Page 120 of Forbidden Fruit
They always look like someone’s just finished devouring her. Plump, pink, and so inviting they make my mouth water. It’s downright unfair.
And she knows it.
I can see it in the way she moves, the subtle sway in her hips that’s practically hypnotic. The way her teeth catch her bottom lip when she’s pretending to focus on something only to glance at me with that playful, innocent expression she thinks I can’t see through.
She’s playing with fire.
The thing is, I want nothing but to get burned.
But I’d decided to respect her decision, no matter how many times she keeps accidentally wiggling her perfect ass against my erection at night. Instead of tying her up and fucking her until she’s carrying my kids, I’ve been channeling my frustration into something more… civilized. Dates. Romantic gestures. The works.
One night, I took her on an exclusive dinner and wine-tasting at Le Taillevent, pulling every string to make sure it was an experience she wouldn’t forget. By the end of it, she was tipsy, her inhibitions slipping with every glass, and her advances toward me went from playful to downright sinful.
Dating Blair while staying celibate is not for the weak.
The next day, she decided it was her turn to plan a date. We went to dinner at a cozy little spot she found, and afterward, we took a romantic stroll through the streets of Montmartre. The night air was warm, the cobblestone streets bathed in the soft glow of streetlamps. We explored Place du Tertre, soaking in the artistic energy of the square, her hand in mine the entire time.
It was beautiful. She was beautiful.
And then she decided to sleep naked that night. Naked.
My morals have never been tested as much as they were in those hours. Every inch of her smooth, bare skin pressed against me, her soft, sleepy murmurs driving me insane. I knew she wanted me, her body language was practically screaming it, but I also knew that if we gave in, she’d regret it.
So I held her close, gritted my teeth, and whispered against her hair, “Soon, Peach. Soon.”
But the day I almost broke and she nearly won was when she took me to Marché Bastille. The market was so alive. Colorful awnings rippled in the breeze. Stalls spilled over with vibrant fruit, fresh cheese, warm bread, and locals calling out their specials in melodic French. The sun was warm on our backs, and soft accordion music drifted through the narrow alleyways.
Blair was in her element, camera slung around her neck, hair swept up messily, sundress hugging her just enough to make my jaw clench. She flitted from stall to stall like she belonged there, laughing with vendors in broken French and occasionally glancing over her shoulder to make sure I was still watching.
I always was.
She paused at a fruit stand, fingers dancing over figs andapricots, until her gaze landed on a small pile of peaches. She picked one up, ripe, golden-skinned, soft enough that her thumb left a delicate dent.
She looked at me then.
Right at me.
Her lips curved, slow and wicked.
“Look what I found,” she said, tone sweet, knowing. She brought the peach to her mouth and bit in. The skin gave way with a soft pop, juice instantly dripping down her chin and trailing along the curve of her neck.
My hands curled into fists.
She took another bite, languid, eyes never leaving mine, lips glossy with nectar. A quiet hum escaped her throat, and then she licked the juice from the corner of her mouth like a goddamn invitation.
I was on her in two strides.
My hand wrapped around the delicate column of her neck, just enough pressure to make her breath hitch and her eyes darken with something primal.
I leaned in, close enough for only her to hear.
“I’ve been letting you tease me, Blair,” I said, voice low, rough. “And that’s fine. I can play your games. But what I won’t let you do”—My thumb brushed the sticky line of juice that went down her throat—“is tease me with a fucking peach.”
She shuddered.
“Drop it,” I commanded softly, hand tightening just slightly against her throat. “Now.”
She obeyed without hesitation, the fruit falling into my open hand.
