Page 22 of Honey Cut
I’d almost been more jealous of the wedding planner than the bride and bridegroom because at least she’d been able to see what was happening inside.
“We had to,” Isolde says again, closing her eyes. Her shoulders are lifting with fast, heavy breaths, and when she opens her eyes, I am reminded of a soldier after a battle, nervy and burning with an inner fire that will take hours to douse.
“I know,” I tell her reassuringly, even though I don’t know, not really. I don’t know what they did. I don’t know if Isolde loved it or hated it. All I know is that her lipstick is smeared and she’s breathing like she’s just run a race.
I cup her shoulders, meaning to comfort her, meaning to comfort myself. She belongs to Mark, but I can still see her. I can still touch her…innocently.
She shivers as I hold her shoulders, and her cheeks are red, and when I drop my eyes, I see her nipples pressed against the silk of her blouse. Her thighs rubbing together under her skirt.
It’s like someone yanking back a curtain. I’m not looking at shock at all—I’m looking at lust. Abject, miserable lust.
“What did you do?” My words are filled with hunger and jealousy both, but they might as well have been layered with promises of undying love because I’m rewarded with a beautifully vulnerable look.
“I sucked his cock,” she tells me. I can hear a new huskiness in her voice, the proof of how Mark used her throat. “He had me stick out my tongue to show him his cum before he told me to swallow it down.”
A punched noise leaves my throat. Fuck, how I remember sucking him,tastinghim. His hands on either side of my face as he pleased himself.
I know very well what she’s feeling, that intoxicating cocktail of humiliation and arousal, and I also know very well what he felt with her soft, hot mouth because I’d felt it plenty on the yacht. There’s a deep and heavy ache in my balls as I recall it.
“He had to leave before—” She presses her eyes closed. “I guess I don’t know if he would have done more even if he could have stayed. It was all a show, all for the planner. She’s reporting back to Drobny, I guess.”
The businessman with Carpathian ties who tried to have Mark killed. The name alone sends adrenaline washing through my blood. And for the planner to be working with him? Goran told me yesterday that the man outside Mark’s penthouse hadn’t pulled any matches from U.S. law enforcement databases and that a friend was working on the international ones next—but if he ends up being tied to Drobny, too, it’s hard not to feel like the shadows are creeping closer to our feet.
Why hadn’t Mark told me about the planner at least? Unless he’d just discovered the truth and come straight here to send a message—a veryMarkkind of message.
This is when I should let Isolde go. When I should hand her the water I was sent in to hand her and then bundle her into a car to leave. This is when I have to remember everything I’ve told myself and that we’ve told each other.
We can’t be together. We can’t risk Mark finding out. Hell, we can’t risk even this wedding planner finding out.
We can’t we can’twe can’t.
And she’s still trembling in front of me, neck flushed, thighs pressed together, miserable with unmet need.
Battles hinge on moments just like this, the moments when you feel yourself approaching a choice that can’t be unchosen, the dizzying stretch of a single second into profound awareness that you are about to act.
But I cannot do otherwise. The reasons why I should hand her the water and step away are fading fast, and whatever happens after this moment doesn’t matter. There’s only now, and there’s only her.
I slide my hands to her elbows. To her waist. She is lithe muscle and high-end fabric; she is all shivers.
“Let me help,” I hear myself say.
Her eyes open but remain hooded, and agitation marks a line between her brows.
“We can’t,” she says, but her gaze flicks to my mouth and to my throat. Down to where my hands are slowly moving from her waist to her thighs. I slide my hands back up to her hips, dragging her knee-length skirt up with them.
“Just this once,” I whisper. “We’ve been so good. And you need it.”
Her lashes are so low now, and her lip is caught between her teeth. I can see her warring with her self-control.
“We’ll be fast,” I say. “We’ll be quiet. No one will know.”
What am I doing? Why can’t I stop myself?
She looks like she’s been drugged. Her cheeks flushed, her pupils dilated. The swollen part of her lips.
“Just this once,” she echoes faintly, and that’s all I need. I drop to my knees in front of her, holding her skirt up with one hand and working her thong down to her ankles with the other. My stomach drops when I realize she’s wearing seamed stockings, the kind that hold themselves up without garters, and?—
“My God.” I groan as I behold her cunt. The golden curls I’d once kissed and petted are gone, leaving only sleek, naked skin behind, and I can seeeverything. The rigid pink pearl of her clit, the glimpse of more pink between her legs. And slick arousal all over her.
