Chapter 13: Morning Devotion
The first thing Iris felt was the slow, warm pull of consciousness, not from sound or light, but from sensation. A gentle, insistent pressure parted her thighs beneath the weight of the duvet. Cool morning air kissed her dampening skin. Then came the touch—the soft, deliberate scratch of Julian’s beard against the tender skin of her inner thigh, followed by the heat of his mouth.
She made a soft, sleepy sound, more vibration than voice, as his tongue traced a long, slow path from her entrance to the hood of her clit. He wasn’t demanding, not like the night before. This was different. This was a tasting. A savoring. His hands smoothed up her stomach, beneath the thin cotton of her sleep shirt, to cradle her ribs as his mouth settled over her.
“Julian…” she sighed, her voice thick with sleep.
He hummed against her, the vibration shooting straight to her core. Her hips lifted of their own accord, seeking more of that delicious friction. He gave it to her, his tongue flat and firm, lapping at her gathering wetness with a rhythm that was deliberately, maddeningly slow. He explored every fold, every secret place, with a devotion that felt like a prayer. This was his morning ritual, his replacement for the cold silence of a king-sized bed in a penthouse that had never been a home.
Her hands found his hair, her fingers tangling in the dark waves, not to guide, but to anchor herself as the pleasure built in deep, rolling waves. He sucked her clit gently into his mouth, flicking the tip of his tongue against the swollen bud until her breathing hitched, becoming sharp little gasps that filled the sun-gilded room.
“Please,” she whispered, arching.
He slid two fingers inside her, curling them, finding that perfect spot with unerring accuracy as his mouth continued its work. The dual sensation—the deep, internal pressure and the exquisite focus on her clit—unraveled her completely. Her orgasm rose not in a sharp peak, but like a tide, warm and encompassing, flooding her limbs with a heavy languor. She cried out, a broken, beautiful sound, pulsing around his fingers.
He gentled his mouth, kissing her through the tremors, his lips soft against her oversensitive flesh until she sank, boneless, back into the mattress.
Only then did he move up her body, his own boxer-briefs tented obscenely. He kissed her stomach, the underside of her breast through the cotton, her collarbone, before finally claiming her mouth. She could taste herself on his lips, salty and musky, an intimacy that still sent a thrill through her.
“Good morning,” he murmured, his voice gravelly with sleep and want.
“You’re insatiable,” she breathed, her eyes fluttering open to meet his ice-blue gaze, now dark with satisfaction.
“For you? Absolutely.” He nudged his nose against hers. “I wake up hard for you every single day. It’s a medical condition.”
She laughed, the sound low and happy. Her hand slid down between them, palming the rigid length of him through the fabric. He hissed, his hips jerking forward. “Seems serious. What’s the treatment plan, Doctor?”
“You know the treatment,” he said, rolling onto his back and pulling her on top of him. She straddled his hips, her thin sleep shirt rucking up around her waist. He looked up at her, the city skyline framing her wild red hair like a halo. “I need you to ride me. Slow. I want to watch you take me. I want to watch you come apart on my cock.”
The filthy words, delivered in his calm, commanding tone, made her clench empty inside. She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of his briefs and peeled them down, freeing him. His erection sprang up, thick and veined, the head already glistening. She positioned herself, guiding him to her entrance, which was still slick and swollen from his mouth.
She sank down onto him inch by torturous inch, a low moan escaping them both. He filled her so completely, a perfect, stretching fullness that made her eyes roll back. She braced her hands on his chest, finding a slow, rolling rhythm, rising until just the tip remained inside, then sinking back down in a fluid, grinding motion.
“Fuck, Iris,” he groaned, his hands settling on her hips, his thumbs digging into the dips of her pelvis. “Look at you. You’re so fucking beautiful like this. Taking me so deep.”
She moved, building the pace gradually, the slap of skin a quiet counterpoint to their ragged breathing. The angle was exquisite; with each descent, the base of his cock rubbed directly against her clit. She could feel another orgasm coiling, tighter and hotter than the first. She leaned forward, changing the angle, and his hands came up to cup her breasts through her shirt, pinching her nipples until she cried out.
“That’s it,” he urged, his own control fraying. “Come on, baby. Come all over this dick. Soak me. I want to feel you lose it.”
His words tipped her over. The climax tore through her, violent and stunning, wringing a raw scream from her throat. Her internal muscles clamped down on him in rhythmic spasms, milking him, pulling his own release from him. With a guttural shout, he thrust up into her, holding her hips down as he emptied himself deep inside her in hot, pulsing jets.
They collapsed together, a tangled, sweaty mess. He was still inside her, softening. She lay on his chest, listening to the frantic hammer of his heart gradually slow. The scent of sex and jasmine hung in the air.
After a long while, he brushed the hair from her damp forehead. “We have that site meeting at ten.”
“I know,” she mumbled against his skin.
“We should shower.”
“You should make coffee first.”
He smiled, the movement shifting her on top of him. “Bossy.”
“You love it.”
“I do.” He squeezed her. “I really do.”
The shower was a practical, shared space, but it never stayed that way for long. As she was rinsing conditioner from her hair, he turned her, pressed her against the cool tile, and fucked her again, this time fast and desperate, water sluicing over their joined bodies, his hand over her mouth to muffle her cries.
By the time they were dressed—him in a charcoal suit that cost more than her monthly rent, her in a tailored emerald-green dress that made her eyes look like fractured glass—the domestic fantasy had settled into a comfortable, shared reality. He handed her a travel mug of coffee, black, just how she liked it.
In the car, the silence was easy. He reached over, his hand resting on her knee. “The papers from my lawyer came last night. While you were sleeping. The final draft.”
Her stomach tightened slightly. “And?”
“And it’s what we agreed on. She gets the assets, the alimony, the silence. I get my freedom.” He glanced at her. “And you.”
“I’m not a prize, Julian,” she said softly, though his words warmed her.
“I know. You’re the architect. You redesigned the whole fucking blueprint.” He brought her hand to his lips, kissing her knuckles. “I just have to sign. It’ll be official in a few weeks.”
He pulled into the firm’s underground garage, a different bay from the scene of Seraphina’s meltdown. The memory hovered for a second, a ghost in the rearview mirror. He killed the engine and turned to her. The professional mask was already slipping into place, but his eyes held hers for a beat too long. “See you at the meeting, Ms. Moreau.”
“Yes, Mr. Vance,” she said, the corner of her mouth quirking up.
They exited the car separately, walking toward the elevators a few paces apart. The game was part of the thrill. The public secrecy. He pressed the button, the doors slid open, and they stepped into the empty cab.
Just as the doors began to close, his hand snaked out, hitting the ‘Stop’ button. The elevator jerked to a halt with a dull chime. In the sudden, silent confinement, he pinned her against the wall, his mouth crashing down on hers in a kiss that was all heat and possession. His tongue plunged into her mouth, his body hard against hers. It was over in seconds. He pulled back, breathing hard, his thumb wiping a smudge of her lipstick from his mouth.
He hit the button again, and the elevator resumed its ascent as if nothing had happened. He straightened his tie. She smoothed her dress, her heart pounding against her ribs.
The doors opened on the main lobby, all sleek marble and muted chatter. Julian Vance, the charismatic principal, strode out with a nod to the receptionist. Iris Moreau, the talented designer, followed a moment later, heading for her workstation, the taste of him and the secret thrill lingering on her tongue, a promise of what awaited when the workday was done.