The silver material parts, the threads separating and exposing a line of my skin where he trails his fingertip down between my breasts and to my stomach.
Slowly, like a parting wave in the wake of his finger, the material’s edges pull back until a deep V forms, barely covering the inside of my breasts.
One corner of his mouth hitches up as he trails his finger lazily across my stomach and up around the outside of my left breast, parting the material so that it leaves only a narrow strip covering my breast on that side.
I lean toward him, needing more. More contact. More than the light brush of a single fingertip. Need to grind my aching breasts against his chest.
With a firm press of the heel of his palm, he keeps me at bay, ensuring my near-bruised lips remain inches from his.
Around and around, he trails his finger, each swirl bringing him closer to my nipple while leaving it covered. Agonizingly close.
I push toward him again, only for his shackled hand to close around my hip, keeping us apart.
Meanwhile, his trailing finger swirls lazily toward my pelvis, separating my armor and sliding lightly toward my center.
My hips buck against him, the heat between my legs becoming unbearable, when he strokes down one side of my folds, a teasing, tantalizing touch.
His gaze remains on my face, flicking to my parted lips. He can’t be unaware of my increasingly jagged breathing or the soft moans leaving my lips as his hand strokes upward again, still across one side of my folds, a tantalizing touch as he avoids touching my core and giving me the relief my body is already screaming for.
Beneath his smile, I sense his darkness and the way every stroke tests him, even if I don’t fully understand why or how he fears he’d hurt me or what particularly monstrous impulse he’s quelling. Of course, I can imagine. There are too many ways a man can hurt a woman.
His fingers stroke back and forth against my skin without touching my center until I’m panting and straining toward him.
I fight to stop myself from pushing harder against him and verbally demanding more, aware of his uneven breathing and the way his hair falls across his face as if he’s determined to hide the shadows growing in his eyes.
Back and forth, his hands stroke lightly. Too lightly. And now my entire body aches, the deepest need building in my core and within my breasts. Even my lips. All needing his touch.
I can’t stop my whimpering moan as my desire becomes more than I can bear. Can’t stop my hands from rising to press to his chest. Can’t stop my back arching as I begin to rock against his hand, clenching my core in a desperate attempt to somehow bring on my own release.
The moment I arch, he snarls, a hungry sound that sends a violent shiver down my spine.
With a hard wrench—a push of his shackled hand and a tug of his free hand—he turns me around so I’m facing away from him.
A heartbeat later, he yanks me up against his chest, my back connecting with the hard steel covering his torso.
My head spins, and I barely have time to catch my breath before his shackled hand rises to my left breast, the chain giving him enough leeway to cover my suddenly naked flesh.
His palm grinds against my hard nipple while his free hand sweeps to my core. Finally.Finally…stroking between my folds.
But only once before he sweeps a little lower, collecting the moisture from my wet core and stroking it up the side of my clit before easing across the hard nub.
Hot pleasure strikes through me as he rubs softly. Small, perfect strokes as he buries his head against the side of my neck, his lips dragging at my earlobe, his teeth grazing the side of my throat, his mouth closing over the curve at the top of my shoulder, and his tongue swirling against my skin. My naked skin. Since the threads part wherever he touches me.
My breath catches in my chest, an internal pressure building, until I’m forced to let it out, release the air, dragging in a new breath, not even trying to fight my increasingmoans.
His shackled hand kneads my breast, a hard touch becoming quickly lighter, a soft play with my nipple that makes me rock harder against his hand, wanting,needingrelease.
When he slides his hand lower, leaving my clit, the break in pleasure only lasts a moment before he pushes the tip of his finger inside me while the heel of his palm rubs against my clit.
The sliding sensation is my undoing.
A blinding orgasm crashes across me, filling my head with heat and want, making me arch into his hands, straining for more, wanting his fingers deeper, but even when my hands clamp over his arm, urging him lower, he remains resolutely where he is.
I tremble through the crash, a release that should be complete but only makes me want more.
Pulling against his hold, I gasp at how easily he lets me go.
He’s true to his promise.
