I kiss her.
Hard. Claiming. All teeth and frustration and the need to prove something I can't even name right now.
She makes a sound—surprise or protest or maybe want—and then she's kissing me back just as hard. Her hands fist in my jacket, pulling me closer instead of pushing away.
When I finally pull back, we're both breathing hard.
"We're going back in there," I say, my voice rough. "And you're going to stay by my side. And if you so much as smile at another man?—"
"What?" She tilts her chin up. Defiant. "What are you going to do?"
"Remind you exactly who you belong to."
I take her hand, pull her back toward the ballroom. The music has shifted—something slow and elegant that rich people think is sophisticated.
"You know what? I need a little air," she says as we almost reach the dancefloor.
“Air you say…" I release her, look at her flustered cheeks and take her hand. "Come with me."
I lead her through a side door that leads to the service corridors. These old estates all have them—ways for staff to move around without being seen by guests.
I try three doors before I find an empty room. Storage, maybe. Or a sitting room nobody uses. There's a couch, some boxes, dim lighting from a single lamp.
Good enough.
I pull her inside, lock the door.
Her eyes are wide, a mix of fake shock and real excitement. She wanted this. She’d been pushing me, testing me, seeing how many buttons she could press before I short-circuited.
“What are you—” she starts, that rich, fuckable voice of hers laced with a protest I know she doesn’t mean.
I don’t answer with words. I spin her around, my hands on her hips, backing her up until the backs of her knees hit the couch. “Sit.”
“Excuse me?” She tries for indignant, but her breath is already coming faster. I can see the pulse hammering in her throat.
"Sit. The. Fuck. Down."
She sinks onto the couch, not because I told her to, but because she’s desperate to see what I’ll do next. Her dress is a dark red, and it pools around her thighs as she settles.
I drop to my knees on the floor between her legs, the hardwood biting into my skin. A good pain. A focused pain.
I push the hem of her dress up, revealing her thighs, the black lace of her underwear. She makes a small sound, a gasp that getscaught in her throat. I hook my fingers in the sides of her panties and peel them down her legs, slowly, letting the lace drag against her skin. She lifts her hips to help me, a tiny, telling betrayal of her supposed reluctance.
I push the underwear in my pocket and look up at her. Her cheeks are flushed. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” My voice is low, rough. “To push me until I fucking snapped?”
“I didn’t?—”
“Yes, you did.” I cut her off, my hand sliding up her inner thigh, feeling the heat of her skin, the muscle tense underneath. “You wanted to see how far you could go before I reminded you exactly what the fuck this is.”
“And what is this?” she breathes, her chin tilted up in defiance.
I don’t answer. I just lean forward and press my mouth to the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. I kiss her there, my lips soft at first, just a whisper of contact. She gasps, one hand flying to her mouth.
Then I open my mouth, sucking lightly, tasting the faint salt of her skin, knowing I’m leaving a mark. She jolts, and her other hand finds their way into my hair, not to push me away, but to fist it, to hold on.
I’m going to ruin that pretty composure of yours, Bianca. I’m going to lick it all away.
I move my mouth higher, nuzzling through the soft thatch of dark hair until I find her. I don’t dive in. I tease. I use the flat of my tongue to lick a slow, broad stripe from her entrance all the way up to the hard little nub at the top. She cries out, a sharp, choked sound, and her hips jerk off the couch.
