He Dropped His Secret Wife for His First Love, Then Couldn't Run His Own Life novel · Chapter 4 of 24

Chapter 4: The Linen Room

The linen room door locked with a soft click, and the dark smelled of starch and hot cotton.

Four minutes earlier, Blythe Carrington had raised her glass in front of eighty guests and thanked "dear Lily" for her years of service.

I had smiled, and finished my wine, and walked out through the kitchen with my phone in my fist.

I'd sent one text.

Basement, linen room, now.

He had come in under three minutes.

Now Weston stood against a wall of folded white towels in his black dinner jacket with his chest rising fast.

I stood in front of him in the green dress with my back to the door.

"On your knees," I said.

His eyes flared.

"Here? She's twenty feet above us."

"I know where she is."

I hiked the skirt of the green dress up to my hips, slowly, and watched his gaze follow the hem over my thighs.

I wore nothing under it but a black thong.

I had chosen that for him, on purpose, in front of my own mirror.

"On your knees, Weston."

He went down.

The concrete floor was bare.

He knelt on it in a suit that cost more than my first car.

He looked up at me.

"Take it off me," I said.

He hooked two fingers in the lace at my hip and dragged the thong down my legs.

I stepped out of it.

He held it for a moment in his fist, then pressed it to his face and breathed in.

"Jesus," I said.

"Lily."

"Put your hands behind your back."

He laid the thong on the shelf and obeyed, folding his wrists together at the small of his back.

The jacket pulled tight across his shoulders.

I put one foot on a stack of towels and lifted my skirt higher.

I was already wet.

I could feel the air on it, and so could he.

"Look at that," he whispered.

"Don't talk. Use your mouth."

He leaned in and breathed against me, and I shivered.

Then his tongue touched me, one long slow stripe from the bottom to the top.

My head hit the door.

"Oh," I said. "Yes."

He licked me.

He opened me with his mouth, flat and warm, and circled my clit with the tip of his tongue until my thighs started to shake.

I tangled my fingers in his short black hair and held on.

"Slower," I said.

He slowed.

"Harder."

He pressed, and a bright cry broke out of me that I had to swallow with my own palm.

Upstairs a muffled bass line thumped through the ceiling, a string quartet playing something in Blythe's honor, and below it I could hear the wet sound of his mouth.

It was obscene.

I loved it.

"You're good at this," I whispered. "Tell me you've missed this."

He pulled back far enough to speak, and his lips were slick and shining.

"I've missed this every minute since you walked out."

"Good boy."

He groaned against me.

I rolled my hips against his face.

He took it, steady and hungry, his tongue flicking fast over my clit and then sliding down to push inside me.

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