His eyes traveled over my body. Slow. Intent. The way a man looks at something he's been waiting for.
"You're beautiful," he said. "You know that?"
"I've been told."
"I'm sure you have." He reached out and traced the curve of my breast—just a brush of his fingertips, light as a whisper. "My father's hands have been here. My brother's mouth." His fingers drifted lower, skating across my stomach, my hip, the place where my thigh met my body. "But mine haven't. Not yet."
"Not yet."
He smiled. "Not yet."
He backed me toward the bed. I went willingly, my body humming with anticipation, my heart pounding in my chest. When the backs of my knees hit the mattress, I sat. He pushed me down, gently, and I lay back against the pillows, watching him.
He pulled his belt from his trousers. The leather was dark, supple, well-worn. He looped it around his hand, and my breath caught.
"I'm going to tie you to the bed," he said. "Is that all right?"
My mouth was dry. "Yes."
"Good girl."
He took my wrists and raised them above my head, pressing them together. The belt wrapped around them—not tight enough to hurt, not loose enough to escape. He threaded the end through the buckle and pulled, and I felt the leather bite into my skin.
He tied the other end to the headboard. The knot was firm—he'd done this before.
"There," he said. "Now you can't touch me. You can't stop me. You can only lie there and feel."
I tested the restraints. The belt held. My wrists were bound, my arms stretched above my head, my body open and exposed beneath him.
He stood at the foot of the bed and looked at me. Just looked. The candlelight flickered across his face, illuminating the hunger in his eyes, the tension in his jaw.
"You're going to beg for it," he said. "Before I let you come, you're going to beg."
"And if I don't?"
"Then you won't come."
He crawled onto the bed. The mattress dipped beneath his weight, and I felt the heat of him through the sheets, through theair between us. He settled between my legs, his body hovering over mine, his face inches from my face.
He kissed me.
It was not like Gabriel's kiss—soft and questioning. It was not like Aleksander's kiss—tender and worshipful. It was a claiming. A branding. His mouth was hard and demanding, his tongue sliding against mine, his teeth grazing my lower lip.
I moaned into his mouth. He swallowed the sound.
His hands moved down my body—rough, sure, leaving trails of fire in their wake. He cupped my breasts, squeezed, thumbed my nipples until they were hard and aching. He kissed my throat, my collarbone, the hollow between my breasts. He bit down on the soft curve of my stomach, hard enough to leave marks, and I gasped.
"You taste like nothing else," he said against my skin. "I've imagined this. Every night. Every day. The way you'd sound. The way you'd move." His mouth moved lower. "The way you'd say my name."
He spread my legs with his knees. I was wet—embarrassingly wet, soaking the sheets beneath me—and he saw it. He saw everything.
"Look at you," he said. "So ready for me. So needy." He ran a finger through my slickness, and I cried out. "Is this what you wanted? When you said tonight? Is this what you've been thinking about?"
"Yes."
"Say my name."
"Nathan."
