Page 55 of Gold Rush
I can’t think, because every time I try, I inhale her perfume and feel like I’m reduced to a slobbering idiot, a starved man ready to beg at the feast laden altar between her thighs.
She laughs at something I manage to bumble out, and I’m rewarded with the vision of her head tilting back, her eyes sparkling withdelight.
The servers return for the final time, bringing with them the chef’s signature vanilla bean mousse, which is whipped to a light and airy perfection. June takes a swoop of it onto her spoon, and I watch, transfixed, as her pink tongue darts out. She moans at the taste, her eyelashes fluttering.
I wonder if I’ll make it back home to the comfort of my bedroom before I completely lose all my sanity and self control.
“This isincredible.” Her eyes dart up and she beams at me. “Everything has been delicious. Thank you so much, Arin.”
I shiver in pleasure at the sound of my name on her lips. I need to get a grip, because she’s a person and I don’t want to reduce her to the object of my affections and desires — butgoddo I desire her. I would cut off my own arm and gift it to her if she asked for it.
“I hoped you would like the chef, he’s a favorite of mine.”
She smiles as she glances down at the floor again, her tongue sliding over the spoon. I clutch at my own cutlery, watching her cheeks darken, her eyes swiping over the view below of the private club, licking the spoon clean.
The sun set maybe twenty minutes ago, casting the room in a golden light that perfectly matches her honey scent. She’s seemed curious about the room below us since we walked in, and more so now that it’s busier. It’s an exclusive club, for members and shareholders of the building — there are offices above us that manage the public relations of well known alphas and omegas.
I have a black card that could get us into any private room we desired.
June stands, abandoning her spoon as she stares at the floor below her boots, tilting her head. “Is it… a business club?”
“Something like that.” I let my own spoon fall, standing quickly to move over to her. Her eyes dart up as I gently take her by the shoulders and point her in the direction of the corner rooms below us. “The entrance is just there.” I don’tneedto talk in her ear, but I find myself bending closer, whispering the words. “There are private rooms, it’s very discreet — and a lot of well-known public and private figures frequent it because the club is known for its discretion in all manners.”
She flushes, and I’m hit with a new wave of her perfume, my head spinning as I resist the urge to drag my tongue over her jaw. I want to bury myself inside her skin and live there.
Her eyes flitter back and forth, taking in shadowed figures as they chat, dance, and drink. The other activities are hidden behind closed doors, not matters for regular dinner guests to experience.
“Can they see us?” Her voice is breathy as she turns her head, looking up at me.
“No.” I straighten, clearing my throat. “The ceiling is mirrored below. We can see them, but they can’t see up. Normally this space is used for dinner meetings, patrons of the club aren’t the only guests allowed on this floor.”
“Normally.” Her lips quirk as she looks at me. Whatever lipstick she put on before we left is gone, worn away from eating, but I don’t mind. Her lips are a deep pink, a rosy mauve that’s entirely too biteable. I want to sip from them and find out if she tastes as good as she smells.
I give her a coy smile. “The private rooms have one way mirrors.”
“Oh.” She blinks, then looks down, her eyes widening as she whispers softer. “Oh.”
I take perverse pleasure in the way her cheeks heat. Her coat is gone, and in only the soft sweater and her tight little skirt, she’s driving me up the wall. The open windows to the London night air ruffle her dark red hair as she looks up at me, running her tongue over her lips.
“Have you had first hand experience in these rooms?” The question knocks me on my ass. She sounds so innocent, like she’s asking about the weather, but the smell drifting up from her throat, from between herthighstells another story.
I step closer, groaning softly. “No, Juniper, I have not.”
She shivers, glancing away from me and chewing on her lip. “I always hated that.”
I pause, confusion sweeping the haze of arousal from my head as I reach for her. Sliding a hand over her arm, I reach down and hold her hand. “What?”
She shrugs. “My name.” Her eyes roll, laughing, but there’s no mirth behind it. “I never introduce myself with it —Juniper— so earthy and free. I shortened it for my pen name because it fit better on book covers. And I always wondered, does anyone even know me? Or do they just know the parts I’ve parceled out into books, the little bits I’ve written of myself into my characters?”
I stare, seeing her in an entirely new light.
“I would be happy to introduce you to the club when you aren’t about to have a heat.”
Her eyes find mine, something darker in them — something that makes me think her mind is too clouded. I want to clear her thoughts for her, give her only sensations to focus on. My brain spins with the sheer amount of ideas, of thethingsI could show her, or experience with her.
“I had to become familiar with kink for a book I wrote.” She tilts her chin, nodding toward the floor below us. Andgodthis woman, I want to sweep her into my arms as her eyes twinkle. “I interviewed a few experienced persons back in the states, polished the manuscript, loved it, and never could bring myself to publish it.” She shrugs, something sad overtaking her expression. “I couldn’t do it. My agentlovedit, but I knew the second it was public, my mother would call.”
My tongue feels thick as I squeeze her hand. “You don’t belong to them. You’re allowed to make the decisions that lead to your happiness.”
