Page 68 of Embers in Autumn
It wasn’t just sound—it was a story, unfolding in rich chords and aching melodies, sweeping us away from the small town and into something larger, timeless, impossible not to feel.
I glanced at Dean, and he looked at me at the same moment, his lips curving into a quiet smile that made my chest ache.
The music swelled, violins soaring like something that could carry me away, but my attention kept drifting to the man sitting beside me. Dean leaned back in his chair, champagne glass balanced loosely in his hand, his suit stretched across his broad shoulders like it had been made for him. He looked out of place here—too rugged, too solid for all this velvet and crystal—and yet, somehow, he belonged more than anyone else in the room.
His hand found mine, warm and steady, fingers threading through mine as if it was the most natural thing in the world. I smiled faintly, turning back to the stage, but my pulse skipped when his thumb began to stroke slow circles against my skin.
Then, without a word, he shifted. His hand slid from mine, resting instead on my knee.
I stiffened, darting him a quick glance. He didn’t look at me, eyes still fixed on the conductor below, but his mouth curved in the faintest, most infuriating smile.
The orchestra swelled again, and so did my heartbeat.
Dean’s hand crept higher, inch by inch, until his palm pressed against the silk of my dress, just above the hem. His thumb brushed the inside of my thigh, deliberate, slow, the motion hidden by the table in front of us.
I bit down on my lip, heat rushing through me, torn between swatting his hand away and leaning into it. “Dean,” I whispered, barely moving my lips.
He leaned closer, his breath warm against my ear, his voice a low growl that I felt more than heard. “Relax, baby. No one’s looking. They’re all watching the stage.”
My thighs tightened involuntarily around his hand. He chuckled softly, the vibration of it skimming along my nerves, and pressed just a little firmer, his fingertips stroking higher up my leg, teasing but never quite enough.
The music swirled around us, rich and grand, but all I could hear was the pounding of my pulse in my ears. All I could feel was him—his hand, his warmth, his quiet possession—even as the world beyond our box carried on, unaware.
It was reckless. Dangerous. Entirely inappropriate.
And I wanted more.
The orchestra’s strings climbed higher, swelling into something fierce and grand, but I barely heard it. All my focus narrowed to the slow, steady path of Dean’s hand on my thigh.
At first, it was just a tease, his thumb brushing lazy circles against my skin. But then he slid higher, his palm slipping under the silk of my dress, his touch hot and sure. My breath caught, and I turned my head toward him.
“Dean,” I whispered, panic and want tangling in my voice. “We can’t—”
He didn’t even look at me. His eyes were still on the stage, his jaw firm, that damn smirk tugging at his lips. “We can,” he murmured, so low I felt the words against my ear more than I heard them.
My thighs pressed together instinctively, trapping his hand. He chuckled, dark and low, and forced them apart again with nothing more than a flex of his fingers. The strength in that simple gesture made my pulse stumble.
Then his hand slid higher.
I bit down on my lip hard, my entire body on fire as his fingers traced the edge of my panties. He didn’t rush, didn’t push—just lingered there, stroking the delicate fabric, watching me unravel without anyone in the room suspecting a thing.
“Dean,” I hissed again, more plea than protest this time.
His head finally turned, his eyes locking on mine. The heat there was molten, burning straight through me. “You like it,” he said softly, almost reverently. “Don’t pretend you don’t.”
And God help me, I couldn’t. My hips shifted of their own accord, pressing into his hand.
I bit my lip hard to keep the moan from escaping.
“Already wet,” he murmured, his words filthy, reverent. “Fuck, Amber. You sitting here looking like a goddess, and you’re dripping for me.”
He rewarded me with a slow stroke over the damp fabric, his touch so maddeningly gentle I almost sobbed from the restraint. He leaned in close, his lips grazing the shell of my ear.
“Let me make you come right here,book girl,” he whispered, filthy and tender all at once. “While they’re all out there clapping for violins, you’ll be coming on my hand.”
A strangled sound left my throat, swallowed by the rising crescendo of the orchestra. He slipped beneath the fabric then,fingers finding me slick and ready, stroking slow but firm.
“That’s it,” he whispered, his filthy mouth relentless even here. “Take it, baby. Let me stretch you. Wish it was my cock, but this’ll do for now.”
