Lorcan steps closer, ignoring the piles of silk. He walks toward Maeve, scoops her up in one arm, and gives her a playful nudge. "If you don't get yourself to bed, I’m going to tell Maria to hide your favorite dinosaur."
Maeve shrieks, a bright, bubbly sound. "No! You wouldn't!"
"Try me," he says, with a grin that actually reaches his eyes. He spins her around, her small feet kicking, and she’s laughing so hard she’s almost breathless. "Come on, little monster. Up to bed. Now."
"But I want to see the dress!"
"You'll see it tomorrow. Go." He gives her a kiss on the cheek, sets her down, and gives her a gentle swat on the behind, ushering her toward the door.
She runs out, giggling, and I hear her footsteps fading down the hallway.
Lorcan turns back to me. The playfulness vanishes as quickly as it appeared, replaced by that heavy, magnetic stillness. He walks toward me, his gaze dropping to the floor where I’m standing in my lace bra and panties. He doesn't look surprised. He looks like he’s been expecting this.
"The gold," he says, reaching out to pick up the gown. He holds it up, the silk shimmering under the vanity lights. "It’s too soft."
"And the black?"
"Too quiet. You aren't quiet, Atara." He tosses the black dress onto the bed and reaches for the red one. He holds it up, the color rich and blood-dark. "This one. Wear this."
"Red? Are you trying to make me a target, Lorcan? I’m already carrying your ledger. I don't need a neon sign on my back."
He doesn't put the dress down. He walks over, his presence crowding me into the vanity. "Everyone is going to be watching you tonight. They’re going to know who you’re with. I want them to know exactly what they’re looking at."
He drops the dress onto the bed and steps closer, his hand coming up to touch the skin of my shoulder. His fingers are cool, a sharp contrast to the heat radiating off his chest. "Stop fighting me. It’s a gala, not a board meeting. You’re coming as my partner, not an auditor."
"My partner doesn't usually dress me like a doll," I counter, though my breath is already catching.
"I’m not dressing you," he says, his thumb tracing my jawline. "I’m choosing my favorite."
He pulls me in, his hands large, cool, and firm on my waist. I should be annoyed. I should be screaming at him about autonomy. But his eyes are locked on mine, and there’s something else there—a heavy, weighted anticipation.
He turns me around. He holds the red dress up, and I slip into it. The silk is cool against my skin, sliding down my body like a second layer.
"Turn," he says.
I turn. He reaches for the zipper at my spine. His fingers are careful, moving slowly. The tension in the room is suffocating. As the zipper slides up, his knuckles brush against the skin of my back, sending a jolt of electricity straight to my center.
When he gets to the top, he doesn't pull away. He leans down, pressing his face into the crook of my neck. He inhales deeply, his breath hot against my pulse.
"You smell like trouble," he murmurs.
"I’m only trouble to you. I normally am very calm and gentle, but you bring out the trouble in me." I whisper, turning back around to face him.
He looks at me, his eyes dark, heavy, and full of a raw, unvarnished hunger. He doesn't say anything else. He just reaches out, his hands finding the waist of the dress, and pulls me against him.
He kisses me like he’s trying to memorize the taste of me before the night begins.
I wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him into me, wanting to erase every inch of space. He lifts me, setting me back onto the dresser behind me. I gasp as the edge digs into my thighs, but he doesn't let me fall. He steps between my legs, his hands gripping my hips, his thumbs pressing into the soft flesh.
"We have to go soon," I breathe, my fingers tangling in his hair.
"We have time," he says. His hands are firm as he finds the hem of the red silk gown. He bunches the fabric up, exposing my legs to the cool air, and then his thumbs catch on the waistband of my lace underwear, he just slides them down my legs and leaves them in a heap on the carpet.
My bare skin feels sensitive, the air prickling against my inner thighs. He doesn't rush, though. He pushes me back until the sharp edge of the dresser digs into my thighs, forcing me to stabilize myself by gripping the edge of the wood.
He moves between my legs, his knees pressing into the floor. I can feel the rough heat of his jaw against the soft skin of my inner thigh.
His tongue is hot. It’s a shock against the cool, wet center of me. He doesn't start with a tease; he starts with pressure. He sucks, his mouth closing over me, and the sound of his tongue against my skin is wet and steady. Every time I try to pull back, he catches my hips with his palms, holding me exactly where he wants me. His stubble drags over the sensitive folds, a rough, scraping sensation that keeps me on edge.
