He steps back just far enough to look at me—bare and breathless, nipples pebbled from arousal and cool air. Instinctively I cover myself.
“Don’t.” His voice is low, firm. “Let me see all of you.”
And when I lower my hands, I see his composure shatter.
He lowers himself to his knees like it’s a ritual, like he’s done this a thousand times in his mind and is finally ready to make the fantasy real.
His hands smooth down my bare thighs—not in a rush, not claiming yet—just a slow, reverent glide that sets my blood to boiling. He watches me the entire time, his gaze heavy with want and intent.
I feel it. The shift. The balance of power tilting as I stand above him, trembling, unable to think, while he kneels for me.
He’s Xavier Blackwell. Predator. Billionaire. Ruthless sonofabitch.
And right now, he’s on the floor in my living room, eyes level with my thighs, lips parted like he’s preparing for communion.
“Spread your legs for me.” It’s not a request; it’s a command.
The sound I make isn’t one I’ve made before. It’s part gasp, part plea, but I will obey him. Because how can I not?
I shift, and my muscles quiver. The cotton of my shorts tightens across my center. I’m painfully aware of every inch of skin, every drop of heat.
He murmurs something low and indecipherable. I’m unsure if it’s a curse or a prayer.
Then he leans in.
His mouth glances over the inside of my thigh, just above the knee. One kiss. Then another, higher. My breath stutters. His lips are soft, but the stubble on his jaw scrapes my skin in the best way, a reminder that he’s real, that this is happening.
And God, I want it. I want all of him—his mouth, his tongue, his teeth. I want him to leave marks.
“Xavier…” It’s all I can say—his name, like a spell I don’t fully understand.
“I know, sweetheart.” His voice is like glass dragged over steel. “But you need to let me go slow. You deserve slow.”
Tears prick my eyes, because no one has ever said that to me. Not once. Not even close. The men I’ve been with have wanted to get on with the show. I’ve rarely reached orgasm unless I’m alone with a vibrator. And if a man even noticed that I didn’t come, he didn’t care.
His fingers find the hem of my shorts and tug gently. Not demanding. Asking.
“May I?”
I nod, but it’s not enough for him.
“I want to hear the words.”
“Yes.” I can’t find enough of my voice to do more than whisper. “Please.”
He exhales like he’s been holding that breath since the day we were alone in his penthouse.
Somehow I manage to toe off my shoes as he releases the button at my waistband. The he lowers my zipper to peel the shorts down my legs, kissing the skin he exposes inch by torturous inch.
My panties are already damp—embarrassingly so—and the cool air makes me shiver.
“Pretty little thing,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “So wet for me already. You’re perfect, Seraphina.”
He hooks his fingers in the sides of my underwear and pauses. His eyes lift to mine, checking, always checking.
“Last chance,” he says. “If I do this, there’s no going back. I’m going to taste you until you can’t remember your own name.”
Behind me, I curl my fingers tight. My knees are shaking, my throat tight, but my voice comes out steady. “I don’t want to go back.”
