Page 5 of Iridescent
“You were terrible at it.” His thumb circles my clit, slow and devastating. “I heard every sound.”
A low gasp slips from me.
He watches me like he has no intention of missing a single thing.
“Well,” I manage, my voice embarrassingly thin, “our anniversary is coming up. We could always recreate it.”
Xavier leans closer, his mouth hovering a hot breath from mine. “In Seychelles?” His fingers move with maddening ease. I moan. “You want me to fuck you in some expensive bathroom while half the villa staff pretends not to hear?”
Heat punches through me. My excitement cresting all over again.
“I was thinking more terrace. Ocean view. Stars. Romance.”
His mouth curves. “I can be romantic after.”
“After what?”
“After I remind you why you never stay quiet for me.”
The words unravel me. I grind into his hand because I can’t stop chasing the pressure, can’t stop wanting him.
His breath drags rough against my mouth. “So fucking wet for me, baby.”His fingers slow just enough to make me whimper. “Tell me you want me.”
“Yes,” I breathe. “I want you. Please. Xavier, please.”
His eyes darken.
That seems to be the end of his patience.
He pulls his hand from my panties and lifts me from the island like I weigh nothing, my legs locking around his waist on instinct. The loss of his fingers makes me whimper, and the hard press of his cock against me does nothing to help.
“I should thank Colette for taking a vacation.” His palm lands sharp against my ass, wringing a moan from the back of my throat. “No one to interrupt while I make you scream my name in every corner of this house.”
I laugh, dazed and idiotically happy. “You’re impossible.”
“I’m devoted,” he corrects. “There’s a difference.”
I hold on tighter while he carries me out of the kitchen and toward the stairs, still laughing, still aching, still so intoxicated by him that I never want it to end.
Chapter 1
PRESENT DAY
“Watch the knife, ma petite, unless you plan to season the onions with your thumb.” Colette tuts, the sound ripe with fastidious disapproval. “There is enough salt. Keep the rest of yourself out of the food.”
I drag in a watery breath and turn toward her, glaring through my onion-induced humiliation. “This is me making an effort, Colette. At least pretend you’re not horrified.”
The idea had seemed brilliant three hours ago: assist Colette with dinner, prove I wasn’t a culinary liability, and surprise my husband with something that didn’t involve a reservation, a private chef, or his credit card. So far, I had contributed tears, unevenly butchered vegetables, and the mortifying discovery that love was not, in fact, a transferable cookingskill.
“Your effort is duly noted, madame.” She scrunches her nose at the state of me, as if my tears are an affront to the dignity of her kitchen, plucks the knife from my sweaty palm, and slides the chopping board out of reach. “Your knife privileges, however, are revoked.”
I squint after her, trying to bring her into focus, but my vision is functionally deceased. The kitchen swims around me in a blur of warm light, copper pans, and the darkening blue of evening beyond the tall windows.
“Oh, come on. Don’t give up on me now. Aren’t we a team?” Another sniffle ruins the gravitas of my argument. “I promise I can do it. We’ve been doing good so far.”
Colette offers me nothing but the severity of her back as she retreats to the stove: silver hair pinned tight, shoulders squared above the crisp knot of her apron, every line of her small frame arranged into censure. She mutters a low litany of French rebukes under her breath while reducing the remaining peppers into precise little pieces.
My shoulders sag. I don’t blame her. If I were Colette, I’d banish me from the kitchen too. She wouldn’t be the first woman to decide I was a threat to domestic order.
