To my shoulder. The strap of the dress has slipped slightly—barely—but he notices.
His fingers hook under the silk, adjusting it with agonizing slowness. The backs of his knuckles brush my bare skin, and I shiver.
He sees it in the mirror. His lips curve.
“Cold?” he asks, though we both know that’s not why I’m shaking.
His other hand lifts, gathering my hair gently and drawing it over one shoulder. His fingertips graze the back of my neck as he moves the strands, deliberately slow, and I feel the touch like a brand.
My breath comes faster.
In the mirror, his hands hover at my waist. Not touching. Just… there. Close enough that I can feel the heat of them through the silk.
“May I?” he asks softly.
I should say no.
Should pull away, run, fight.
But I don’t.
I nod.
Just barely.
His hands settle on my waist, and the contact sends heat through my entire body. Not rough. Not possessive.
Reverent.
Like I’m something sacred.
His thumbs brush the curve of my hips through the fabric, and I watch in the mirror as he leans closer, his breath warm against my ear.
“You were never meant to be less,” he breathes. “You were always meant to be mine.”
His eyes lock with mine in the mirror, and for one dizzying, horrible second, I can’t tell if I’m terrified—
Or thrilled.
My hands rest at my sides, trembling.
Part of me wants to tear the dress off. Throw it back in his face. Scream that I’m not his, will never be his.
But another part—
Another part leans back into his touch.
Just slightly.
Just enough.
And we both see it happen in the mirror.
His smile is slow. Satisfied.
“Tomorrow,” he whispers against my temple.
Then he’s gone.
