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I don't care who's watching. I don't care what they think.
I lift up on my toes, placing my lips at his ear. "Promises, promises," I breathe before nipping his skin like he does to mine.
He growls, reaching for me. I drop back down to my flat feet, slipping from his grasp. The bright smile pasted on my face feels triumphant as I face the cameras again, allowing them to take their photographs.
Zion gives me a moment in the spotlight before he presses up against my back, his erection digging into my hip. "Let's go, angel baby," he rumbles. "Before I turn you right back around and take you home."
That doesn't sound like a terrible plan to me. In fact, it sounds like heaven. But I surge forward anyway, pulling him deeper into the ballroom.
We're seated with a bunch of social media stars I don't know. They all rave over my dress and my makeup. One of them, Lexie, spends half the night looking at Zion in a way that makes me want to claw her eyes out like a jealous brat.
He doesn't notice her, though. Aside from periodic sweeps of the room, his eyes never leave me. They're locked on me, slowly driving me crazy. So are his hands. He keeps one on the small of my back. The other he slips onto my thigh.
It slips higher during dinner. And then higher again. By the time dessert lands in front of me, his pinky is brushing the seam of my panties. No one else notices.
They don't notice when he flicks the fabric aside to touch my bare pussy, either.
He toys with me, giving me just enough friction to make sure I feel him, but not nearly enough to make me come. I consider stabbing him with my fork but decide that would be too obvious.
By the time the lights dim and the first speech starts, I'm a sweating mess, ready to crack apart at the seams.
"You're going to come for me right here, and you aren't going to make a sound when you do it, Makenzie," he breathes in my ear.
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from sobbing my agreement. I'll do whatever he wants if it means I get to come.
Lorna launches into her speech, thanking everyone for coming. At least that's what I assume she says. I don't hear a word. All I hear is my own choppy breathing as Zion's thumb settles on my clit.
He works it in agonizingly slow circles.
I bite the inside of my cheek, trying like hell to stay still. Trying not to beg for more. Trying, desperately, not to get us caught.
"When I was telling you how perfect you look in that dress earlier, I forgot to mention something important," Zion says almost conversationally, his mouth against my ear and his free hand running up and down my back. His thumb grinds against my clit again. Slow, slow. So slow.
"W-what?" I whisper…at least I mean to whisper. It comes out loud enough for Lexie to glance across the table at me.
Zion falls still, his eyes on Lorna as if he's absorbed in her speech and not what he's doing to me.
Lexie eyes me oddly before turning back to the stage.
Zion doesn't move for a full minute, keeping his thumb pressed firmly to my clit. And then he pinches it. "I forgot to tell you that you snatched my fucking heart out my chest," he whispers. "You own me, angel baby."
Oh, God. Oh, God.
I bite my tongue, fighting back a cry as the orgasm washes over me, washesthroughme. It turns me inside out, leaving me a ruined, drooping mess right there at the table in front of three hundred witnesses.
Zion doesn't let them see me, though. He pulls me up against his chest, using his body to shield me. He protects me in this moment as carefully as he's protected me in every other that we've spent together.
And I know right then and there, that there is no coming back from this. Not for him. And not for me.
"Take me home," I whisper, pleading with him to get me out of there. "Please, Zion. Take me home."
I'm on him as soon as we're over the threshold, pushing him back against the door. He's been the one to lead so far, always taking the reins. Always deciding how things between us go. I think he craves that control as much as part of me craves giving it up.
But this time, I snatch it out of his hands, desperate to feel him. All of him. Everywhere.
Buttons fly from his shirt, landing against the tile floor as I rip through them. He doesn't stop me. He lets me do what I want, watching me from hooded, curious eyes.
I strip him from his jacket and tie and then pull the tattered remains of his shirt from his body. My lips land against the mass of scar tissue on his side.
