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And now I can have her; for a finite time she’s mine and the control that I depend on, the control that I insist on and have done for the last twenty years, is sliding away so swiftly I think I’m falling. Or maybe I already have, and this is my punishment, to have her once—or thrice—and have to walk away?
It’s why I don’t touch her naked skin, not yet. It’s a test—a test I have to pass.
I bow my head and seek out her mouth with mine, a single taste—and groan as my body aches for more, as her mouth opens and seeks more too. No. I lift my head just enough to stop her and stroke my fingers up her arms, her soft skin teasing my fingertips, her tiny tremors pleasing, oh, so pleasing.
‘I want you to touch yourself,’ I murmur.
She shivers, her hum a nonsensical response, and I step back, creating enough distance so that I can see all of her. Her skin glows pearlescent in the moonlight; her head is angled back, exposing the delicate arc of her neck, the line of collarbone. Her bare breasts rise and fall with her harried breaths, an eye-catching dance, and then there’s her dress. It’s held up by the tartan sash at her waist and the moonlight creates slashes of green against black that run to the floor, save for where the split parts over her thigh. She has her leg angled just so, a seductive pose. A vision that I want to imprint on my memory and recall over and over again.
Her thr
oat bobs as she wets her sweet cupid’s bow lips and I recall my instruction that she has yet to follow. ‘Not shy, are you, Cait?’
She looks it; she suddenly looks coy and all manner of lovely things I want to provoke.
‘Here?’
I nod.
She glances towards the entrance of the castle, soft strands of escaped hair fluttering over her flushed cheeks. The faint sound of music steadily flows on the breeze towards us, broken up by the odd cheer from the guests, the drunken revelry. She spies a light turning on in a room upstairs and runs her teeth over her lower lip. I know she does this—she’s done it enough times today alone—but it’s a habit. A thing she does when she’s excited, nervous or outright flirting. And being the target of it... I swallow against the surge of lust and address her sudden hesitation.
‘They can’t see us from this angle; it’s too dark...’ My voice is so tight I hardly recognise it. ‘But imagine if they could, what a sight you’d make.’
Her eyes come back to me wide, so full of want, of need. Fuck. What a sight she’s making, right now, for me...
But then she frowns. ‘Do you truly find me sexy, Jackson?’
I almost choke on my tongue; it feels too big for my mouth. ‘What?’
‘I’ve often wondered, often hoped,’ she says softly, ‘but never...you’ve never once hinted...’
‘Yes.’ It’s abrupt, definite. Jesus, how could she doubt it? Standing before me, brazen in the semi-clothed state I’ve left her, her arms raised above her head, vulnerable and exposed, because I asked it of her.
‘Yes, I find you sexy, Caitlin.’ I let my gaze linger on her exposed skin, feeding the desire that’s burning a path all the way to my groin, testing my control, and the truth is out: ‘I find you sexier than is safe.’
‘Safe?’ Her eyes sparkle, amused, curious now. ‘There’s that word again—though I’m not sure whether you mean safe for you, or for me...’
I can’t answer her, and thank fuck I don’t need to because she’s already moving, her hands trailing down the tree trunk, over her shoulders and down the valley between her breasts. She shudders, her lower lip catching in her teeth, baring that alluring gap as she stares at me all heavy-lidded now.
‘You are...exquisite.’ It’s the only word I can think of to describe how she looks right now, and still it’s not enough. The moonlight makes her look ethereal, magical, and I could almost believe this isn’t real. That it’s a dream, and we can be safe in a dream. I’m still denying myself a touch, a caress, something which would make it feel more real, and I fist my hands at my sides. Not yet.
I follow the path of her fingers as she trails them around each flushed peak, not quite brushing against their pleading hearts.
‘Tweak them,’ I grind out, ‘like I did.’
She does it. Fuck, she does it and it’s everything. Her eyes are languid, her whimpers carnal and wanton as she brazenly pinches and rolls. I drink her in, all that is familiar and new. Her delicate fingers doing what I’ve only ever imagined before. The bands of twisted gold that she wears on several fingers glint in the white light, and oh, how I want to run my mouth over them, tongue them, toy with them.
‘Feel good?’
She parts her lips, her, ‘Yes,’ so quiet, so breathy.
I reach out and start to gather up the skirt of her dress, more blood rushing south as I imagine what colour her underwear will be. It’s invisible through her dress; she could be as naked as me beneath.
‘Don’t stop,’ I say as she lowers her hands to help. ‘I’ve got this.’
‘Fuck, Jackson.’ I love how she says my name, her voice thick with lust, her hands returning to her breasts, more frantic, almost ruthless in their exploration now. I’m driving her crazy but she’s driving me crazier, not that she can know it. My control serves many a purpose and that’s one. I need the upper hand.
But Christ, I swear she’s my Achilles’ heel.
