But we don't stop. Can't stop. His mouth moves to my neck, finding the sensitive spot below my ear, and my head falls back with a gasp. Heat floods through me, pooling low in my belly and soaking my undergarments.
Oliver makes me feel like I'm burning alive.
His hands slide up my sides, thumbs teasing the underside of my breasts through the thin fabric. I arch into the touch, shameless and desperate for more. His lips pull from mine and descend to my breast, my nipple. He sucks hard, insistent, teeth grazing through the wet cloth, and I choke out a gasp, my body trembling. The suction and the sharp sting of his teeth bring it to a rigid peak beneath the fabric.
Oliver lifts his head, eyes dark with hunger. "Fuck!"
Then his mouth crashes back to mine, more demanding this time. His hands work at the fastenings of my dress with surprising dexterity for someone who claims to hate me. Or maybe because he hates me. Maybe all that rage needs somewhere to go.
I help him, my fingers trembling as I undo buttons and ties. The dress pools at my feet, leaving me in just my undergarments. Oliver's gaze rakes over me, hungry and possessive in a way that makes my core clench.
"You're beautiful," he says again, like the words are pulled from somewhere deep inside him. "I hate that you're beautiful."
"I hate that I want you." I reach for his shirt, pulling it over his head. "I hate that I can't stop thinking about you."
"Good. We are in agreement." His hands span my waist, lifting me onto the table. Plates and silverware crash to the floor. "We can hate each other. Just don't stop touching me."
I pull him between my thighs, reveling in the feel of his skin against mine. His mouth finds mine again; his kiss is brutal and claiming. This isn't gentle. This isn't sweet. This is two people who should be enemies giving in to something neither of us can control.
His hand slips up my thigh, and I realize with a start how far this has gone. How far I'm willing to let it go.
"Wait." I press my palm to his chest, feeling his heart hammering. "Wait."
Oliver pulls back immediately, his chest heaving. "What? What's wrong?"
"I..." How do I explain this? "I've never...with my husband, we never..."
Understanding dawns in his eyes. "You're a virgin."
Heat floods my face. "It's ridiculous, I know. A woman my age, married for fifteen years. But he never wanted me that way. Never touched me."
Something softens in Oliver's expression, the anger giving way to something gentler. "It's not ridiculous."
"He preferred servants. Younger, more pliant."
Oliver's hand comes up to cup my face, surprisingly tender. "You deserved better than that."
Tears prick my eyes, unexpected and unwelcome. I’ve never cried over my marriage. Nor have I ever let myself feel the rejection, the loneliness of all those empty years.
"I don't know what I'm doing," I whisper. "With any of this. With you."
"Neither do I." He leans his forehead against mine. "But we probably shouldn't figure it out on your dining room table."
A surprised laugh escapes me. "Probably not."
We stay like that, foreheads pressed together, breathing each other's air. The moment stretches, fragile and precious but also terrifying.
Finally, Oliver steps back, reaching for his shirt. I slide off the table, aware of my state of undress, of the mess we've made. Shattered dishes litter the floor. My carefully controlled lunch had devolved into chaos.
Fitting.
I gather my dress, tugging it into place, trying to salvage some shred dignity. Taking his hand, I lead him out and head toward his room. We are going to finish what we started.
CHAPTER SEVEN
PRIMSYN
Once inside his room, my palm flattens against his chest, feeling the heat of him, the steady thrum of his heartbeat. Oliver's skin is warm beneath my touch, and I can feel the slight tremor that runs through him. He's trying to maintain control, just like I am, but we're both failing miserably.
