He sat down beside her, and she felt the mattress dip beneath his weight. He contemplated her one moment longer, without touching her. He said nothing, and nor did she. There were no words to say. This was not about words. This was about the fire in her blood, making her someone quite, quite different.
A mistress. The woman he wanted her to be.
The woman she now was for him.
And she would be that woman, willingly, wantonly, letting him, as he did now, reach a hand towards her face, letting his thumb graze sensuously along the lushness of her lip. His touch dissolved into her, and with a movement she could not stop she bit slowly, softly, into the hard pad of his grazing thumb, letting her tongue ease along it.
She saw the deep flare in his eyes, fathomless eyes, framed with long, impenetrable lashes. She bit softly again.
His thumb left her mouth, travelled slowly down the curve of her jaw, the line of her throat, pausing in the hollow at its base to feel the pulse with its slow, insistent beat. His hand moved on, palming over her bare flesh, fingers dipping into her cleavage, and then, with a considered, leisurely movement, he drew down the bodice of her dress to display her breasts to him.
Heat pooled between her legs. Her breath caught in her throat. She lay, breasts bared, while he drifted the tips of his fingers across them. He did not look at her, only at her breasts, and she felt them engorge and fill, their peaks flowering like exquisitely sensitive buds. The touch of his nails on them, so light, so devastating, dissolved her spine.
For a little while he continued to caress her breasts, almost in an exploratory way, seeing what his touch would do to them. She felt her fingers clench as sensation after sensation shot through her.
She could not think; she could only feel. She was only this—an exquisite net of sensation, playing through her body. Tiny shoots of fire laced from her nipples through the taut swell of her breasts, racing down, down the length of her abdomen, to feed the heat pooling between the vee of her legs.
Her lips parted and she gave a low, soft moan.
As if it were a signal, he moved with sudden swiftness, sliding one hand beneath her shoulder and turning her over with effortless strength, before she even realised what he was doing. The room swirled and settled, and then, with another, deeper shiver of excitement, she felt his hands smooth along the silk of her short skirt, riding up over her thighs. He smoothed the material upwards, ruching it towards the small of her back.
Exposing the bare mounds of her bottom.
She wore no panties. What would have been the point? They would only have had to be removed.
She felt him still. He had not expected that, for her to be so naked. She knew it deep inside her, where the heat was pooling, and the knowledge made her feel even more wanton. Her cheek was pressed against a pillow, her hands reaching up above her, fingers pressing into the edge, while the taut silk of her dress cut across the bared flesh of her bottom, displayed for his view.
Sensation surged through her. She felt arousal—full-on, incredibly erotic—flood her. Instinctively she stretched her spine, indenting her body into the mattress, her thighs falling very slightly apart.
‘Don’t move.’
The instruction was a low rasp, and she felt the mattress tilt again as he stood up. He was stripping his clothes off, she could tell, hearing the sound of rapidly discarded garments. Then there was the sound of a drawer in the bedside unit being pulled roughly open. There was a pause. She did not look. She knew what he was doing.
What he was preparing for.
She felt her heart rate increase, flushing through her veins, heating her yet more. Then, abruptly, the bed dipped again, but now the balance was different. Now she felt strong, muscled thighs either side of hers.
He was caging her, kneeling over her legs as she lay, displayed and semi-naked for him. She pressed her groin into the bedding again, feeling that incredible surge of erotic sensation, knowing what he was seeing. Her hands kneaded at the pillow.
Hunger filled her. Hunger and need. Displaying herself was not enough. She wanted more…much, much more. She stretched her spine again, minutely lifting her half-bared bottom to him. Inviting him.
He took the invitation. Hands curved hard over her, and pleasure flooded her. The tips of his fingers were beneath the silk hem of her dress, and his thumbs—his thumbs were dipping into the cleavage between the mounds of her bottom. Dipping and dragging, down, down, into the hidden valley between her thighs.
It was unbearable, incredible, so fantastically arousing that she lifted her head and shoulders, straining the curve of her spine.
A moan broke from her, and from him a soft, satisfied laugh.
For countless blissful moments he toyed with her, and then, in another sudden movement, his hands were at the zip of her dress. He unzipped it, hoisted her off the bed with a single sweep of one strong forearm around her waist, and peeled the dress off her completely, shucking it away down her legs and discarding it on the floor.
She was completely naked.
He flipped her over.
Her eyes went to his instantly, her hair tumbled around her face, lips parted. Her nipples were swollen aching peaks, her hands helpless and limp beside her head.
He caged his body over hers, his fingers sliding between hers, holding her, holding her exactly where he wanted her to be. Which, right now, was the only place in the entire universe where she wanted to be.
For a moment, a brief, slicing moment, disbelief consumed her. Then it was gone, gone completely, like a drop of cool water on a sizzling hotplate. Heat flared in her, excitement and arousal. There was only this—now, here. Lying aroused and pleasured, caged and waiting—waiting for what she wanted now, right now, right now…