Something raw and hungry flashes in his eyes.
"Say it again."
"I choose you."
That breaks him.
He lifts me onto the worktable, stepping between my legs. His hands slide up my thighs, bunching the silk of my dress.
"We should go to the bedroom," he says, even as his fingers find the edge of my panties.
"I don't want to wait."
He groans. "You're going to be the death of me."
Then his mouth is on my neck, my collarbone, the swell of my breasts above the low neckline of the dress. His hands are everywhere, learning, exploring, worshipping.
He hooks his fingers into my panties and drags them down slowly.
"Lean back," he orders.
I do, bracing myself on my elbows.
He drops to his knees.
"Adrian—"
"Let me." His hands spread my thighs wider. "Let me taste you."
Then his mouth is on me, and I'm lost.
His tongue works me with devastating skill. Not rushed. Taking his time. Learning what makes me gasp, what makes me moan, what makes my hands fist in his hair.
"God, you taste incredible," he groans against my sensitive flesh.
He slides two fingers inside me while his tongue focuses on my clit, and the combination destroys me.
I come with a cry, my whole body shaking. He works me through it, gentling his touch as the aftershocks roll through me.
When he stands, his eyes are dark with need.
"Bedroom," he says roughly. "Now."
He doesn't wait for an answer. Just scoops me up and carries me out of the workshop, down the hall, to our room.
The door slams shut behind us.
He sets me on my feet and reaches for the zipper of my dress. It falls to the floor in a pool of emerald silk.
"You're so fucking beautiful," he breathes.
Then he's kissing me again, walking me backward until my legs hit the bed.
We fall together, a tangle of limbs and desperate touches.
He strips quickly, and then he's naked above me. All hard muscle and dangerous intent.
But when he looks at me, there's nothing dangerous in his expression.
