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I stare at my hands, starkly pale in contrast to the perfect black of his suit’s jacket. My fingers feel frozen. I can’t pull them away or move them up to his neck. Either choice feels like it will have permanent and devastating consequences. Disobeying him, extricating myself from him, and putting myself at the mercy of the other men who want me.
Or submitting to him. Admitting that I need him now.
I wonder if I do. Need him. If the only way to avoid being torn apart by prowling coyotes is to put myself at the mercy of the wolf instead.
I can feel Elio’s hard stare on my face as I watch my own hands. They move like they belong to someone else. Sliding slowly, then more quickly, up to the base of his neck. He’s so tall, even with my shoes, that I can’t wrap my arms around his neck, so I just let my hands rest there.
Elio breathes out quietly, draws his thumb up and down the shuddering place where my spine meets my tailbone, and murmurs, “Good girl.”
I don’t know if it’s his hands on me, or the way my nipples are pressed achingly to his front, or the dark rasp of his voice around those words, but my core pulses, and heat floods my skin.
I wonder if Elio’s going to try to lead me in some kind of elaborate waltz, but he doesn’t. He guides me back and forth in a circling, hypnotic sort of sway.
“But maybe not such a good girl,” he suddenly says, his fingers digging even lower beneath my dress. One of his fingers brushes my ass, teasing the cleft there. “Why aren’t you wearing panties?”
His question grows gruff at the end. Quiet, but rough and demanding. Humiliation churns alongside the arousal. And so does anger.
“That wasn’t my choice,” I whisper fiercely. “It’s this dress! And Valentina was rushing me and just told me to take them off and-”
“And you did it,” he growls, cutting me off. “Don’t blame the dress or Valentina. Take responsibility, Songbird. Acknowledge the fact that a part of you wanted to come here with me without panties. You wanted to flaunt your bare little ass and pussy.”
A shift of Elio’s swaying stance drives the unmistakeable bulge of his cock against my belly. My mouth goes dry.
“That’s not true,” I whisper. But now I’m second-guessing myself. Why didn’t I fight Valentina harder on this? Why didn’t I hold my ground? Am I that much of a push-over?
Or did some subconscious part of me, a part of me I didn’t even know is there, want this? Want this humiliation?
“If it’s not true then tell me why you’re so fucking turned on right now.”
I gasp, feeling like he’s blinded me. Like I’ve been hiding in the dark and he just threw on the floodlights. Exposing me completely, leaving me stunned and breathless and blinking. Another swaying shift nudges the top of his thigh between my legs, and a riot of aching pleasure so intense it almost feels like pain shoots up my spine.
“Does this make you feel more in control?” Elio murmurs against my hair as my clit throbs needily. “Knowing that you’re making me fucking insane right now?” His hands guide my hips in a slow grind against his thigh. “You’re playing a dangerous game. I don’t like being taunted.”
Only someone with a death wish would taunt this man.
“I didn’t,” I pant, wriggling in his grip, and I don’t know if I’m trying to get closer or get away. “I, I…”
I’m going to come.
Dear fucking God, I can feel it. A fevered pulse, a quickening between my legs. In Elio’s arms, against his leg, surrounded by other people, in public.
What is happening to me?
Panic claws at me, and for some stupid fucking reason I feel that panic most between my legs. It sharpens every sensation. Makes the roll of my swollen clit on Elio into a bright, ecstatic point of pressure that I couldn’t pull away from if I tried now. He isn’t even moving my hips for me anymore, just the slow motion of our dancing is enough to bring me closer and closer to that edge.
“Fuck, Deirdre,” Elio groans quietly, voice roughened. “I should spank your sweet little ass for this.”
It’s a shocking image. Me, bent over a table. Or his lap. That black glove coming down over and over on my bare skin, stinging, marking, claiming. It’s degrading. And – God help me, what is wrong with me – alluring. Shit. His fingertips press there now, a stark and silent warning.
“Or maybe this is punishment enough,” he says. “Coming in public the way you’re about to.”
“Stop,” I whisper, screwing my eyes shut. But I don’t even know who or what I’m saying it to. To Elio. To myself. To the treacherous orgasm that’s building, rising, cresting inside me. There’s no stopping it now, no matter how much or whom I beg. No matter who is watching. That burgeoning sweep of sensation is taking over, surging inward and crystalizing like a knife, drawing blood before it shatters. I cling to Elio, shuddering and coming hard, knowing that without his shoulders under my hands and his fingers on my ass that I’d collapse. And maybe that’s what he wants. To show me that I can’t even fucking stand without him now.
But now his hands are dragging upwards to my waist, and he’s creating space between us like he’s about to let go.
Did he hear me say “Stop” and actually listen?
Or does he just want to see me fall?
