Page 43 of The Best Wild Idea (Off-Limits #3)

Juliet

Silas and I were rerouted back to the hotel after a flight delay kept us grounded in Cádiz. Now we’re back in my suite after a delicious night out.

Five minutes ago, the hotel’s room service staff dropped off an unexpected dessert just as Silas came in to grab the gear he’d left in my room before the sail this morning.

We both came out of the rooms at the same time when we heard the knock on the door, him emerging from the bathroom in only the charcoal pants he wore to dinner earlier.

No shirt, and no socks. Just bare feet and the pants I saw him zipping back up as he exited the room to answer the door.

They dropped off just one saucer of molten lava cake with two scoops of vanilla ice cream, topped with two heaping mounds of whipped cream on top of that. Two spoons were nestled in beside the platter on the cart, though there was only one plate between the two of us.

Neither of us ordered it, so I’m not sure how they knew it was my favorite. But it smells delicious, even from where I’m sitting across the long table now from Si.

We’re at either end of the long dining table in my suite, the one that could fit sixteen people, if we had fourteen other people traveling with us.

But it’s just him and me, grinning at each other about the unexpected delivery now sitting on the table in front of him.

Silas picks up his spoon and digs in, not even asking if I want a bite.

Just like him to take what he wants, when he wants it, without asking first , I think, watching.

I’m not sure what I’m waiting for though. I should just go grab my own spoon and dig in too, but my feet are planted where I’m at, as if stuck in cement. All I want, I realize as he eats a second bite, is to watch him enjoy it.

As if he can read my mind, he looks up.

“You know you want it,” he says, raising the spoon before scooping up another bite. He makes sure to get all three layers onto it before tucking it deeply into his mouth. Chewing slowly, and licking his bottom lip after swallowing.

“How do you know I want it?” I ask.

Instead of answering, he lets out a wicked sort of laugh, one I’ve never heard come out of him before.

“Is it that obvious?” I say, feeling silly for not just getting out of my seat to grab a spoon for myself.

“You could be more obvious about it,” he tells me. “It’s the only way to make sure your needs are met.”

Then he wipes a bit of liquid chocolate off the corner of his lips with his thumb before pushing it back into his mouth to suck off the top.

That should not have been as hot as it just was. This is Silas , I remind myself. What the hell has gotten into me?

“How could I be more obvious?” I ask, my mind racing.

“Lie down,” he demands, pointing not to the couch or to the bed tucked out of sight, but to the table stretched between us, the glossy surface as dark and molten as the cake itself.

I rise to my feet without thinking, heart pounding between my legs, and climb onto the table.

I’m wearing pajamas I’d never wear back home — a cherry-red Agent Provocateur bodysuit that I don’t remember packing — with a robe over the top.

The bodysuit is a lacy, curve-hugging number that’s high-cut over both of my thighs then built like a corset on top, pushing my breasts up until they’re nearly spilling out the top, even more so now that I’m crawling my way across the table on all fours.

“Right there,” he tells me when I get to the middle. “Don’t go any further.”

I stop and lean back onto my knees.

He slides the saucer across the surface, and I catch it before sitting on the tabletop with my legs stretched long between us, robe parting down the middle.

“Is that what you want?” Silas asks, his voice growly and deep.

His eyes trace down my body and I widen my knees just enough for him to see how I’m barely covered by a thin strip of delicate red lace, no wider than two of my fingers, or his.

I lick my lip and bite it.

“Maybe?”

He stands, and I can see that he’s hard beneath those charcoal pants, the material already stretched tight across his lap.

“You know this is exactly what I want,” I tell him, dropping my knees even wider, holding the saucer up.

“Then eat it,” he demands. His eyes narrow darkly.

I don’t know why, but I’m compelled to obey him. To not think for myself. To just let him take charge.

I dip my finger into the center of the cake before swirling it up toward the layer of ice cream, topping it off with so much whipped cream that a quarter-sized dollop falls onto my chest as I carry it up toward my lips.

Then I push my chocolate cream-covered finger deep into my mouth, swirling my tongue over my own skin and nail, tasting my skin along with the cake. Groaning before sucking it clean, then pulling my finger back out of my mouth again. It was as good as I had hoped. But I can do better.

I lick my lips before digging into the whipped cream again. Then hold my finger out to him.

“Want some?” I ask. I bend my knees wider, not really talking about the cake anymore.

My heart pounds in my chest as his eyes travel down to the tiny spot of whipped cream resting on my chest before heading south to a view I know he’s going to like even more: a second dessert.

“Don’t tempt me,” he growls. “You know I can’t touch you.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, my mind blank as to why. “You can’t touch me? Or touch me here?”

I drop my finger, still wet from my mouth, down to the lacy crotch of the bodysuit I’m wearing, pointing to the softness of my body beneath the sheerness of the lace.

“Don’t,” he says, weakly. But I don’t believe him. He’s watching my finger intently as I start to draw circles across the fabric, dipping my legs apart while the sensation starts to build, quickening my breath while I watch him, wanting more.

“I’ve been alone for so long,” I moan, drawing tighter circles, pulling the fabric aside. Then I slip my own finger inside my walls, feeling the coil in me draw open as he watches it slowly disappear.

“Jules,” he pants my name.

“I don’t want to be alone anymore, Silas,” I tell him.

I find the two little snaps of the bodysuit, holding the tiny strip of fabric in place, hoping that once there’s nothing left between us, he’ll climb across the table to finish what I’ve already started.

“Don’t,” he warns, louder.

“You don’t want dessert?” I ask, arching my back. Teasing an invitation.

“It’s going to be worth the wait,” he tells me, not moving.

“Up, Silas,” I demand, nearly lost to my own climax. “Up, up, up. Get up now.”

He finally climbs onto the table like a hungry wolf, one knee drawn up to join me while his eyes stare intensely into mine. But he stops.

“Get up! Up!” I repeat, frustrated by his hesitation.

I can’t wait one more second for him to reach me. I’m nearly there. Everything in me starts clenching and pulling apart. He’s going to miss it if he doesn’t hurry.

“Up! Up! Up!” I begin to shout. Oh my God, this is it. “Silas, you’re going to miss it,” I moan, desperate for him to make it to me before I unravel.

“Up!”

“Silas?” I groan.

Andy’s voice enters the room.

“Up, Jules!”

Wait. What is Andy doing in here?

“Wake up, honey. I hate to break it to you, but you don’t need one more second of beauty sleep. You’re already putting the rest of us to shame as it is. Up, up, up!” Andy claps his hands each time he says up .

I groan and roll over on the enormous table.

But it’s not a table. There’s a pillow.

I can feel two pillows.

I squint one eye open.

It’s a bed. I’m on a bed.

That wasn’t a dream was it?

Oh God.

I roll over. I’m on the bed in the back of the plane.

Where I’ve just had the most incredible sex dream of my life. I practically came in my sleep.

But about Silas?

No.

No. No. No.