Page 110 of Cara
The vanilla that clings to her hair teases my nostrils. Her aroma. It makes the world spin until I'm fucking blind. Savage—making up for the years I was deprived.
“You’re close,” I say through gritted teeth.
She’s squeezing the hell out of me.
Sophie lets out a weak, tired sound, her fingers tracing the shape of my jaw, angling my face to hers. “You feel so right…soright.”
“Because I'm yours.”
I'm hers. I’ll always be hers.
There’s never been anyone else.
The only audible signs of life in this manor are the charged moans falling past our lips, the wet sleekness of her arousal coating my length every time I slip back home.
It’s so perfect that I'm momentarily convinced my dreams could be this graphic, but then my lips graze a scar under her eye and I'm right back in the present, holding onto her for dear life as she unravels in my clutches, shuddering as I draw out the sensitive nerves within her. I’ll never get tired of seeing her this way—panting, so overwhelmed until she isn’t. Until she’s gone totally lax in my grasp.
We crumble as one, locked in a tight embrace.
The weight of the world becomes a dull roar in our aftermath. She grabs my hand, the solid wedding band digging into my finger as she laces them. I can’t catch my breath right away, unable to recover. When I find the strength, I wince, scooping her up, smiling at how limp she’s become in my grasp.
Leaving behind the scrapbooks, empty whiskey decanters, and unsettling picture frames turned to ash in the fireplace, I carry her through the shadowy halls.
“I’ve spent you, haven’t I?”
She nods into my throat, her eyes already closed as I reach the top of the stairs. The hallway is as dark as the rest of the house, but I know this place like the back of my hand.
For a moment, I contemplate bringing her to the bedroom I’ve slept in for the past year, unable to handle what’s inside the master. But tonight is different.
Pulling open the door to the largest room in the house, I pass all of our things and lay her down on the cold mattress, pulling back the covers to drape them over her.
Sophie extends a hand towards me, curling onto her side. “Don’t go.”
I'm already sliding in behind her, pulling her to me when I say, “I'm not going anywhere.”
Sophie
I must be used to Xavier’s warmth because when my eyes peel open, confronted with a bedroom that’s still dark, I already know he isn’t in bed with me.
In the dim light just before dawn, I catch a glimpse of my husband, a fleeting shadow dressing by the window, framed by drapes that seemstrangelyfamiliar.
I’m sure I’ve seen them before.
Once muted light curves around Xavier, who has chosen an ivory linen suit for his uniform of the day, I couldn’t care less about curtains or anything else around me, not when the pressed fabric is affixed to every staggering inch of him.
Perfectly tailored to withstand the summer heat, the fitted ensemble is definitely custom-made, designed to highlight his obvious strengths while advertising anobscenewealth.
From the meticulously crafted double-breasted jacket to his pale eggshell trousers and polished Italian leather shoes, he fills me with surreal awe, just as astonishing as those sculptures we chose to overlook last night. He’s fastening a watch to his wrist to match a pair of gold cuff links. When he shifts, having opted to wear it all tieless, actual relief moves through me to beable to want him as badly as I do now, relief to feel the effects of him in the soreness that keeps me lounging against the pillows.
Staring.
“You know, you look a bit like my husband.”
His immediate smilestunsme. Knocks me flat.
“Is that right?”
“Mm.”
