Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 113584 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 568(@200wpm)___ 454(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113584 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 568(@200wpm)___ 454(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
The weight of my thoughts leaves me.
Fire.
Fighting.
And now, we make up.
Jude bends me over the circular table between the two sets of double doors and shoves my dress up. My laboured, desperate breathing drenches the space, my head craning to see him behind me yanking his trousers open. He sneers at me, bringing his palm down on my bare cheek, the sting real.
“Fuck you,” I grate through my teeth, earning myself another whack on the other cheek. “Fuck you!” I smack the wood with both palms, my teeth clenching to sustain the pain I’m causing myself.
“And fuck you, Amelia.” He pounds into me on a loud bellow. Bang. “Fuck you for fucking up my plans.” Bang. “Fuck you for stamping all over my fucking heart.” Bang. “Fuck you for taking up every tiny part of my mind.” Bang. “Fuck you for showing me peace.” Bang. “And fuck you for making me fall in love with you.”
I scream, hitting the wood as Jude hammers into me, fucking me without mercy, and I’m here for it. The relief is needed, my head empty, my body accepting.
“Tell me you fucking love me,” he yells, pounding on, his skin slapping against my arse, jolting me forward every time. “Tell me!”
I can’t talk, can only focus on keeping my legs steady. He’s lost it, and for some fucked-up reason, I’m happy to sustain his brute force. I’m glad I’m his outlet.
The strength in my arms fails me, and I lower to my front, my cheek on the wood, and close my eyes, drifting away, listening to him yelling his pleasure as I quietly enjoy mine. Every advance pushes us a little bit closer, the buildup a crawl to release. The points on my hips where his fingers are hooked are numb, my calves stretching, every muscle screaming at me.
“Tell me,” Jude repeats, over and over. “Tell me, Amelia. Fucking tell me.”
“I love you,” I whisper into my darkness, opening my eyes and staring at the picture on the wall, a beautiful landscape painting of Arlington Hall. The colours are wishy-washy. The detail sketchy. Maybe because of my foggy vision, or maybe because of the artist’s style. I can’t tell. “I love you,” I breathe, jolting, a tidal wave of pleasure ripping through me, forcing me to push myself up by my palms and tense harder, the intensity almost unbearable. “Fucking hell, Jude,” I yell, my voice shaky.
Looking over my shoulder, I just catch the smoke of his eyes, the strain in his jaw, the twitch of his torso, before he smashes home one last time and gasps, holding himself deep, reviving my orgasm, the swelling of him inside me pushing against all my walls, taking off the sensitive edge. Sweat trails from his temples, his hair darkening as a result, and wet patches litter his white shirt.
Spent.
He’s still shaking. I’m breathless.
Exhausted, I lower my front to the wood again, my body rolling as Jude peels his fingertips from my hips, letting blood flow there. I wince.
“Sorry,” he whispers, reaching for my zip and pulling it down, exposing my back. His lips meet my nape and kiss their way down my spine. “I love you, Amelia,” he says quietly. “It’s as hard for me to deal with as it is for you.”
I don’t reply; I’m unable to muster the words.
And not because I’m out of breath.
So I reach back and slip my hand in his hair as he kisses my ear.
“Let’s go away tomorrow.”
I shake my head. I have my meeting with Tilda Spector, he knows this.
“Please,” he says, nuzzling my face. “We need some time to ourselves.”
Is he saying all these triggers will be eliminated if we leave England? “I can’t just up and leave.”
“It’s important.”
“So’s my career.”
“I’m not saying it isn’t,” he whispers in my ear. “Wednesday, then. I’m just asking for a few days. We can leave after your meeting.”
Something isn’t right. Jude isn’t right. Every word he roared as he fucked me in ownership is circling my mind on a loop.
My unease is rapidly growing.
And the question remains: What was Nick going to say before Jude hauled me out of that pub?
He’s not . . .
What?
And why the urgency to get me out of the country?
Chapter 22
He’s asleep, on his back, but his head on the pillow is facing my way, giving me the wonderful view of his peaceful beauty. Except I sense the turmoil inside him. Feel it in myself. The uncertainty is messing with my head. My emotions feel like a yo-yo, up and down, high and low. He’s euphoric. He’s disastrous. I’m so torn, unsure if I can sustain the force of Jude’s swinging moods.
Slipping out of bed quietly, I pull on his shirt and pad on bare feet to the lounge to find my bag, expecting to see endless missed calls from Nick. There are none. It only fuels the mayhem inside. Increases the questions.