Page 55 of She Doesn't Have a Clue
“Good.” Jake laughed, sliding a finger inside her.
His tongue and fingers worked in tandem, her muscles tightening with each assault until she was crying out his name, edging on the precipice of glory. But every time it felt like she might tip over the edge, he slowed his pace, his tongue roving, his free hand caressing the curve of her calf. And when Kate’s heart would slow, the thudding in her flesh subsiding, he slid a second finger in, stretching her, working her until she was nearly screaming.
“That’s… not… fair,” Kate finally managed, when he’d brought her up and let her sink back down a third time.
“Was there something you wanted?” Jake said, his voice so buttery and teasing. “All you have to do is ask. Nicely.”
“Jake, please,” she said, as he curled his fingers and made every muscle in her body clench.
“Please what?” he asked, his tongue swirling just around her clit without touching it.
“Please, Jake—Ohgod, please. Please make me come.”
“Only because you asked so kindly,” Jake said, giving her a wicked smile from between her thighs before dipping his head again.
And now she knew he’d only been playing with her this whole time. His tongue pressed against her, rough and hard and quick, and her climax came so fast she swore she could see into another dimension. It rode through her like the coming of the end-times, bowing her back and stealing her breath, her entire body shuddering. Fireworks of every color exploded behind her lids. It was almost a relief when Jake slid his fingers out and sat back on his heels, watching her like he could devour her whole. Which he sort of had done.
“That was…” She lay back, staring up at the ceiling, the lights flickering around her. “I don’t… They haven’t invented a word yet for what that was.”
“Good?” Jake said, holding back a laugh.
“How dare you,” Kate said accusingly. “‘Good’ is an insult. A slap in the face.”
Jake’s body shook with the effort to keep from laughing. “So, great, then?”
Kate smacked him with her knee. “Such impudence.”
The lights flickered, dropping out for a moment before buzzing back to life at a dimmer level, and Kate realized it wasn’t just the aftereffects of her orgasm.
“What’s going on with the—” Kate began to say, but a sharp, abrupt sound sent her upright in a panic. She couldn’t quite make it out, and there was a brief, heavy lull as the sound dissipated. Maybe she’d imagined—
But no, there it was again, somehow louder and more insistent. A blaring, harsh alarm clanging through the house as the lights buzzed dangerously low again.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Kate barely had time to slip her clothes back on, her hair in disarray and her shirt inside out. Jake had to support her down the rickety stairs so she didn’t lose her balance on shaky thighs, as other concerned wedding guests popped their heads out of their rooms. The alarm blared on, jangling her nerves.
“I didn’t even realize this place had an alarm!” Kate cried over the sound. At first it had seemed to be coming from everywhere, but now she realized that was because it was coming from the head of the stairs, down on the first floor. It was simply echoing up, spreading through the house like a virus and drawing out the various weekend guests.
“The question is, what’s it for?” Jake called out as they pushed their way through the crowd down to the third floor and headed for the second. “It sounds like a Klaxon from a sci-fi movie in the seventies. Which fits this place, I guess, only I haven’t seen any—”
Jake stopped abruptly as they reached the second-floor landing. The first floor was too crowded to go any farther. They could see over the railing to the main entryway and the source of the alarm. Abraham stood on the black-and-white tiles, phone in his hand, the alarm blaring from the tinny speakers. Kate was shocked it had reached the fourth floor, untilAbraham lifted what looked like some kind of megaphone and played the alarm through the mouthpiece. The sound amplified tenfold, slightly screechy, and she winced and covered her ears.
“Aw, what the hell?” griped Spencer’s brother, Eric, in half a tux and basketball shorts. “I was mid-poop!”
Abraham gave a professional, apologetic grimace as he turned off the alarm on his phone and lifted the megaphone to his mouth. “Apologies for the alarming measures, but we have a few small problems. Well, not so small. Our fuel supply on the generator is running just a smidge lower than we anticipated. The new storm cell has apparently decided to change course and come directly over the island within the next hour, and we’ll most likely lose power again. For good this time. And the place might flood. Historic houses, folks, am I right? So! The wedding ceremony originally planned for two o’clock is being moved up to now. As in, right now. As in, you all have twenty minutes to get dressed and make it down to the sunroom, which you’ll find marked on your estate maps. So… hurry!”
His voice cracked on the last word, and the megaphone caught the beginnings of a lengthy and imaginative curse before he shut the power off, shooing guests back to their rooms to prepare for the ceremony. Several of the guests were loudly protesting a variety of issues—including Eric’s aforementioned bathroom woes—but Kate spotted one guest in particular who was putting up such a fuss that Abraham and two of the burlier men on the waitstaff had corralled him off to a corner. Kate headed down the stairs for a closer look.
“You can’t keep us here like this!” bellowed Marcus Sheffield, eyes bloodshot and cheeks puffed out and red. He was putting on a good show of it, shoving against the waitstaff, calling out for civil rights attorneys, swearing vengeance on anyone and everyone who came near him.
“Sir, please,” Abraham said, his professional veneer as thin as black ice as Kate and Jake approached. “For your own safety—”
“I’m not staying one more minute in this hell house!” Marcus shouted, the wave of whisky breath rolling out of him so potent thatKate was impressed the man still stood. “You’ve got no right to hold me here, and I want off this damn island!”
“What’s the problem?” Kate whispered to Jean-Pierre.
“A shorter list would be to ask what isn’t the problem,” the Frenchman said in a clipped tone. He glanced at her, doing a hasty double take. “The ceremony is in eighteen minutes.”