“So beautiful,” he whispers, capturing the tip of my nipple between his fingers. His gaze measures the weight of my reaction as he pulls. I whimper, and suddenly his mouth covers the tight bud. A swirl of tongue, a taut suck as his hand slides up my back, hooking under the remaining strap. My stomach roils with anticipation as much as dread as it slides from my shoulders, the silk of my dress snagging on my hips. Fear that he’ll see me naked, yes, but also fear that I want this too much. That tonight won’t be enough. But the noise in my head is drowned out by the man in front of me, his gaze liquifying my bones, his arms wrapping me like ivy and slipping the dress from my hips until I’m standing in the silvery pool of it.
“I thought I’d found Goldilocks in my bathtub that night, but you look more like the queen of the fairies stepping from a pool of moonlight.”
“You don’t have to flatter me. I’m already naked.” Naked but for a scrap of lace and my heels.
“You really don’t see yourself at all.”
The button of his jacket slides across my bare back as he turns me, pressing back against his chest so hard that I can feel every muscle flex. We begin to move backwards but not towards the bed. Instead, we seem to be now standing in a closet. A huge and stylish closet with paintwork the colour of clotted cream, crystal chandeliers, and mirrored cabinetry that reflects endless images of a woman enveloped by a man.
“You don’t have something to tell me, do you?” Anticipation fizzes inside me, my pussy contracting, my abs drawing tight. Despite the tangle of sensations, a lightness colours my question. “Because I’ve heard of coming out of the closet but not going back in.”
His expression reflects mild amusement, yet his answer seems to be in the way he shrugs out of his jacket and the way he loosens his tie, all the while watching me, his dark eyes meltingly sexy. Without speaking a word, he begins to free my hair from its pins. Waves I don’t ordinarily possess cascade across my shoulders, the sight of it seeming to do something to him. My eyes roll closed as he slides my hair over my shoulder, cool air and warm breath caressing my skin.
“Open your eyes.” His lips are tender at my neck, the rioting fire rushing through my insides quite the opposite. “Let me show you how exquisite you are.”
The woman in the mirror is languid-eyed, her mouth softly open and almost expectant. She looks like the kind of woman who knows what she needs. A woman who knows she belongs entirely to him. And he’s so large behind me, his shoulders strong and square as his body frames mine in the mirror, making me feel dainty. Pale skin against sombre black as his arm curls around me, two long fingers coming to rest against my bottom lip.
“If you were mine, I’d kiss you all of the time.” His grip on my hair ignites a million fires across my skin. “You would never doubt yourself for a moment because you wouldn’t have time. You’d be too busy kissing me.”
Wet fingers drift across my collarbone and down between my breasts as he watches my every tremble, my every held breath. The woman in the mirror is her own audience. Her cheeks flushed, and eyes dark, her golden hair slips from her shoulders as she tilts her chin with the imperiousness of a queen.
“If you were mine, you wouldn’t long to be held between two men.” His large hand cups my breasts as he twists my mouth to his. “Because I’d make sure the only man you’d ever want is me.”
And I ache, I tremble, and I burn as he ghosts his lips over mine. And how I want. Want what isn’t good for me. Want what might change everything.
And then his kisses me. Oh, God, does he kiss me.
“You’re shaking.” His velvety words are just a breath against my lips.
“It’s been a while,” I whisper, even as I tilt my head, giving him access to more of my skin.
“You’re not nervous. You’re shaking because you want this, because you want to be mine.”
I could disagree. But then I’d be lying.
Pulling me backwards, he lowers me to a velvet armchair with cabriole legs and padded arms. Arms which he suddenly grabs, setting it—and me—in the middle of the room. In a flash, he’s in front of me, dropping to one knee. His fingers hook the string of my underwear, and I tilt my pelvis, the scrap of fabric tickling my legs.
“Very pretty,” he murmurs, balling them into his pocket.
“Also very expensive.” I reach out and stroke the silken strip of his bow tie, thinking how he looks like a gift half unwrapped. “So I’d like them back.”