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Eyes aren’t enough, though. Her fingers follow, chasing the dark swirls of writing, as though she can interpret their mysteries with her touch. ‘So many tat
toos,’ she murmurs after a moment and then, with her enormous eyes holding mine, and a look of sweet uncertainty on her face—despite all that we’ve shared—she brings her mouth to my collarbone and kisses one of the markings there, dragging her lips along it until I can barely handle the innocence of her investigation.
‘Turn around.’ The words are dark and hoarse, jarring. She pulls away, a look of confusion on her features. As though she’s done something wrong. I shake my head, then smile; it’s tight on my face. My needs are impatient to find satiation. I am impatient. ‘This dress...’ I say, and then my smile feels more natural, as I remember the corridor at the Tate, the frustration I’d felt towards such a beautiful piece of fabric.
She lifts a single brow, but does as I say, turning away from me. The back is cut out, so it’s all her beautiful flesh, right to the curve of her arse. I find the zip there and pull it downwards. Gently. Slowly, testing myself and the limits of my patience.
The zip parts and when the cool night air connects with her flesh I feel her breathe in. My hands curve around the cheeks of her buttocks, my fingers splayed wide, and my body tense, expectant. Waiting.
I lift my fingers to her sides, then higher still, inside the dress and around the front, curving them over her breasts.
She moans softly at the contact. Her nipples are hard and tight against my palms. I bring my mouth to her neck, kissing the flesh I find there, nipping it softly with my teeth. She quivers, and I smile.
‘I liked your accent,’ she says, the words drugged and thickened by desire. It takes me a moment to realise she’s responding to our earlier line of conversation.
‘Got a thing for Irish men?’
‘Not that I know of.’
There it is again—jealousy, and then the sharp relief from it. She’s not playing with me. She has no idea that I feel this possessive desire for her.
‘I liked hearing you talk,’ she says, turning around, dislodging my hands so she can face me. She lifts her own hands to my flesh, her fingers hooking over my shoulders. ‘I like your voice, even when I don’t agree with most of what you say.’
She smiles; I smile back.
Time seems to stand still. There is just the thundering beating of passion, surrounding us, drawing us in.
She drops her hands lower on my chest, then around my back; she pushes to the tips of her toes and her lips find the hollow at my throat, and then she groans, and I understand. Her desperation, her need.
I understand because the same desires are slicing through me.
‘Not like this.’ The feelings are so good, but I need more. We’ve already come together in a corridor, and now I’m about ready to take her here, in my lounge. But I don’t want to rush this. I want to luxuriate in the certainty that she’s mine. I step away from her and pace through the apartment, turning into my palatial bedroom, hoping she’ll be right behind me.
She is and, better, she’s discarded her dress along the way. I flick the lights on. They’re bright overhead and I can see every detail of her body. I stare at her long and hard, my cock like stone in my pants. She wears only a lacy little thong.
‘Like this?’ she asks, and her asking me for permission is fucking hot. I position myself in front of the full-length mirrors and nod.
‘Yeah.’ She comes back to my body and her touch is curious as she brings her mouth to my chest and nips at me with her teeth. I stare at her in the mirror.
I can see her naked back and butt, and the wildness of her hair—hair that I have untamed with my own hands. She moves lower down my body, kneeling before me as she undoes my belt and pulls it from my pants. She moves to drop it to the ground but I reach down and retrieve it, tossing it on the bed.
‘We might need that,’ I say, and she lifts one eyebrow but says nothing.
Her fingers are shaking again as she unclips my pants, making her seem younger than she is, and less experienced. Hell, actually, I have no idea how experienced she is. Not a virgin. But beyond that?
It doesn’t matter.
She’s here because she wants to be here. She chose this. I’m not doing anything wrong.
That’s bullshit. This is wrong on so many levels. If Dean Walters knew I was about to spend the night seducing this shining star of the London Law School, Olivia could be expelled and I’d...well...it doesn’t matter what happens to me. But I wouldn’t find it easy to forgive myself for ruining her professional prospects.
Fuck it.
She wants this and I do, too. She knows the risks and she’s willing to stare them down.
That’s her choice. Still, I’m not completely blind to what she stands to lose. ‘Olivia?’
Her eyes lift to mine and my gut twists.
