“So I’m going to do that. Right fucking here. Right fucking now.”
He doesn’t give me a chance to stop him or protest. He just drops me into the seat beside him with zero ceremony. Before I can make sense of what’s happening, he’s crouched on his knees between my legs.
His huge hands cuff around my ankles. “Spread them,” he orders.
I hesitate for half a second—not because I don’t want to, because Lord knows I’m as lost in the lust as he is—but because my brain is still trying to catch up with what’s happening.
His fingers tighten hard enough to bruise. “Eliana, I said tospread your fucking legs for me.”
I let my knees fall open.
“More. Wider.”
I do what he says. The theater seat forces my hips to tilt forward, and I feel obscenely exposed even though I’m still fully clothed.
“Good girl,” he murmurs. The praise makes my head spin.
He takes a fistful of skirt fabric in each hand and starts to roll it up my legs. He takes his time. Slowly, one inch at a time, my legs are exposed. My skin looks amber in the low lantern light. Bastian’s gaze stays riveted on mine as he rolls the skirt higher and higher and higher.
Until, finally, the fabric bunches up around my hips, leaving me in nothing but my underwear from the waist down.
He sits back on his heels for a moment, just looking at me. His chest rises and falls rapidly.
“Fucking perfect,” he breathes. “Everything I dreamed of and more.”
His fingers hook into the waistband of my underwear—simple black cotton, nothing fancy, even though Yasmin begged me to wear the lace lingerie set she bought me for a birthday present last year—and he starts to drag it down my legs with the same agonizing slowness with which he rolled up my skirt.
The fabric whispers against my skin as he peels the panties away, inch by torturous inch, until they’re dangling from one ankle.
He slips them free and holds them up between us for a moment. A smirk plays at the corner of his mouth. Then, maintaining eye contact, he folds them carefully and tucks them into his back pocket.
“Mine now,” he says simply.
Then his eyes drop low.
But he doesn’t move. Not right away. He kneels there before me, hands pinning my thighs as wide as they’ll go, and stares at my center. He licks his lips once more. He exhales.
And then he says, “More beautiful than I ever could have imagined.”
Then he leans forward and fucking devours me.
The first stroke of his tongue rips an unholy moan from my throat. He groans in response like he loves it. The vibration of his lips on me makes me spasm head to toe.
“Fuck, you taste incredible,” he snarls against my thigh.
He does slow, teasing circles around my lips, leaving little nibbles along the crease of one hip. He’s torturing me, but I love it so much. I’m so lost in the sensation that I barely register when he freezes.
“What the hell is this?”
My brain is too scrambled to process the question. “What?”
He pulls back to squint down. “You’re hurt.”
Oh. The shaving incident.
“It’s nothing,” I say quickly, trying to pull him back to where I want him. “Just nicked myself shaving earlier. It’s fine.”
His frown deepens as he examines the small Band-Aid I’d slapped on in my post-shower panic. “You should’ve been more careful.”
