We stand there, caught in this moment. Last night was about feeding, about physical need and biological necessity. But this, standing here in the charged silence with our truths laid bare, this is something else entirely.
"Lie down," I tell him, my voice steadier now.
Oliver complies, stretching out on the bed. His eyes never leave mine, dark and intense and filled with a hunger that matches my own. I once again shed my dress, letting it fall to the floor. His sharp intake of breath sends heat flooding through me.
"Every time I see you like this," he says roughly, "I forget how to breathe."
I climb onto the bed, straddling his hips. His hands come to rest on my thighs, the touch gentle despite the tension coiled in his body.
"I've been thinking about this all day," I admit, running my hands up his abdomen. "About touching and tasting you again."
"Fuck, Primsyn." His hips lift slightly, seeking friction. "You can't just say things like that."
"Why not? It's true." I lean down, my hair falling like a curtain around us. "I spent the entire morning trying to work, trying to focus on household matters, and all I could think about was you. How you felt in my hand. How you tasted on my tongue."
A groan tears from his throat. "You're killing me."
"Good." I kiss him, slow and deep, tasting the remains of his lunch, the hint of wine. His mouth opens under mine, his tongue sliding against mine in a dance that makes my sex clench with need.
This kiss is different from the desperate one earlier. This one is learning, savoring. Like we have all the time in the world, even though we both know we don't.
My hips rock against him, and I can feel his cock, hard and thick beneath me, separated only by the thin fabric of his trousers.
"Off," I murmur against his mouth, tugging at the waistband. "Take them off."
He lifts his hips, shoving the trousers down and kicking them away. Then he's bare beneath me, all hard muscle and heated skin and that gorgeous cock jutting up between us.
I sit back, taking in the sight of him. "Beautiful," I breathe.
"That's my line," he says, but his voice is strained.
My hand wraps around his shaft, stroking slowly. The feel of him in my palm, hot and hard and so responsive to my touch, makes me feel powerful.
"I love how you feel," I tell him, watching his face as I stroke. "The weight of you. The way you pulse in my hand."
"Gods, woman." His head presses back into the pillow, his throat working. "You're going to make me come before you even start."
"Then come." I increase my pace, my grip tightening. "I want to watch you fall apart."
"Not yet. Not like this." His hand catches my wrist, stilling my movements. "I want...fuck, I want more."
"More?" My heart is racing now, anticipation and nervousness warring inside me.
Oliver sits up, forcing me to adjust my position. Now we're face to face, bodies pressed together, his cock trapped between us. His hand slides into my hair, gripping firmly.
"I want to taste you," he says, his eyes locked on mine. "I want to make you feel what you make me feel."
Heat floods through me, pooling between my thighs. "Oliver..."
"Tell me no. Tell me that's not allowed, that I'm just here to feed you and nothing more." His other hand slides down my back, over the curve of my ass. "Tell me to know my place."
"I can’t," I whisper.
His eyes flare with heat and triumph. Or was it relief? He moves quickly, rolling us so I'm on my back and he's above me. The shift in power should terrify me, but instead it thrills me.
"Spread your legs," he commands, and I obey without thinking.
Oliver settles between my thighs, his shoulders forcing them wider. His gaze drops to my core, and I’m exposed in a way I've never been before.
