I nod.
He shakes his head.
“That’s not good enough.”
“I’m ready,” I whisper again, even though I’m shaking. “Set me on fire.”
And just like that—he lets go.
Not of me.
Of restraint.
He spins me around and presses my chest to the wall, my breath catching as he rucks my dress up with one hand and yanks down the straps with the other.
“You’re trembling,” he murmurs against the shell of my ear, kissing just below it, slow and deliberate. “But you’re not running.”
“No.”
He peels the dress down, and when the air hits my skin, I feel exposed in a way I’ve never felt before.
Not just naked.
Seen.
He steps back for half a second, and I hear his breath punch out of him like a curse.
“Jesus fuck.”
I turn my head just enough to glance over my shoulder.
The way he’s looking at me…
Like he’s about to ruin me just to rebuild me.
Like he needs to.
Like it’s the only way he knows how to love.
He drops to his knees behind me again, hands sliding up my thighs so slowly it’s cruel, and then his mouth is back.
No teasing this time.
No warm-up.
Just his tongue buried between my thighs, his hands gripping my ass like he’s starving.
“Dax—” I cry out, my body arching, grinding down into his mouth like some desperate little sinner.
He groans so loud I feel it in my spine.
“Fucking perfect,” he growls, spreading me wider. “You don’t even know what you do to me. You taste like sin and summer. Like fucking heaven.”
I’m shaking.
He’s relentless.
His tongue flicks, then flattens, then plunges inside me like he’s trying to fill the ache he created.
