Page 80 of Reveal Me
‘That’s because my mouth is usually full of your body parts.’ I lean into his neck, breathing in his intoxicating scent. ‘Where are we going?’ I hope it’s not too far because with his aftershave wafting through the air and the way he’s stroking my hand, I’m about to combust with lust.
‘It’s a surprise.’ His pupils gleam through the darkness.
‘I hate surprises.’ I pout, though that’s not entirely true.
‘I thought you’d like them, given the way your life is so regimentally planned out for you.’ He quirks a brow and squeezes my hand. ‘Right down to your suitors.’
I shake my head. There’s no point in denying it. Sean knows me better than any other person in the world. In fact, he treats me like I am his world.
‘Is it far?’ I glance out across the spiralling countryside.
‘Twenty minutes.’ His gaze falls to my lap. ‘So spread your legs and let me play with your pretty pussy until we get there.’
Heat suffuses my skin. I crave his touch like a drug. I glance towards the front of the car.
‘He can’t see anything.’ Sean is a mind reader. ‘And even if he could, he wouldn’t open his mouth. Trust me.’
I do trust him.
‘Do I have to make a detour by the club for that spreader bar I know you love?’ His voice is low, rough and commanding and it reminds me exactly who is in charge here. ‘Open your legs, Princess.’
‘Yes, sir.’ I undo the belt of my cashmere coat, revealing the little black Stella McCartney I picked out for tonight. Its scoop neck reveals enough cleavage to make his eyes flare. My legs fall open for him, and he wastes no time slipping his hand beneath my dress. His palm glides over my silk stocking until it meets the straps of my suspender belt. He hisses out his appreciation, and I smile. Wait until he feels what’sbetween my legs—nothing. And as usual, I’m already soaked for him.
His fingers glide higher until they find my wet flesh. His moan reverberates around the car. ‘You are officially the worst submissive I’ve ever had.’ His voice is gritty with need.
‘How so?’ I part my legs further to accommodate the fingers that are circling my entrance, sweeping through my slickness.
‘Because I am supposed to remain in control at all times.’ He crooks a finger an inch inside my core, which is already pulsing with the need to come. ‘And when it comes to you, I have zero control. You’re in my head all damn day every day. I’ve missed out on several lucrative business opportunities because I’ve been thinking with the wrong head.’ He pushes deeper into my core, and I whimper. ‘I’ve drunk approximately seventeen pints of perfumed tea just to watch you paint, and now I’m sending you roses. I’ve never sent anyone roses before. So yeah, tell me who’s really in control here.’ His eyes bore into mine as his thumb skirts over my clit.
‘Well, it’s clearly not me,’ I pant, glancing down at where his hand disappears under my dress.
He adds another finger, stretching me and filling me.
‘Good. Now be a good girl and come on my hand, we’re nearly there,’ he demands, but I’m one step ahead of him; the first shockwave of my orgasm is already pulsing through me.
For a woman who has spent her entire life rebelling, surprisingly, I have no problem taking orders from Sean Beckett. Especially when they result in orgasms.
Chapter Thirty-Six
LAYLA
If Ben has any idea of what just occurred in the back of the Bentley, he is exceptionally discreet about it when he opens the back door.
‘Where are we?’ I take the hand he offers and step out into the narrow street. Lantern lights on high poles line both sides of the quiet, cobbled lane tucked away between Dublin’s main thoroughfares where tourists never venture. March frost makes the old stones slick beneath my heels, and I glance around, checking no one is ready to pap me out of habit, but the coast is clear. The street is eerily deserted, our car the only sign of life apart from a tabby cat picking its way delicately across the wet cobbles.
Most of the buildings look residential—tall, narrow Georgian facades with peeling paint and darkened windows suggesting flats converted years ago for students or young professionals. But halfway down the street, one building stands apart.
Sean’s hand rests on the base of my spine, sending tingles shooting in every direction. ‘Patience, my love. You’re about to find out.’ He guides me towards a converted Victorianwarehouse with industrial brick and oversized windows that have been painted black from the inside. No signage, no hint of what lies beyond those imposing doors—just sleek steel numbers mounted beside the entrance and a single spotlight illuminating the threshold. The entrance looks deliberately anonymous, expensive in that understated way that whispers rather than shouts about exclusivity— expensive mystery wrapped in Victorian brick and modern steel.
I have absolutely no idea what I’m walking into.
‘Trust me.’ Sean arches an eyebrow my way as he punches digits into the keypad next to the entrance. The heavy door clicks open. Ben takes position beside the entrance as we step inside. My breath catches in my throat as I take in the soaring space above us—a cathedral of art.
Exposed brick walls and steel beams disappear into shadows twenty feet overhead. Spotlights create intimate pools of illumination around each painting, turning the gallery into a constellation of colour and emotion. Contemporary works line the walls—bold abstracts that pulse with life, haunting portraits that seem to follow our movement, sculptures that twist and flow like frozen music.
‘Sean, this is incredible.’ I drift toward a massive canvas dominated by violent reds and deep purples, the paint so thick I can see every brushstroke. Sean takes my hand, his fingers intertwining with me as we take it in together. ‘Is this your friend’s place?’
His thumb brushes the back of my hand. ‘Yes. This is Jaxon’s gallery. He specialises in emerging artists, alongside established names.’ His voice is weighted with meaning, and I realise he’s watching my reaction more than the art. ‘I know you said your paintings aren’t for sale, but trust me, this is the best way for you to keep your independence. I’ve already spoken to Jaxon. He’d love to see your work.’
