“It’s a zipper, Lorenzo. I’m not asking you to defuse a bomb.”
More silence. Then footsteps. Close. His heat against my back. He finds the tab. The metal is small, and his scarred knuckles aren’t built for this delicate work. He fumbles once. The pad of his thumb brushes the bare skin above the fabric.
He doesn’t pull it down.
“You’re stalling.”
“I’m not.”
He is. His knuckle drags down my spine as the zipper follows. Slow. Pieces of silk and cool air hit my skin inch by inch. Shoulder blades. The band of my strapless bra. The small of my back.
The dress slips off my shoulders. Pools at my feet.
I’m standing in front of him in a strapless bra and underwear. The air conditioning raises every hair on my body. Behind me, Lorenzo has stopped breathing.
His grip closes on my nape. Not gentle. The grip of a man who’s stopped fighting. He walks me forward. My palms hit the vanity. Cool marble under my fingers, the mirror catching both of us. Me flushed and stripped down. Him behind me, face taut, still dressed.
“Watch.” One word. A command. His eyes meet mine in the glass.
He traces down my ribs. Over the curve of my waist. Along the waistband of my underwear, tugging it aside but not off.
“Tell me to stop.” Low. Steady. Giving me an out.
“Don’t you dare.”
His jaw unlocks for half a second. The mirror catches it. His pupils swallowing what’s left of the brown. His touch slides beneath the fabric. Between my legs.
Heat floods between my thighs. A full-body flush that starts at my scalp and rolls down.
“Oh.” Not a word. Just a sound I didn’t mean to make.
“Open your eyes.”
When did I close them? The mirror shows me someone I don’t recognize. Cheeks flushed. Rough knuckles between my thighs, his face buried in my hair, his weight pressing me into the marble.
He doesn’t speak at first. Just works me with the same precision he uses for every task in his life. Focused. Patient. Reading every twitch and shiver like he’s already mapped what makes me fall apart.
My hip shifts against the marble and I hiss. Cold. Too cold against flushed skin. He adjusts. Pulls me back against him, one degree, so my weight leans into his chest instead of the stone.
“That’s it.” Low. Against my hair. “Just like that.”
I grip the vanity edge until my knuckles go white. My reflection grips it too. Both of us unable to look away.
“You’re soaking my fingers.”
My knees buckle. He holds me up by the neck. His grip keeps me pinned while his thumb drags through the slick heat of me, circling where I need him most, then pulling away.
“Not yet.” Barely a murmur. “I want you wrecked first.”
“Watch.” Rougher now. “I want you to see what I see.”
I try. My eyes keep closing. Keep rolling back. His fingers curl inside me and my spine arches and a moan drags out of me, low and raw and loud enough to fill the room.
“Quiet.”
I press my lips together. Too late. The whimper is already hanging between us.
Faster. His skin burns against mine where the marble chills everything else. He’s hard against my lower back and every shift of his hips grinds the proof into my skin. But his rhythm doesn’t falter. His focus stays on me. On the pace that’s unraveling me thread by thread. I bite my own lip and taste copper.
