And it’s not helping. At all.
I don’t move. I breathe through it. I hold my own spoon steady and watch her out of the corner of my eye as she finally dips her spoon into the pistachio.
I want to bend her over the back of the couch and make her beg for my cock. I want to hear the word "Sir" on her lips, and not at the office.
Her lips close around the spoon.
Her brows furrow in concentration, and I watch her swallow.
Her throat works, a delicate line of muscle against pale skin.
I want to close my hand around her throat while I pound into her. Hard.
I can see it so clearly, I can feel it.
The heat of her.
The tight grip of her hands on my shoulders.
The breathy little noises she’d make when I hit just the right spot.
I can feel the phantom ghost of her hair wrapped around my knuckles, and I curl my own fingers into a fist against my thigh, digging the nails in hard until I can feel it. Until I can feel something else besides this overwhelming, all-consuming urge to claim her.
All it's doing is reminding me of her nails digging into my back as I take her to the edge over and over until she's begging for permission to come.
Permission I will only give her when she's ready. When she's completely and utterly mine.
Then, I'll grant it.
And watch her fall apart for me. A screaming, sobbing mess.
This isn’t working.
It’s not working at all.
She licks her lips. A tiny flick of pink tongue.
And I have to physically stop myself from groaning out loud.
I can't do this here. I can't do this now.
She’s in a fragile state.
One that I helped cause.
No one has ever accused me of being a good man. Ask a dozen men and women, and you'll get a dozen answers. None of them good.
But I’m not this. I’m not the guy who takes advantage of a woman when she’s vulnerable.
Even if I want to be. Desperately.
“It’s… good,” Erica says, pulling me abruptly out of a fantasy I shouldn’t be having. “I don't know if I've ever gone for pistachio before. That was obviously a mistake."
I force my mind back to the present, however painful it is to leave that fantasy behind.
“Of course it's good," I say. “It's— gelato."
Abruptly, my lust slips away.
