I start with the dress.
I turn her around, slowly, and she lets me. The row of pearl buttons down the back catches the moonlight, tiny and delicate, and I work them open one at a time. My fingers are too big for this, clumsy against the small loops, and it takes forever, which is fine because I can feel her breathing quicken with each button I undo, feel the shiver run through her every time my knuckles brush bare skin.
Halfway down, I press my mouth to the back of her neck. She makes a sound, soft and startled, and her head drops forward. I kiss the nape of her neck, following the trail of buttons with my lips. Her skin is warm and smooth and she smells like something floral, and I take my time because I meant what I said. Slow. Even if slow is killing me.
The last button opens and the dress loosens around her. She catches it at the front, holding it against her chest, and looks at me over her shoulder.
"Your turn," she says.
I pull my shirt over my head. I don't make a performance of it, but I don't rush either. Her eyes track over my chest, my stomach, the same way they did in the gym, and the heat in them makes my blood run thick and heavy.
She lets the dress fall.
It pools at her feet in a puddle of ivory silk, and underneath is white lace. A bra that's barely there, sheer enough that I can see the dark peaks of her nipples through the fabric, and matching underwear that sits low on her hips and makes my mouth go dry.
"Jesus Christ," I breathe.
The moonlight paints her skin silver, turning the white lace into something almost ethereal, but there's nothing fragile about the way Anya looks at me. Her eyes are dark, and her chest rises and falls in quick, shallow breaths that make her breasts strain against the sheer bra. The flush has spread all the way down to the tops of her tits, and I want to trace it with my tongue.
I step into her space, crowding her until the backs of her knees hit the edge of the bed. She doesn't retreat. Instead, she tilts her chin up, defiant and eager, and reaches for the button of my pants.
"Wait," I say again, catching her wrists in one hand. My voice is rougher than I intend, but I can't help it. She's too much, too beautiful, too willing, toomine. "Slow, remember?"
Her eyes flash with something hot and impatient. "Connor, I've waited four days. I don't want slow."
A low chuckle rumbles out of me despite the ache in my cock. "You'll get what I give you, wife."
The wordwifeis like a spark on dry tinder. Her breath catches, and she tests my grip on her wrists, not trying to break free so much as feeling the strength there. I see the moment it registers,that I'm bigger, stronger, and fully in control now that we're alone behind a locked door.
I release her wrists only to slide my hands down her sides, palms skimming the curve of her waist, the flare of her hips. The lace panties are so delicate I could rip them off with one tug, but I don't. I hook my fingers in the waistband and drag them down her legs slowly, dropping to one knee in front of her as I go. She steps out of them, and when I look up, her pussy is right there, the patch of dark hair already glistening with arousal.
"Fuck, Anya," I groan. "You're soaked."
She makes a small, embarrassed sound, but her hands fist in my hair, tugging me closer instead of pushing me away. "Then do something about it."
Demanding little thing. The corner of my mouth kicks up. I press a kiss to the inside of her thigh, then higher, breathing her in, musky, sweet,her. My tongue flicks out, tasting her, and her hips jerk forward with a sharp gasp. I grip her ass with both hands to hold her still and lick into her properly, slow drags of my tongue over her clit, then dipping lower to push inside her tight heat.
"Connor—" Her voice breaks on my name. Her legs tremble, but she doesn't pull away. She spreads them wider, one hand still tangled in my hair, the other braced on my shoulder. "Oh God, yes—more."
I give her more. I suck her clit between my lips, flicking it with my tongue until she's grinding against my face, chasing the pleasure with zero shame. She's wild, hips rolling, soft little moans turning into whimpers, thighs squeezing around my ears when I slide two fingers inside her and curl them just right. She's tight, so fucking tight, and the thought of sinking my cock into that heat has me grinding my aching dick against the edge of the bed for any friction I can get.
When her walls start fluttering around my fingers, I pull back.
She makes a frustrated noise, eyes flying open. "Don't youdarestop—"
I stand up, towering over her, and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. "Lie on the bed, Anya. Now."
Her eyes narrow, but there's heat there, not anger. She climbs onto the mattress, kneeling in the center, still wearing that sheer bra. I shed the rest of my clothes quickly, allowing my cock to spring free, thick and heavy, and already leaking at the tip. Her gaze drops to it and she licks her lips.
"Like what you see?" I ask, echoing that morning in the gym.
"Still deciding," she shoots back, but her voice is breathless, and she reaches for me.
I catch her hand again, guiding it to my cock. Her fingers wrap around me, small and warm, and she strokes once, experimentally. I groan, hips bucking into her touch. "Harder."
She does, tightening her grip, twisting her wrist on the upstroke. Fuck, she's a quick study. But I don't let her play for long. I push her back onto the pillows, coming down over her, caging her with my arms on either side of her head.
I kiss her deeply, letting her taste herself on my tongue. She moans into my mouth, legs wrapping around my waist, trying to pull me closer. Her heels dig into my ass, insistent.
