I open my eyes. See Oliver. Go dry as the Sahara.
"You okay?" Oliver pulls back slightly, studying my face.
"Yeah. Just—hungry."
He grins. "We could order."
"Please."
• • •
Forty minutes later, Indian food sits on my dining table. I'd set it earlier—candles, nice plates, cloth napkins, the whole romantic setup.
Oliver keeps kissing me between bites. My neck. My shoulder. My jaw. "You're gorgeous," he murmurs against my skin.
"Thanks."
His hand finds my thigh under the table. Slides higher. "I've been thinking about you all day."
"Yeah?"
"Can't stop." He leans in. Kisses me again. Deeper this time. "Can't stop thinking about touching you."
I kiss back. Think: Come on, body. Cooperate. He's hot. He's here. He wants you. Nothing. Bone dry. Fuck.
Then an idea hits. Step by step. Eyes closed. Imagine Drogo while I move on by fucking Oliver. Perfect.
I pull back. Touch his thigh. Let my hand slide higher. He sucks in a breath. "Alena—"
"You know what would be fun?" I lean closer, hand moving to his cock. Hard. Pulsing through his jeans. Smaller than Drogo—significantly—but long. Decent. Good enough. I stroke him through the fabric, trying to convince myself this will work. That if I just close my eyes and pretend hard enough, my body will cooperate. "What?" His voice is strained.
"You maybe tying my eyes?" I stroke him through the fabric. "Let me… feel you?"
He shudders under my touch. "Yes—"
Then his mouth is on mine. Hungry. Desperate. He kisses down my jaw. My throat. Pulls the dress down roughly. His mouth closes around my nipple. Sucking. Teeth grazing. I feel… nothing. A bit of irritation mostly. His tongue is warm, technique perfect, but it's wrong. Too gentle where Drogo was possessive, too practiced where Drogo was raw need. Still dry. Nausea rising in my stomach.
"Wait," I say. "The blindfold."
He pulls back. Eyes dark. "Seriously?"
"Yes."
He grabs one of the cloth napkins. Ties it around my eyes. Gentle. Careful. Darkness. Better.
His hands slide up my thighs. Lift me onto the table. Back against the surface. Plates pushed aside. He spreads my legs. "Fuck," he breathes. "No panties."
"Wanted to be ready."
"You want me that much?" His fingers slide between my legs. Finds me dry. He doesn't comment. Just keepstouching. Rubbing my clit in circles. Gentle. Methodical. Nothing like Drogo's rough, possessive touch—the way he'd grabbed my hips hard enough to bruise, the way he'd growled "mine" against my skin like a prayer and a threat.
"Yes," I lie.
His mouth follows. Tongue replacing fingers. Licking. Sucking. I close my eyes behind the blindfold. Think of Drogo. His mouth. His hands. The way he'd eaten me on the dresser like a starving man, like he'd die if he didn't taste me. The sounds he'd made—that low growl of satisfaction, the way he'd gripped my thighs and held me open, the way he'd looked up at me with those blue eyes dark with hunger. Wetness finally comes. Not much. But enough.
Oliver groans against me. "There we go." Fuck, I worked overtime for that and he had to say there we go?
His tongue works faster. Fingers pushing inside—two of them, curling, searching. I force out a moan. Think: Drogo. Drogo's fingers. Drogo's rough hands gripping my jaw, making me look at him while he fucked me with his fingers, his voice a possessive rasp: "You're mine. Say it." But Oliver's touch is too gentle, too careful, his whispered "You taste so good" wrong in every way. The dryness returns almost immediately, his fingers dragging uncomfortably, friction all wrong. My muscles tense instead of relax, body rejecting the intrusion even as I try to force myself to respond.
