“This is insane,” she breathes.
Probably, but I lean closer anyway, pressing a slow kiss just inside her knee.
Her reaction is immediate. A broken inhale she tries to bury behind a sip of water she hasn’t actually taken.
Above me, her hand grips the edge of the table. I watch her knuckles pale through the linen.
She’s holding herself together by force.
That knowledge settles something darker in me.
I pause there intentionally, letting the anticipation stretch until it becomes unbearable.
“You’re out of your mind,” she whispers.
There’s no heat in it. Only breathlessness.
I let my hand rest lightly against her thigh, still and steady. Only the faintest scrap of lace and restraint is between us.
My fingers brush the edge of her panties.
She jumps ever so slightly in her chair but settles quickly.
I take her shock and exploit it by nudging the fabric aside gently and placing a wet kiss to her center.
“Holy shit,” she whispers.
I smile against her skin, then slide her panties down inch by torturous inch.
She lifts her hips just enough for me to work them over her thighs, down her legs, and off her ankles.
I fold them once in my hand and tuck them into my jacket pocket as a trophy.
Above me, I imagine she’s trying to act unaffected with her spine straight, shoulders lifted, and fork poised in midair like she’s still tasting the food and not unraveling by the second.
But her trembling legs tell a different story. The way her thigh brushes against my shoulder when she shifts.
I ease closer beneath the tablecloth, the dim flicker of candlelight above casting shadows I can almost feel. My fingers find her hot center and gently part her.
One finger disappears between her folds. Her muscles contract, gripping my finger hard. Slowly, I pull back and insert two, keeping a steady motion of in and out while spreading my fingers apart, loosening her for later.
I don’t rush.
I want her steeped in the moment, suspended in it. I want her trembling in ways no one else in this building will ever see.
I kiss the inside of her thigh and add my thumb to her tight bundle of nerves.
She gasps, and her hands find my head under the table, attempting to hold me still. It doesn’t work. I won’t allow her to stop trembling under my hands.
“Rowan,” she whispers. It’s a plea in one syllable.
I don’t answer.
Instead, I move my thumb, and my mouth finds the soft spot just above where she’s aching. I devour her. The sweet nectar that is her flavor floods my mouth like the most delicious dessert. I stay there, laving her with my tongue over and overuntil she’s shaking, her legs tightening instinctively around my shoulders.
She’s wet and desperate, trying so hard not to fall apart in a room where falling apart is absolutely not allowed.
Which is exactly why she will.
