I expect him to step back. To break the spell weaving around us. He doesn’t.
Instead, his hands slide to my shoulders. His touch is gentle and firm, like he knows exactly how to peel me open. Like he’s done it before in another life.
He draws the dress down my torso, inch by inch. His breath goes rough behind me, catching every time more skin is revealed.
Cool air brushes my back, my sides, the tops of my hips. I’m not wearing a bra. The dress halts at the flare of my hips.
“Push back,” he rasps, low and gravelly.
I unstick myself from the door and ease back.
He cups the edges of my hips, fingertips pressing in with something that borders on reverence. His thumbs stroke once, slowly, before he works the fabric over the thickest part of me and down.
I feel his breath shift. Then movement behind me—he’s crouching. Kneeling. My breath hitches again as the dress pools at my feet.
“Lift your legs,” he says. “One at a time.”
Every word coils through me like heat through honey.
I do as he says. One foot, then the other.
He kicks the dress away and shoots to his feet. I’m standing in nothing but a soaked thong and my heels, wet hair dripping down my back, and trembling.
And he still hasn’t touched me. Neither has he moved away.
I lean back, and his hands fly to my hips like instinct. Like possession. His breath hits my ear. One second. Two.
“Nathan,” I whisper. “Please.”
Something shifts, as palpable as lightning splashing the sky in a spectacular display visible through the window. That word—please—is a trigger?
His hands tighten, almost painfully, though I know he’d never hurt me. He pushes me into the door, enough that my nipples rasp against the cool wood.
“Please what, little bird?” His words are gentle, even tender, belying the rough grip of his hold.
I shake my head, locking away the eager avowals that want to come. Somehow, I can read him again, and there’s a hungry intensity to him that I don’t want to break with foolish declarations.
He’s standing at the edge with me, but if I say the wrong thing, he’ll leave me there. Alone. The fear of losing this, losing him, is so acute that my heart pounds in my chest.
“Please…” I say, unsure of what I’m asking.
Fresh tension grips him. In the musky daze of my desire, I realize he liked that. Just the please…
Why? Does he like the idea of me supplicating? Doesn’t he know that I would be on my knees on the bare floor if he commanded it?
“I like that word on your lips, Jasmine. Who would’ve thought?” His voice is low, almost cruel in its satisfaction.
I shiver. I wait. I ache.
“You’re competent as fuck. Smart. A shield for my daughter against the world. You run my house like you were born to it. And you make all these fucking plans for the future—”
He sounds almost angry. My thoughts are a muddy swirl I can’t reach past the feverish shivers on my skin.
His hand drags slowly up my spine, stopping at the base of my neck. Circling it with a possessiveness that makes my core gush. My thong was already soaked, and now, the wetness sticks to my inner thighs.
“And yet you beg like you’re desperate. As if I’m the only one who could soothe it.” He leans closer, lips ghosting my ear. “And the bastard that I am, I like the sound of you begging,” he murmurs, voice thick.
A breathless laugh escapes him—low, rough, self-mocking. “So much for pretending I’m not your typical arrogant middle-aged man cliché.”
