handing it to me, he kisses my forehead. “Give me a minute.”

“What’s going on?”

“I’ll let you know when I do.”

Then he’s gone, melting into the darkness. Is there danger here? Paparazzi?

“Arden?”

He doesn’t answer when I call, and anxiety spikes through me. Instinct kicks in, and I hurry to the plastic bucket of water we put there for the fire, heft it, and dump the contents over the burning logs. The blaze doesn’t die quietly. It fights its end with hisses and crackles of protest, but I don’t wait or watch. I’m sure Bronnie is fine, but Arden disappearing with Reese feels . . . ominous. I need to see the kids snug in their beds. Once I’ve done that, I’ll go back downstairs and wait for Arden.

I’m nearly jogging by the time I reach the second floor and turn toward the room I’m sharing with Bronnie. At the sight of the open bedroom door, my heart pounds in my ears, nauseous fear jolting through me.I left that door closed. I know I did. Now, it’s wide open.

At home, if Bronnie wakes, she comes looking for me, but I haven’t seen or heard her since I put her to bed. I sprint down the hall and into the bedroom, praying I’ll find her here. At this point, I’ll take awake or asleep, as long as she’s in this room.

An empty bed greets me, and I scramble, whipping the blankets away as if I’ll somehow find her amidst the flattened quilts and sheets.

“Bronnie? Bronnie?! Baby, where are you?” Nothing.

I flick on every light and check the closet and under the bed. She’s not in the bathroom.

Dread suffocates me. I didn’t so much as glance in the great room when I came upstairs. If she climbed over that balcony—No. She doesn’t do that, anymore. And I would have heard her fall, wouldn’t I? If she woke up, why didn’t she call for me? The window was open. I would’ve heard her.

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