His fingers find the zipper low on my back, and I hold my breath.
It lowers, slowly, with a slow, tantalizing whisper. A single drawn-out sound that feels louder than the music in the other room. The silk loosens, slithers, and pools in a dark puddle at my feet, leaving me in nothing but panties and my heels.
The air kisses my skin, and I shiver. In the mirror, I see myself bare, illuminated by the soft candlelight, with Roberto, still fully clothed, a dark, powerful presence behind me. He is the shadow, and I am the light. He is the frame, and I am the painting.
He doesn't touch me right away. He just looks, and I feel the intensity of his gaze like a physical touch. He looks at me as if he’s seeing me for the very first time, as if he’s trying to commit every curve, every line, every freckle to memory.
I should be embarrassed, self-conscious, but the look in his eyes in the mirror erases any insecurity I might have. There’s no judgment in his gaze, only a deep, profound appreciation.
He steps closer, and I can feel the heat of him through his trousers against my bare bottom. He reaches around me, his hands covering mine where they are clenched at my sides. He gently pries my fingers open and laces his through mine.
“Look at us,” he says, his voice a low rumble against my ear. “Tell me you don’t see it.”
I do see it. We are two halves of a whole, a study in contrasts and similarities. My fair skin against his dark suit. My softness against his hardness. My vulnerability against his strength.
It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
He releases one of my hands and brings his to my throat, not squeezing, just resting there.
Feeling it and seeing it are so very different. It's a sharp reminder of the power he holds over me, the power I willingly give him.
I meet his gaze in the mirror, and I see it then. The raw, unfiltered hunger. But underneath, something else. Something deeper.
He wants me.
Not just for my body, but for all of me. For the parts I hide, for the parts I’m afraid to show.
I let out a shaky breath, the sound loud in the quiet room. “I see it,” I whisper.
“Good,” he says, a note of satisfaction in his voice.
With one hand still on my throat, he lets the other glide down my body, over the curve of my breast, the dip of my waist, the swell of my hip.
He pauses at the edge of my panties, a thin scrap of lace that offers no real protection, just the illusionof it.
His fingers dip beneath the lace, exploring the sensitive skin there. A strangled noise escapes my throat, a mix of anticipation and trepidation. I want this. I want this so much it hurts.
My body arches into his touch, pressing my ass against him. He chuckles again, a low, knowing sound.
He’s playing me, and I love it.
His other hand moves from my throat to my breast, cupping its weight, teasing my nipple with the rough pad of his thumb. I gasp, my head falling back against his shoulder as he teases me to a point where it feels almost too much.
My breath is coming in ragged pants now. The room is spinning, the candlelight blurring. I’m lost in a sea of sensation.
“Roberto,” I plead, the name a prayer on my lips.
“Look,” he says, his teeth nipping at my earlobe. I can feel his erection, hard and insistent, through the fabric of his trousers, and a fresh wave of desire washes over me. "Look at yourself, Olivia."
I force my eyes open, my gaze meeting his in the mirror. My face is flushed, my eyes wide, my lips parted in a silent plea. I look wanton. I look desperate. I look… alive.
His finger moves lower, through my wet folds, finding the hard bundle of nerves at the apex of my thighs. He circles it once, twice, a light, teasing touch that has my hips bucking.
“Tell me what you want,” he says again, his voice a low growl.
I look at our reflection. At the way his hand disappears between my legs, at the way my body responds to his touch. At the possessive glint in his eye.
And I know.
