Roman
I’ve imagined women undressing for me before. Who hasn’t? I’ve taken plenty to my bed, watched plenty peel off clothing and lingerie, baring themselves like gifts I didn’t want but accepted anyway.
But nothing, nothing , compares to this.
Her fingers fumbled, her breath quickened as she struggled against the stiff bodice. She’s trembling, fighting the weight of what she feels, fighting herself, but she doesn’t stop. And all the while, I stand silent, watching, letting the anticipation coil tighter inside me.
The gown slid down her body in a puffy cloud of fabric. Pooled around her ankles in a useless heap of white.
And there she is.
Not a bride. Not a pawn for her father’s alliances. Not some prize dressed up in virginal lace.
Plain white cotton.
My chest tightens, the air in the room turning sharp. The sight of her in nothing but those modest panties makes my cock ache, my blood burn. She wasn’t prepared to be anyone’s wife, wasn’t dressed to please her groom. She came here like a prisoner led to execution.
And it thrills me.
Because she wasn’t theirs to begin with. She was mine. Always mine.
Her arms fold across her chest, a futile attempt at modesty, but it only makes me want to tear them away. Her cheeks flush, her skin blooming with heat, and then—Christ—the scent hits me. Sweet. Feminine. Tangled with fear but edged with desire.
I demand she doesn’t hide from me. Not now, not ever, and she drops her arms with a defiant lift of her chin that all but makes me cum in my pants.
Because she won’t admit it, but she’s aroused.
Her tits are begging to be squeezed and I harden further at the thought of sucking her peaked nipples into my mouth and feasting on them until her back arches.
My vision narrows. My pulse thunders. I could devour her right now, press her against the wall and rip those panties down, sink inside the wet heat I know is waiting while I ravish the rest of her with my mouth. The thought nearly undoes me.
But I don’t. Not yet.
I step closer, slow, deliberate. She stiffens, but she doesn’t run. Her eyes lock with mine, wide, storm-gray, and I see it there, the conflict, the terror, the hunger she doesn’t want to admit.
I brace my hand on the wall beside her head, caging her in without touching her. My body hums, feral and restless, but I force myself to wait.
Patience is foreign to me, but she deserves it. She deserves to be the one who gives in, who offers herself.
Her throat works as she swallows. Her breath comes shallow, lips parting like she’s struggling to breathe. Her arms flex as she bunches her hands into fists, then loosens them, then tighten them again.
And then it happens.
The smallest movement. Barely a tilt.
Her eyes flick to my mouth as she takes a deep breath, steadying herself. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips before she pulls the bottom one between her teeth. Then she tips her chin back.
Consideration. Hesitation. Submission. Invitation.
It wrecks me.
I growl, low and raw, the sound ripped from somewhere deep inside my chest. My hand comes up, curling around her jaw, tilting her face to mine. And then I’m kissing her.
Hard and hungry.
Her lips are soft, trembling against mine, but when I press harder, when I demand more, she melts.
Her body folds into me, yielding, pliant.
The taste of her rushes through me, sweet and sharp and utterly addictive.
Her hands come up over my chest and rest on my shoulders beneath my jacket as she opens her mouth wider to me.
My other hand fists against the wall to keep from touching more. Because if I touch her now, if I let myself feel the curve of her hips, the swell of her breast, the heat between her thighs, I won’t stop.
And I can’t ruin her yet. Not until she knows exactly who she belongs to.
When her mouth opens beneath mine, a soft gasp escaping, and I take it, swallowing her sound. Her tongue brushes mine, tentative but eager, and the world tilts.
This isn’t lust. Not just lust.
This is certainty.
I know it in my bones, in the scar that burns across my cheek, in the rage that’s defined me for all my life. She quiets it. Tempers it. But at the same time, she feeds the hunger, makes it worse, makes it better.
She’s the one.
I break the kiss only because I have to, because I need air, because if I don’t stop now, I’ll take her right here, against the wall, and I won’t be gentle.
Her lips are swollen, her eyes glazed, her chest rising and falling with ragged breaths, her nipples, firm and dark, brushing against my chest. She looks ruined already, and I’ve barely touched her.
I rest my forehead against hers, panting, fighting the urge to claim her fully. “Olivia,” I rasp, her name a vow.
Her fingers twitch against my neck, like she doesn’t know whether to cling to me or push me away. Then she curls one around my neck and drops the other to the space over my heart and I see it for what it is.
Permission.