"You want this," I observe, fascinated by his body's betrayal. "Your body knows what it needs."
"My body is a traitor."
"No. Your body is honest." I reach out slowly, giving him time to pull away. He doesn't. My fingers brush his bare chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heart. "Your mind tells you to resist. But your body knows the truth."
"What truth?" The words come out rough, almost desperate.
"That submission can be sweet. That pleasure doesn't require freedom. That you can hate me and yet still crave my touch."
He closes his eyes, a shudder running through him. "I don't want to want this."
"I know." My hand glides down his chest, over the ridges of his abdomen, feeling him tremble under my touch. "But you do anyway."
"Fuck." The word is barely a whisper.
My fingers reach the waistband of his trousers. I pause there, feeling the heat of him, the way his stomach muscles jump under my touch.
My hand slides lower, cupping him over the fabric. He's hard as steel, thick and hot in my palm. A groan tears from his throat, his hips jerking forward involuntarily.
"That's it," I breathe. "Let yourself feel it."
"Primsyn..." My name on his lips, tortured and needy.
"Yes, Oliver." I stroke him slowly through the trousers, learning the shape of him, the way he responds to pressure. "I'm going to take care of you."
His head falls back, exposing the strong column of his throat. Every muscle in his body is taut with tension, with wanting, with the war raging inside him.
I've never wanted anyone like this. Never felt this pull, this need to see someone come undone. My late husband never inspired this in me. Never touched me, never looked at me with desire. I was decoration, nothing more.
But Oliver looks at me like I'm both his worst nightmare and his darkest fantasy. And, gods help me, I want to be both.
"Bed," I command softly. "Now."
For a moment, I think he'll refuse. His eyes flash with that familiar rebellion, that spark I'm beginning to crave. But then he moves, walking to the bed with stiff, jerky steps. He sits on the edge, looking up at me with a mix of anger and anticipation.
I follow, standing before him. My hands find the belt of my robe. I untie it and let it slip off my shoulders, pooling at my feet.
Oliver's eyes go wide, his breath catching. I'm bare beneath it. I've never been ashamed of my body, but standing before him now, I feel vulnerable in a way I haven't in years. Exposed.
"You're..." He trails off, seeming to forget how to speak.
"What?" I ask, genuinely curious.
"Beautiful." The word seems torn from him against his will.
Heat floods through me, spreading from my chest to my core. No one has called me beautiful in... I can't remember how long.
I move closer, standing between his spread thighs. His gaze roams over me, hungry and helpless, tracking the curves of my body. When I reach for his trousers, he lifts his hips without being asked, letting me slide them down.
His cock springs free, thick and flushed and already leaking. My mouth waters at the sight. I've seen male anatomy before, of course, but never like this. Never someone I’ve wanted.
"Lie back," I tell him.
He does, stretching out on the bed, his body a study in tension and need. I climb onto the mattress and straddle his thighs, my hand reaching out, hovering over his shaft.
Finally…finallymy hand wraps around him.
Oliver's entire body goes rigid. A strangled sound bursts from his mouth, raw and desperate.
