Yet I’m ravenous. For a feast named Olivia.
‘I don’t particularly care for what you do or don’tfeel like.’Except for how she feels under my fingertips. How she feels under me.My own reflection as I step behind her is tense. Eyes dark, my jaw flexes under the pressure of temptation, of not reaching out for her. But it’s a look that could be interpreted many ways. ‘You know how important tonight is to me. I expect you to do your part and play the dutiful, love-struck little wife.’
‘You know what I think?’ She turns to face me, her hands grasping the table edge behind her.Yet another action that that pushes out her breasts. ‘I don’t think this is about me being late.’ She reaches up, her hand cupping my cheek, her thumb pressing my bottom lip as her own exaggeratedly juts. ‘You’re always so pouty, Beckett.’
‘And you’re always so late.’
‘But you don’t care. Not really. You care more about this dress.’ I quirk a brow, an action contradictory to my surprise. Her hand falls away, and she pulls at the scooped neckline with that same thumb, revealing a little more of the constellation of freckles and her creamy skin.
‘Remember your position in this partnership, Olivia.’
‘How could I forget?’ she purrs, her words ending in a playful curl. ‘But would you tell a junior partner how to dress?’
‘I would if they were doing so inappropriately.’
‘You don’t like it?’ Now who’s pouting as she leans back again, this time stretching out her foot to run it along my inside leg.
‘Be careful. You’re playing with fire.’
‘Tell the truth. You don’t like my dress.’
‘You’re right. I don’t.’
‘You want me to take it off.’ Something twists in the pit of my gut because that wasn’t a statement. It was an invitation. ‘Don’t you.’ And those words? A dare.
‘Take it off. Strip.’ My words are a command, my grip on the situation tenuous.
‘Oh, I’m sure your fancy boarding school taught you better manners than that.’ She smirks; a provocation.
‘Take off the dress, Olivia.’ My voice sounds deeper. Rougher. The air between us filled with the energy of this push and pull. ‘Take it off. Before I do it for you. Before I rip it off you.’
‘Well, if you put it like that...’ She pushes off from the table, her movements unhurried and indolent. Until she crosses her arms over her body and prepares to pull.
‘Slowly, darling. Don’t rush.’
‘I thought we were in a hurry? Also, I don’t remember asking for audience participation.’ Even as she speaks, she’s uncrossing her arms and trying to hide that damn smirk.
‘But you want to make me suffer, don’t you?’ I watch as she places her hands on her thighs as she begins to draw the cotton up her body in small increments. Slowly, so slowly, the action like a rising curtain on opening night.With ten times the anticipation for the reveal.
Lithe legs, the triangle of black lace. The flare of her hips and the dip of her waist before the round fullness of her breasts are revealed, encased in a matching bra. The elegant column of her neck and the triumphant expression on her beautiful face as she holds out her arm and drops the dress to the floor. She plucks the glass from my hand and saunters off in the direction of the kitchen.
Of course, I follow her. Follow that swaying arse and those violin hips as I adjust my aching cock. I watch as she opens the fridge door without any real intention. A fridge now filled with groceries where before it was bare. I push away the thought that the appliance is somehow a metaphor. Before and after Olivia; a life that was empty, then full.Then empty again, when the time comes.
‘What are you hungry for?’ I wrap my arms around her, my words pressed into her satin soft neck.
‘That would be telling,’ she answers, rolling her head to give me better access.
‘You are maddening.’
‘If I am, it’s only what you deserve.’
But I don’t deserve her. Not her taunt or her kisses. Not her body or her touch. But she is worthy of my worship. I wonder if she ever notices the strength of need in my kisses. If she knows I feel like my arms can never hold her tight enough. That I can’t seem to be inside her long enough, or fuck her hard enough.
That I’m not enough.
The fridge door swings shut, and she turns to me, her intention in the hand she slides down my chest. I lean down, and at this moment, there’s little grace or finesse as our mouths meet. No slow curtain rising as she strips me from my tie, our kiss as unruly as her fingers are uncooperative on the placket of my shirt. Unhooking her bra, I slide it from her arms, unable to resist the lure of her nipples. Savouring her low groan, I use my grip on her hair to open her more fully to my touch.
‘I thought we were late.’ Her voice is all bedroom and gravel as she slides my half-unbuttoned shirt over my shoulders.
