I wrap my arms around his neck as he reaches his other hand in my dress, kneading his fingers into the small of my back. The kiss is deep, relentless. Searing. He tastes of wine and honey, of longing and lost control, of sunlight and the warmth of a candle’s glow.
I kiss him back with equal desperation, with darkness and forbidden desire and damnation, with an aching need for the one thing I can’t have.
His lips take each of mine one by one, sucking and pulling at them, memorizing each of them, the feel, the taste, as he reaches lower and pulls me closer to him by my hips.
I fling the laurel crown from my head and then clutch at his collar, tugging on it, needing him closer. Testing me, he darts his tongue between my lips. I open for him. I let him in, meeting his tongue with mine, letting him explore my mouth. The thrust of his tongue between my lips sends a wave of heat down my spine. It pinches my nipples, leaving them hard and needy against the smooth silk fabric of the dress he gave me.
I reach my hands into his perfect, golden-brown hair, relishing its softness, my fingertips grazing his crown. And then I press them at the nape of his neck. I urge him deeper into my mouth, and he gives me what I want, opening himself into me, devouring my tongue.
I lower the shadows around us. Not so much that he can’t see me, but enough that we shouldn’t be visible from inside.
My breasts are heavy and hot against him. I want him to touch them, to taste them. “Is this what you want?” he asks, kissing my neck and reaching a hand up between us, grazing my breast, touching the peak of my nipple with agonizing softness through the white fabric.
“More,” I beg.
He takes my mouth again, his lips warm and wet against mine. “Greedy,” he whispers. My nipples ache with need. He touches one lightly again and then gives it one soft squeeze.
I groan in frustration.
Fuck. He’s teasing me, and I love it.
And from the feel of him hard against my stomach, he loves it too.
He kisses me again, harder now, more insistent, as he reaches lower still and lifts my thigh to his hip. I wrap my leg around his back, angling myself so that I’m pressing my most sensitive area against his length. The layers of fabric between us are thin, and I’m wet already with desire.
“Fuck,” he says, moaning into my ear. He licks the shell of it and sucks on the lobe, teasing my nipple with one hand as he presses the other onto my ass, pushing me to him until I’m rubbing the soaking flesh between my thighs against him.
White hot desire floods me. I want to shove the layers of fabric aside. I want to free his cock, to feel the head of it against me—
—to lift her by her hips and lower her onto me, sinking myself all the way inside of her until I’m drowning in her—
What the fuck?
“What was that?” I say, lowering my leg and pulling away from him.
My heart thunders in my chest. I feel the cold absence of him again as he releases me, confused.
“What’s wrong? Fuck, Sylvie, I’m sorry—”
He covers his face with his hand, shocked. Ashamed.
“No,” I say, taking his hand and pulling it from his face. “It’s not that.” I kiss his hand, and he melts into me with relief. It wasn’t the kiss that was the problem. “Did you make me feel something?”
I felt something just a moment ago. It was a feeling, clear and present as my own, but it wasn’t mine.
It was his.
I felt it coming from him, felt his desperate desire for me. Felt what he wanted to do to me, how he wanted to take me. I couldn’t hear his thoughts or see an image, but I knew exactly what he wanted.
I knew it like the feeling had come from my own body instead.
“I don’t understand,” he says. “What did you feel?”
“You. I felt what you wanted. Did you do that?”
He looks at me as if I’m speaking another language. “Did I do what? Did I want you? Yes, very much—”
“No,” I say, sighing in exasperation. “I felt your feelings. Your power. Can you give it to someone else? Can you make them feel things? I thought you said you couldn’t.”
