“Don’t.” One word is all I can manage.
I push myself to my feet, putting distance between us.
He stands too, watching me, chest rising and falling as fast as mine. His mouth curves. Not quite a smile. Something darker.
“Don’t?” He tastes the word. Considers it.
He takes a step forward. A predator advancing on his prey.
I step back.
My spine hits the courtyard wall. Rough stone against silk. When did I back up this far?
“I mean it.” My voice shakes. I hate that it shakes. “Don’t touch me.”
He keeps coming. Stops inches away. Close enough to feel his heat. Close enough to smell the citrus and wood of his cologne.
He doesn’t touch me. Just cages me against the stone with his presence.
“Your mouth says don’t.” His voice is low. Dark. His eyes drop to my lips. Still swollen from his kiss. “What does the rest of you say?”
“Fuck you.”
“That’s not an answer,tesoro.”
He steps closer. Bodies almost touching now. One hand braces against the wall beside my head. The other stays at his side, not touching but promising.
“Say stop.” His eyes hold mine. Dark and hungry and terrifyingly patient. “Say it, and I will. Just one word, Violet. Tell me you don’t want this.”
I open my mouth. The word is right there.Stop.Four letters. One syllable. I’ve been saying it for weeks.
Nothing comes out.
Because I do want this. Have been wanting it for days. Lying awake at night thinking about his hands. Dreaming about his mouth. Hating myself for every response my body has to his presence.
He reads my silence.
“That’s what I thought.”
His hand drops to my waist. The touch burns through thin fabric, searing into my skin. I can feel him, hard against my stomach through layers of fabric. Long and thick and oh god, I want to touch him.
I gasp. Try to push him away.
Weak. No strength behind it. My palms flat against his chest, feeling his heart pound as hard as mine.
“No.” I find my voice. “I don’t want this.”
All lies. My body is screaming the opposite. Nipples hard against silk. Heat pooling between my thighs.
His smile is dark. Knowing.
“Say it,tesoro.” His hand slides down, over my hip, to the hem of my dress. “Tell me you want me to stop while you’re soaking wet for me.”
“I’m not—” I struggle, and yet the wordstopwon’t come.
His hand slides under my dress. Up my thigh. Over bare skin. When did I stop wearing practical clothes? When did I start choosing the silk dresses he selected, the thin underwear, the?—
I try to close my legs. Can’t. He’s between them now, pressed against me, his hand on my inner thigh making thought impossible.
