“Nowhere to go,” I continue softly, my gaze locked onto hers, unrelenting, “no distractions, no one watching… or maybe someone is, but I really couldn’t give a shit. Let them watch as I take what’s mine.”
I let the words linger, let them settle into her skin, into the way she breathes, into the tension coiling tighter between us.My gaze drops to her mouth again, to the way her breath still comes a little too fast, before I lift my hand and trace the line of her jaw with the backs of my fingers, letting the touch linger just long enough to make her shiver.
“Turn around for me, Dove,” I murmur, my voice low.
There’s no hesitation.
She inhales softly, then does exactly as I ask, turning within the circle of my arms until her back is to me, her body still close enough that I can feel the warmth of her through the thin barrier of fabric, close enough that I can see the delicate rise and fall of her breathing along the line of her spine.
For a moment, I don’t move.
I just stand there, transfixed.
At the way the black lace clings to her, at the elegant sweep of her back, at the small, almost imperceptible tension in her shoulders that tells me she feels everything—the air, the height, me.
I love foreplay… I love making my companion come completely undone…hearing them whisper their secrets, watching them fall apart, like they’re greeting God or losing themselves entirely… but fuck…
I just want to fuck her.
To press my solid cock at her entrance and sheathe myself inside her. Lift her clean off her feet and feel the friction we make.
Fuck.
Gentlemen, start your motherfucking engines.
I swear to God, the Mario Kart race start sound starts beeping in my brain.
Slowly, deliberately, I lift my hands to her hair, gathering the wild fall of red curls and sweeping them over her shoulder, exposing the long line of her neck, the soft, vulnerable curve where her pulse flickers beneath her skin.
“Beautiful…” The word is quieter now, rougher, meant more for myself than for her.
My knuckles brush lightly down her spine as I find the zipper, the contact featherlight at first, testing, teasing, before I let my fingers settle properly, anchoring there for a beat that stretches just long enough to make her aware of exactly what I’m about to do.
Then, slowly, I begin to pull it down. My hands shake a little, and I reign them in.
I want to tear it to fucking pieces. Just grab the top hem and yank it apart, like a pro wrestler.
But, no, I execute the utmost restraint and care, going half mad.
The sound is soft, almost lost beneath the distant hum of the city below, but between us it feels deafening, each inch of movement unhurried, as the dress loosens beneath my hand, the tension in the fabric giving way piece by piece.
I don’t rush it.
I drag it out.
Because this, this moment right here, isn’t just about getting her out of the dress.
It’s about making her feel it.
Every second.
Every breath.
Every inch of my control tightening and slipping all at once.Gonna give myself blue balls if this keeps on much longer…
The zipper reaches its end.
I don’t move straight away.
