I want to say,I've been rushing since the moment I saw you. Instead, I tell her, "I'm exactly where I want to be."
The kiss is slow at first. Careful, almost. I taste the wine on her lips, feel her sigh against my mouth, the smallest shiver running down her arms. She kisses like she's still a little afraid of me, or of herself, or maybe of what comes next. I could tease her, draw this out, but patience has never been my strength. Not with her.
The first time I touch her, really touch her, it's with both hands bracketing her jaw. She makes a tiny sound, not quite a gasp, and I know I've startled her. She recovers quickly, threading her fingers into my hair, pulling me closer, her nails scraping my scalp just enough to make my vision blur at the edges. My mouth moves from her lips to her jaw, her earlobe, tasting the skin there, the perfume I bought her, the salt of sweat already blooming at her hairline. Sophie's breath catches, her body curling toward mine, until there's nothing between us but the dress and the thin shield of my self-control.
"Christian," she says, and my name has never sounded more like a prayer or a dare.
I slide my hands down her back, anchoring her, and she melts in a way that answers every question I never knew how to ask. The trust in it unmoors me. For a second I want to say something—something true and dangerous, like If you told me to stop I would, but god, I hope you never do. But then she tugs my shirt free of my waistband and her cold hands slip under, flattening against my spine, and all language evaporates.
We move, still half-clinging, to the velvet sofa facing the fire. I lower her with both hands, careful, reverent, still not quitebelieving she's here, that this is real. Her legs slide along mine and she pulls me down on top of her, the blue dress riding up above her knees, her thighs bare and perfect, soft as summer after a long winter.The way Sophie arches under me, the way her hands fist helplessly in my shirt—every movement kills me. I bury my nose in her hair, inhaling the scent of her. “God,” I mutter, and she shivers like I bit her.
“Christian,” she says again, softer now, like she’s not sure if she’s allowed to want this much.
I palm her thigh, pushing her skirt higher so I can wrap her legs around my waist. The heat between us is fucking nuclear. She’s trembling and I’m shaking with the effort not to just tear her dress down the middle.
“You’re so beautiful,” I tell her, because I need her to know. Because I’ve never said it to anyone and meant it like this.
She laughs, breathless. “You’ve seen a hundred women in prettier dresses?—”
“None of them were you,” I bite out, and then I’m kissing her again, rougher this time, greedier. Her mouth opens under mine and I swallow her sigh, my hands sliding up until I feel the soft give of her breast.
She’s wearing some kind of lacy bra. I can feel the texture beneath the thin dress. I want to see her, all of her, but I force myself to slow down, to peel the fabric from her shoulders inch by inch instead of yanking it off the way I want. She’s pink-cheeked and wide-eyed, her breath coming in little gasps as I slide the dress down her arms and let it puddle at her waist.
The sight of Sophie half-naked, flushed and trembling in the firelight, almost undoes me. She tries to cross her arms over her chest but I stop her, catching her wrists in one hand and pinning them gently above her head. “Don’t hide from me,” I whisper against her jaw.
She nods, her blue eyes shining with something like trust, and I let go.
I kneel between her knees, running my hands up her calves, her thighs, feeling the goosebumps rise under my palms. She’s wearing matching navy lace panties—delicate, feminine, not designed for seduction but more seductive for it. I want to tear them off with my teeth.
Instead, I lean forward and mouth her breast through the bra, feeling her arch up into my touch. She’s so sensitive—she whimpers when I nudge the lace aside and flick my tongue over her nipple, so I do it again, again, until she’s panting, her hands in my hair, pulling me closer. I suck her nipple into my mouth, biting just enough to make her gasp, and she claps a hand over her own mouth to stifle the noise.
“Don’t,” I growl. “I want to hear you.”
She lets her hand fall, her head dropping back against the cushions. The sound she makes when I switch to her other breast is pure music. I could spend hours here, mapping every inch of her skin with my mouth, memorizing every place that makes her shudder or moan.
But I’m dying. My cock is so hard I’m afraid I’ll embarrass myself before I get her panties down. I make myself slow, focus, let the anticipation build for both of us. She’s still breathing hard when I finally let her up for air, her hair a mess around her face, her lips swollen and wet.
She slides her hands under my shirt again, frantic this time, like she can’t stand barriers between us for another second. I help her pull it off, half-laughing at her impatience, but the moment our skin touches it stops being funny. She runs her hands over my chest like she’s learning every inch by touch, then leans forward and presses her lips right over my heart. The softness of it almost ruins me. No one has ever kissed me like that—gentle and hungry, like she’s grateful for the chance.
I drag her up onto my lap, straddling me. She clings to my shoulders, her thighs squeezing my hips. There’s nothing between us now but her tiny strip of lace and the thin fabric stretching my zipper to the limit. I palm her ass, pulling her closer until she gasps and tilts her head back, exposing her throat. I mouth it, bite gently, and she shudders, digging her nails into my back.
“Christian, wait—” she whispers, but she’s not telling me to stop, just drawing out the moment.
I slide my hand under the lace, finding her already soaked. The shock of it makes me groan, and she laughs, nervous and sweet, like she can’t believe how easy it is to want this. I rub her clit, slow at first, then harder when I feel her hips start to rock. She buries her face in my neck, biting down when I slip a finger inside her. So tight, so fucking perfect. I add another, and the heat of her nearly unmans me.
She’s close already—she always is, with me, and the knowledge goes straight to my ego. I want her to fall apart, but I want to watch it happen, so I lift her chin and make her look at me while I fuck her slowly with my fingers. Her eyes are wide, wet, desperate.
“Come for me, Sophie,” I tell her. “Let me see you.”
She fights it for a second, maybe embarrassed by how quickly I wreck her, but when I press my thumb to her clit and curl my fingers just right she goes over, trembling and gasping my name into my mouth.
I hold her through it, kissing her softly, stroking her back until she’s limp against my chest. When her breathing slows, she lifts her head, eyes still dazed. She laughs, a wild, messy sound, and then she kisses me, hard.
“My turn,” she says, and before I can even process the words, she’s on her knees between my legs, unbuckling my belt with more dexterity than I expected.
I start to stop her, afraid I won’t be able to handle her sweet mouth on me, but when she frees my cock and wraps her small, perfect hand around the base, I forget how to speak. She studies it for a second, maybe startled by the size, maybe admiring, then looks up at me with an awed yet shy smile.
She licks her lips, then leans forward and slides the tip into her mouth. The heat, the pressure, the sight of her lashes fluttering as she adjusts to me—it fries every synapse in my brain. Her tongue is soft, tentative at first, tracing the vein on the underside, playing along the ridge, then flattening as she takes more, deeper. She can’t take all of me, not at first, but holy fuck does she try. I fist a hand in her hair, not forcing, just anchoring, because I need some point of reality to keep from floating off the planet. She moans around me, the vibration almost too much, and I let out something between a growl and a prayer.
