Total pages in book: 39
Estimated words: 36890 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 184(@200wpm)___ 148(@250wpm)___ 123(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 36890 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 184(@200wpm)___ 148(@250wpm)___ 123(@300wpm)
After another five minutes, the car slowed, and I heard the creaking of a gate. When we rolled to a stop, Aston carefully helped me out of the vehicle. Then he tugged on the knot in his tie to undo it, and my blindfold fell from my eyes.
I craned my neck, my gaze scanning our surroundings as I wondered where he’d taken me. The place looked forgotten—the gates were slightly rusted, and ivy curled up the aged stone walls. But when Aston opened the front door, the interior told a different story.
Light pooled from chandeliers that looked original to the house, casting a golden glow over polished floors and high ceilings. Every wall bore something breathtaking—portraits that hadn’t been seen in decades, sculptures nestled in alcoves, tapestries that shimmered faintly with age.
“Welcome to the Ambrose House.” Aston guided me inside. “Once a private home, now a secret repository for some of the world’s most overlooked masterpieces.”
“How do you even get access to something like this?”
“I have...friends in curious places,” he answered cryptically. “The estate’s trust keeps it quiet. No public tours, no photo ops. Just preservation and appreciation. Those of us who know about it are sworn to discretion.”
I turned in a slow circle, awe seeping into my bones. “This place is incredible.”
“Only one thing could make it more beautiful,” he said, voice lower now. “And she’s standing right in front of me.”
A deep blush swept up my neck. “Do all Frenchmen flirt like they’re quoting poetry?”
“I’ve only ever been like this with you, ma petite miette.”
My heart stuttered, butterflies swirling in my belly yet again.
He offered me his arm once more, and I took it. Room by room, he guided me through centuries of forgotten beauty. There were minor works by major artists, unsigned sketches likely drawn by the hands of masters, and relics that glowed with mystery. I’d been to more museums than I could count, but I’d never experienced anything like the tour he gave me.
In one of the upper galleries, I stopped to study a Baroque sculpture by Gian Lorenzo Bernini. “I’ve been meaning to ask, since you’re so familiar with Saraceni’s work, did you happen to pay particular attention to the Caravaggio painting that was auctioned at the gala where we met?”
“There’s only one thing of beauty from that night that stands out in my mind.” He brushed a lock of my hair over my shoulder. “You.”
I was dazed by his compliment as he led me to another gallery, where I paused in front of a triptych that seemed to shimmer with gold leaf and decay.
“This is Byzantine,” I whispered, my fingers hovering just shy of the glass case.
“Late period. Eleventh century,” Aston confirmed. “Rumored to have been stolen from a monastery and returned to its original owner in the seventies. Or so they say.”
“Are you always this full of half-truths and shadowed history?”
He stepped closer behind me. “You’re drawn to mystery, miette. It’s part of your fire.”
I turned toward him, intending to reply with something witty, but the words caught in my throat when I realized how close he’d come. His face was only inches from mine. His eyes, so pale they almost glowed, locked on my face with an intensity that made my heart race.
“You should warn me when you’re about to say things like that,” I breathed.
He smiled slowly. “Would it help?”
“Probably not.”
When his lips brushed mine, I leaned into him. His hands slid from my waist to my back, pressing me close enough that I could feel the effect I had on him. His hard length was hot against my belly, making my inner walls clench as my panties dampened.
I gasped when his tongue brushed mine, and he swallowed the sound, one hand slipping to cradle the back of my neck. This was more than a kiss. It was a claiming. One that quickly spiraled out of control.
My fingers slid up to his lapels, curling around them as he shifted, pinning me gently against the paneled wall behind me. My thighs trembled as one of his wedged between them.
I made a sound—half whimper, half plea. His groan was low and rough before he kissed me again, harder this time.
His hand slid up my thigh beneath the slit. I arched into his touch, overcome by the rush of desire roaring through my veins.
“Aston,” I gasped into his mouth.
He pulled back an inch, breathing hard as his forehead rested against mine. “You’re too damn tempting. This isn’t how I want our first time to be.”
“Maybe—”
He didn’t let me finish my suggestion before he added, “But I’m not going to leave you wanting, ma petite miette.”
He traced his fingers over the gusset of my panties before slipping one inside. My eyes fluttered closed with a moan, and my head fell back against the wall as his finger dipped between my hot, slick folds.