Page 80 of The Invitation

I blink back the building tears, praying Jude stays exactly where he is until I have this strange bout of emotion under control. But then he moves.Fuck.

As he slips out of me, I wince, the soreness instant. He rests on his forearms and takes some hair from my face, pushing it over my ear. “You look as fucked as I feel.”

I have no idea how I should take that. Physically fucked, or has he noticed the sheen in my eyes? “And you look beautifully fucked.” I scrunch my nose, as I admire Jude Harrison postclimax. It’s a sight to behold.

He smiles, kissing the corner of my mouth before getting up and walking away.

“Lord have mercy,” I whisper, propping myself up on my elbows to get the best view of his back. His arse.

“Mercy granted.”

I gasp quietly. “You heard that?” I’m thrown back to our spa day when Charley and Abbie caught sight of Jude in the Library Bar and joined me, a puddle on the floor.

“I heard that,” he calls as he disappears through the door.

I drop to my back, grabbing a pillow and covering my mortified face. I should be smiling, on a postclimactic high.

I think I’m in more trouble now than I was an hour ago.

What have I let myself in for? It’s a ridiculous question. I knew what would happen if I came here. But I honestly never expected that. The most powerful experience of my fucking life. “Oh, Amelia,” I whisper, throwing the pillow aside and, for the first time, taking in my surroundings. A bedroom. A very large bedroom, decorated in an array of neutral tones, the soft furnishings various textures—velvet, chenille, suede. I get up and go to the window, biting my lip as I look across the glass roof of the Orangery to another window. My suite. He stood here, naked, enticing me.

And here I am.

Backing up, I follow my feet to a door across the bedroom, entering a dressing room, each side lined with sliding doors. I push one open and peek inside. Suits. Many suits. Another reveals an array of ties in endless colours. I close it and open the next. It’s empty. Except for apair of beautiful green mules perfectly positioned on the middle shelf. I reach for one on a frown, feeling the expensive silk material, and the questions multiply. Whose shoes are these? And will the knickers he took of mine join them? Pouting, I replace them and close the door, carrying on through to a bathroom that’s drenched in cream granite and gold fittings. The shower spans the entire wall on the far end, a glass screen stretching most of the width, leaving a gap at the end to walk in. An egg-shaped tub sits in the middle with a gold floor-standing tap curling over the lip. A sink wide enough to bathe in is on the wall adjacent to the shower, and another door leads to an enclosed toilet. I go to the sink, scanning the male products scattered across the surface, smiling to myself as I pick up a bottle of cologne, popping the lid off and smelling. My eyes close in bliss. It’s Jude in a bottle. I check the label. Creed.

“Do I smell good?”

Turning, I find him comfortably resting his shoulder on the doorframe, his arms folded. Still beautifully naked. As am I. I flash a guilty look and place the bottle down. “Do you live here?”

“It’s my apartment, yes.”

“Apartment?”

He holds his hand out to me. “Come, I’ll show you round.”

I look down my front. “Can I get dressed?”

“No.” He claims my hand and pulls me out of the bathroom. “Dressing room,” he says as we pass back through it. Looking over his shoulder, he gives me a mild grin. “But you already found that on your snoop.”

I roll my eyes, desperate to ask him who owns those beautiful green mules. “Like you snooped through my spa questionnaire?”

“It was an essential part of my investigative work,” he says, and I laugh as we emerge into his bedroom. “Where I sleep.” He doesn’t slow, making his way out into an open-plan living space. “Lounge, dining.” He walks on, tugging me behind him, and we enter a huge separate kitchen.

“Wow.” I release his hand and wander around the oak island, taking in the white cabinetry, handmade for sure, the intricate woodwork and detailed edges stunning. A huge fridge with mirrored doors is a focal point, making the space feel even bigger. Baskets line some chunky oak shelves on the far wall, a few plants are scattered around, and a round basket full of oranges, lemons, and limes is positioned dead centre of the wooden island. It’s spotless, hardly looks used.

I go to the sink and find the dishwasher, tugging it open, surprised to find it half-full of dirty dishes and cups. “So you cook.”

“All the time,” he says, resting his naked arse on a stool. “Did you think I wouldn’t?”

“Just for yourself?” I ask as I close the door and circle the island slowly, dragging my fingers across the oiled wooden surface. I peek at him. He’s smiling a little. It’s still knicker melting, though. If I had knickers on.

“Just for one,” he confirms. “I was tempted to cook for you tonight, but I thought you might have resisted being with me in private.”

“What, in case you tried to finger fuck me under the table?” I ask seriously, eyebrows high.

“You’re so crass.”

“Says the man who finger fucked me under the table.”

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