He doesn’t sit with me. He pours a glass of water and sets it beside my plate. “Eat,” he instructs softly, then moves to the large mahogany desk across the room, turning his attention to a stack of papers.
I eat in silence. The food is exquisite, but I taste it only vaguely. My awareness is entirely focused on him. On the scratch of his pen, the rustle of paper, the way he runs a hand through his dark hair as he reads.
The silence between us is no longer empty.
It is thick.
Charged.
Waiting.
This quiet domesticity is a new layer of the game, and I don’t know the rules. I never have.
My body is thrumming with a nervous energy, a dreadful, eager anticipation.
I finish eating and simply sit, my hands folded in my lap, watching the last light of the sunset bleed into the sea beyond the terrace. If I wasn’t so petrified, this view would be breathtaking.
He finally sets his pen down and looks over at me. The businesslike demeanour has vanished, replaced by something darker, more primal. The predator has finished his administrative duties, and now his attention returns to his prize.
He rises and walks towards me, each step measured. He doesn’t stop until he is standing behind my chair, and I can feel the heat of him through the silk of the robe. His hands come to rest on my shoulders, his thumbs pressing into the tight muscles at the base of my neck. I can’t suppress a small shiver.
“You are tense, Pup.” he murmurs, his voice a low vibration against my ear.
His hands begin to move, kneading the tension away with surprising expertise. It feels too good. My head lolls forward, a soft sigh escaping my lips against my will.
How is he doing this? How is he is disarming me, piece by piece, so fucking easily?
His hands slide down, over the silk, tracing the outline of my body. He unties the sash, and the robe falls open. His palms slide inside, onto my bare skin, skimming over my ribs, cupping my breasts. His thumbs circle my nipples, and they tighten into aching points instantly as a low groan rumbles in his chest.
“Stand up,” he commands, his voice husky.
I obey him, just like always, and the robe pools at my feet. I am naked before him, bathed in the soft glow of the lamps he’s switched on. He looks his fill, his dark eyes burning with a possessive fire that steals my breath.
He doesn’t grab me, he takes my hand again and leads me to the bed. He lays me down on the crimson coverlet, my skin a pale contrast against the rich colour. He follows me down, bracing himself on his arms above me.
“All that time you spent fighting me,” he whispers, his face inches from mine. There is no anger in it. There is something else… a dark thrill. “It only made the thought of having you here, like this, even sweeter.”
His mouth finds mine, and this kiss is not like the others. It is not punishing or demanding. It is deep, exploring, passionate. It’s a kiss that seeks to learn the secrets of my mouth, to map every sensitive point.
His tongue strokes mine with a devastating laziness that coils heat low in my belly.
I am kissing him back, my hands tangling in his hair, the last of my resistance melting under the relentless, confusingly gentle assault.
He kisses his way down my body in a slow, worshipping descent. He pays homage to the hollow of my throat, the slope of my breasts, the quivering expanse of my stomach. He takes one nipple into his mouth, sucking deeply, his tongue flicking over the peak until I am arching off the bed with a broken, desperate cry on my lips.
He gives the same devoted attention to the other, his free hand pinching and rolling its twin, sending twin bolts of exquisite pain straight to my core.
He moves lower, his hands spreading my thighs. His mouth finds the sensitive skin of my inner thighs, nipping and licking with a sweet torture that has me writhing.
He is drawing out the anticipation, making me ache for him in a way that I both love and hate.
When his tongue finally, finally finds my centre it is with a slow, deliberate stroke that wrings a sob from me. He feasts on me, his tongue circling my clit with agonizing precision before plunging inside me.
He is relentless. Reading every gasp, every twitch, every silent plea of my body, and answering it. The pleasure builds in a terrifying wave, and for a second I think he’s going to do it again, he’s going to deny me this.
Only, he doesn’t. His grip tightens as though he’s forcing me to take this assault and I’m crying out, my fingers clutching the coverlet as I shatter under his mouth, my vision whiting out.
Before I can even come down, he is moving. He flips me onto my stomach with a gentle firmness. I feel him leave the bed and hear the click of a lid opening. A moment later, the cool slickness of lubricant touches the small of my back.
