“More,” I breathe, because I can’t pretend I’m anything but starving for him. He answers with his hands: one splayed at my lower back, the other sliding from my jaw to my throat, not squeezing, just resting there, as if he’s reminding me who’s in charge. It works.
The urge to plead with him is so strong, I can barely stand it.
I find his belt, the edge of leather, the hard plane just above it. He hisses through his teeth when my palm skims under his shirt to bare skin, hot and firm under my hand.
He’s shaking, just a little, like the control he wears so easily is picking its battles. He inserts his thigh between my legs and presses tight to my core. My dress is too thick to really feel anything, but I rise to my toes in response and gasp into his mouth.
“Careful,” he says, rough and low. I roll my hips once against his thigh; his fingers tighten at my throat, permission and warning all at once.
He kisses me again, deeper, until the world narrows to heat and breath and the drag of his lips, his tongue, over mine. The music could stop, and I wouldn’t notice. The city could blink out, and I’d still be here, pinned under his focus like it’s exactly where I belong.
“My dress,” I plead, the words spilling out around the kiss.
He doesn’t move right away. He steals one more slow press of mouth to mouth, like he’s sealing a promise, then lifts his head just far enough to see my face. Whatever he finds there settles something in him. He nods once, decisive.
“Now,” he says, and the way he says it sparks every nerve I have. His hand leaves my throat to lace our fingers; the other stays at my back as he guides me, step by step, away from the table and toward the bedroom door, never breaking the kiss for more than a breath, never letting the heat drop, drawing me with him like he knows I’ll follow anywhere he asks.
I will.
The bedroom is dark save for a sliver of city light through the sheer curtains and the glow from the living room that follows us in. He stops at the foot of the bed, a sprawling king that looks like an ocean we can float on.
There are unlit candles scattered around. He releases my hand, and I feel a sudden, terrifying absence. He steps back into the living room to grab one of the lit candles and goes around theroom, lighting them all so the room glows soft and warm.
He walks back to me, but he doesn't take me in his arms. He turns me to face the full-length mirror on the wardrobe door.
“Look,” he says, stepping behind me, a solid wall of heat. His hands come to my hips, holding me in place. “This is what I saw tonight. This is what I wanted.”
I force my gaze up and see what he sees: my face is flushed, my lips swollen from his kisses, my pupils wide. I look like a woman who has been thoroughly kissed, and the sight is both mortifying and thrilling. He’s a shadow behind me, imposing and absolute.
The contrast is stark. I, in my fragile silk. He, in his tux, dark and solid. And yet, the way he holds me—possessive, reverent—doesn’t feel like a contradiction. It feels like something meant to be.
I watch, mesmerized, as he brushes a delicate strap off my shoulder. His fingers linger on the bare skin there for a moment, and I see the goosebumps rise in the mirror. He leans in, his lips a whisper away from my ear.
“This dress,” he murmurs, “has been taunting me for weeks.” He brings the strap down further, his knuckles dragging against my skin, leaving a path of fire in their wake.
My breath hitches. I can only stare at our reflection as he carefully, slowly, does the same with the other strap. The silk of my dress pools at my hips, and for a terrifying, exhilarating second, I feel exposed.Vulnerable.
My nipples harden, though the air is warm.
Then I see it in his eyes in the mirror. Not a predator’s gleam, but something softer. Something like awe.
His hands trace the curve of my waist, the line of my spine. He’s not rushing. He’s memorizing. “And here,” he breathes against my shoulder blade.
His hands slide up my sides, making my stomach dance.
“You are a work of art, Olivia,” he says, tracing my shoulder with his lips. “Every inch of you is a masterpiece.”
His hands cup my breasts, and I gasp, arching into his touch. He takes his time, kneading them softly in his big hands before taking my nipples between his thumb and forefinger and rolling them, pinching gently until I’m panting with need.
My head lolls back against his shoulder, giving him all of me. I’m too lost in sensation to form a coherent thought, let alone speak.
“Tell me what you want,” he says, his mouth trailing kisses down my neck.
But I don’t have the words. Not yet. I just want.
I push back against him, needing more contact. I need to feel all of him against me, skin on skin.
He chuckles, the sound low and throaty. He seems to understand what I want without me having to say a word. He pulls away, and I feel a pang of loss that’s so intense, it almost hurts.
