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He took his time opening the buttons on my shirt one by one by one.
I moaned underneath him and arched my back, silently begging him for more.
He ignored me.
He pushed the shirt off slowly and then used that same deliberation to remove my bra.
My pants and underwear.
Then he stared at me, his gaze boring into me, making me feel even more exposed, vulnerable. So hot I thought I would combust on the spot.
Finally, mercifully, I thought, he touched me. But there was no mercy in his touch.
There was none of the relief I sought.
Instead, his light, gentle fingertips only reminded me of what I was missing.
I wanted just the opposite of that tenderness. Wanted his rough, unyielding fingers. Needed him to push me higher.
Needed him to make me forget.
I arched against him again, then wrapped my hand around his wrist, trying to hold his hand in place against my nipples.
He easily broke my hold and pulled, his featherlight fingertips on my hard nipples leaving me so frustrated I wanted to scream.
I had let my eyes drift shut, but I opened them and met his eyes.
Saw the message he was sending.
His gaze, his touch, told me he wouldn’t let me hide. Wouldn’t let me forget where I was. Who I wanted so much.
Wouldn’t let me forget what he had done.
I didn’t want that—I wanted just the opposite—but even more, a reality I couldn’t deny hit me harder.
I wanted him, wanted this, more than I wanted my innocence, my morals.
More than I wanted anything.
So, now I had a choice—to take what he offered, take what I wanted, or stay the woman I’d believed myself to be.
It was no choice at all.
I moved forward, my gaze never leaving his. Brushed my lips against his cheek, then against the corner of his mouth, the barely there caress mimicking the feeling of his fingers on my breasts.
He loomed over me, his large, solid form rigid, sinister, every taut muscle in his body screaming danger, and even more, leaving me so wet the insides of my thighs were slippery.
He finally, finally, touched me, moved his hands across my stomach, down my thighs, and then settled between them, his fingers scorching against my throbbing pussy.
But he didn’t plunge his fingers in, didn’t do anything to push me over the edge.
He cupped my mound, the feel of his palm against my sex thrilling. More thrilling was the look of possession in his eyes, the way he squeezed ever so slightly, staking his claim.
Then he pulled away, and I looked down at his hand, saw my essence against his strong arm, saw the hair that covered my mound matted with my juices.
Proof of my desire, not that there was any doubt about it.
Then he touched me again, moving slowly again, the look in his eyes telling me what I now understood.
