We eat with our hands, feeding each other. Taking our time. Letting the moment stretch.
There’s something primitive about watching her bite into the slice from my fingers, about licking a smear of tomato sauce from the corner of her mouth with my tongue—stealing kisses between bites.
We finish the pizza in a silence heavy with unspoken things.
Then Sloane opens the last box.
“Oh, they’re bastards,” she laughs, but it comes out low and husky.
Inside is a bowl of oversized, blood-red strawberries and a can of whipped cream.
She looks at me—pure challenge in her eyes.
She grabs the whipped cream.
“Don’t you dare,” I warn her, but my voice has already dropped an octave, a growl thick with anticipation.
She smiles. That dangerous smile that wrecks me every time.
“Too late.”
She presses the nozzle.
A thick, cold stripe of white cream lands on my left pectoral, over my heart, slowly dripping down toward my abs.
The cold makes me hiss; my muscles tense instantly.
“Oops,” she murmurs, feigning innocence. “I should clean that up.”
She leans over me.
Her warm, rough tongue touches the icy cream on my skin.
The contrast is violent. Electric.
Sloane licks slowly upward, alternating wet kisses with light suction. I feel her hair tickle my chin, her breasts pressed against my cuffed arm.
When she reaches my nipple, she takes it into her mouth, sucking hard—and I have to dig my fingers into the rug to keep from flipping her over immediately.
But I don’t last long.
“My turn,” I say, my voice wrecked.
With one smooth motion, using the chain that binds us, I push her onto her back on the fur rug.
The emerald silk dress slides up, bunching at her hips, leaving her pale, smooth thighs exposed.
I look down at her.
Blonde hair fanned out against the white rug.
Swollen lips.
Her chest rising and falling fast.
It’s a beautiful sight, but I want her completely naked.
Luckily, this dress comes off very easily.
