His hand slides higher on my thigh, fingers slipping beneath the silk, skating over bare skin. I'm trembling against him, overwhelmed by sensation, by the feeling of his mouth on my neck and his hand on my thigh and his body pinning me to the wall.
"You're so soft," he murmurs against my skin. "So fucking perfect."
His fingers trace higher, and I realize with a shock that he's going to touch me there. Touch me the way he did on our wedding night, before everything went wrong.
Part of me wants to stop him, is frightened by how fast this is happening. But a bigger part—a part I'm only just discovering—wants more. Wants to feel his hands on me, wants to understand this heat building inside me, wants to know what happens when I don't pull away.
Sean's fingers brush against my panties, over the thin silk there, soaked through with want. We both freeze. He pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes wild and dark.
"Christ," he breathes. "Maeve, we can't—not here?—"
But even as he says it, his fingers are moving, stroking over the silk barrier. The sensation makes me gasp and grip his shoulders harder. It feels good. Better than good. Jolts of electric pleasure are rippling over my skin. It feels nothing like when I’ve tried to touch myself.
"Please," I whisper, though I'm not sure what I'm asking for.
Sean groans and captures my mouth again while his fingers keep moving, creating a friction that makes my hips move instinctively against his hand. He's breathing hard, his control clearly hanging by a thread.
His fingers slip beneath the silk, and the feeling of his skin against mine—there, in my most intimate place—makes me cry out into his mouth. He swallows the sound, kissing me deeper while his fingers explore.
"So wet," he mutters against my lips. "Fuck, Maeve. You're so wet for me."
I don't fully understand the mechanics of what's happening to my body. But I know it feels incredible. Know that every stroke of his fingers makes the heat inside me build higher. I'm making sounds I've never made before, desperate and needy.
Sean's other hand moves from my hair to slide down the front of my dress, cupping my breast through the silk. His thumb finds my nipple, already hard and sensitive, and circles it in a way that makes me arch into his touch.
This is nothing like our wedding night. Nothing like the clinical, frightening touch that made me panic. This is fire and heat and desperate wanting. This is me pressing closer instead of pulling away, me gasping his name instead of begging him to stop.
His fingers find a spot that makes me jolt, pleasure spiking through me so intense it's almost painful. He focuses there, circling and stroking while his thumb continues to work my nipple through the silk.
"That's it," he murmurs. "Let me make you feel good."
The pressure inside me is building to something unbearable, something that feels like it's going to break me apart. I'm gripping Sean's shoulders so hard I'm probably leaving marks through his tuxedo jacket, my head thrown back, completely lost to the sensations he's creating.
And then—suddenly, shockingly—I understand.
I understand what he's building toward. What my body is reaching for. And the realization hits me like cold water.
I want this. Want him. Want to come apart under his hands and see what happens next. I want all of it with an intensity that terrifies me.
The force of that wanting—the way my body is responding to him, the desperate need I feel—snaps me back to reality.
I grab his wrist, stopping his movement. "Wait."
Sean freezes immediately, his hand going still. He pulls back to look at me, and I can see the effort it takes him to stop, the wild hunger in his eyes warring with concern.
"Did I hurt you?" he asks roughly.
"No." My voice is shaking. "No, I just—I need?—"
I need to think, to understand what just happened. Need to process the fact that I was seconds away from letting my husband make me come against a balcony railing at a gala where anyone could have walked out and seen us.
I need to understand why I wanted that so badly.
Sean reads something in my expression and steps back, removing his hand from under my dress and releasing my thigh. The loss of his touch leaves me cold, aching, confused. I can see the ridge in his suit trousers, straining against his thigh. The hand that was just inside of me curls into a fist.
"Fuck," he says, running a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry. That was—we shouldn't have?—"
"I wanted it," I interrupt. The truth of it is undeniable. "I wanted you to touch me."
