Chapter 25 #2
Then I see it in his eyes in the mirror. Not a predator’s gleam, but something softer. Something like awe.
His hands trace the curve of my waist, the line of my spine. He’s not rushing. He’s memorizing. “And here,” he breathes against my shoulder blade.
His hands slide up my sides, making my stomach dance.
“You are a work of art, Olivia,” he says, tracing my shoulder with his lips. “Every inch of you is a masterpiece.”
His hands cup my breasts, and I gasp, arching into his touch. He takes his time, kneading them softly in his big hands before taking my nipples between his thumb and forefinger and rolling them, pinching gently until I’m panting with need.
My head lolls back against his shoulder, giving him all of me. I’m too lost in sensation to form a coherent thought, let alone speak.
“Tell me what you want,” he says, his mouth trailing kisses down my neck.
But I don’t have the words. Not yet. I just want.
I push back against him, needing more contact. I need to feel all of him against me, skin on skin.
He chuckles, the sound low and throaty. He seems to understand what I want without me having to say a word. He pulls away, and I feel a pang of loss that’s so intense, it almost hurts.
His fingers find the zipper low on my back, and I hold my breath.
It lowers, slowly, with a slow, tantalizing whisper. A single drawn-out sound that feels louder than the music in the other room. The silk loosens, slithers, and pools in a dark puddle at my feet, leaving me in nothing but panties and my heels.
The air kisses my skin, and I shiver. In the mirror, I see myself bare, illuminated by the soft candlelight, with Roberto, still fully clothed, a dark, powerful presence behind me. He is the shadow, and I am the light. He is the frame, and I am the painting.
He doesn't touch me right away. He just looks, and I feel the intensity of his gaze like a physical touch. He looks at me as if he’s seeing me for the very first time, as if he’s trying to commit every curve, every line, every freckle to memory.
I should be embarrassed, self-conscious, but the look in his eyes in the mirror erases any insecurity I might have. There’s no judgment in his gaze, only a deep, profound appreciation.
He steps closer, and I can feel the heat of him through his trousers against my bare bottom. He reaches around me, his hands covering mine where they are clenched at my sides. He gently pries my fingers open and laces his through mine.
“Look at us,” he says, his voice a low rumble against my ear. “Tell me you don’t see it.”
I do see it. We are two halves of a whole, a study in contrasts and similarities. My fair skin against his dark suit. My softness against his hardness. My vulnerability against his strength.
It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
He releases one of my hands and brings his to my throat, not squeezing, just resting there.
Feeling it and seeing it are so very different. It's a sharp reminder of the power he holds over me, the power I willingly give him.
I meet his gaze in the mirror, and I see it then. The raw, unfiltered hunger. But underneath, something else. Something deeper.
He wants me.
Not just for my body, but for all of me. For the parts I hide, for the parts I’m afraid to show.
I let out a shaky breath, the sound loud in the quiet room. “I see it,” I whisper.
“Good,” he says, a note of satisfaction in his voice.
With one hand still on my throat, he lets the other glide down my body, over the curve of my breast, the dip of my waist, the swell of my hip.
He pauses at the edge of my panties, a thin scrap of lace that offers no real protection, just the illusion of it.
His fingers dip beneath the lace, exploring the sensitive skin there. A strangled noise escapes my throat, a mix of anticipation and trepidation. I want this. I want this so much it hurts.
My body arches into his touch, pressing my ass against him. He chuckles again, a low, knowing sound.
He’s playing me, and I love it.
His other hand moves from my throat to my breast, cupping its weight, teasing my nipple with the rough pad of his thumb. I gasp, my head falling back against his shoulder as he teases me to a point where it feels almost too much.
My breath is coming in ragged pants now. The room is spinning, the candlelight blurring. I’m lost in a sea of sensation.
“Roberto,” I plead, the name a prayer on my lips.
“Look,” he says, his teeth nipping at my earlobe. I can feel his erection, hard and insistent, through the fabric of his trousers, and a fresh wave of desire washes over me. "Look at yourself, Olivia."
I force my eyes open, my gaze meeting his in the mirror. My face is flushed, my eyes wide, my lips parted in a silent plea. I look wanton. I look desperate. I look… alive.
His finger moves lower, through my wet folds, finding the hard bundle of nerves at the apex of my thighs. He circles it once, twice, a light, teasing touch that has my hips bucking.
“Tell me what you want,” he says again, his voice a low growl.
I look at our reflection. At the way his hand disappears between my legs, at the way my body responds to his touch. At the possessive glint in his eye.
And I know.
“I want you to touch me,” I say, the words tearing from my throat. “All of me. Everywhere. Make me yours, Roberto."
The words are raw and honest, a vulnerability I’m not sure I’ve ever shown another person.
But it’s the truth.
I want to be his.
"Take your panties off." He murmurs the order against the skin of my neck. "Slowly."
My hands tremble as I obey, hooking my thumbs in the delicate lace and sliding the fabric down my legs. I kick them aside, standing before him in nothing but my heels, feeling more exposed and more powerful than I have in my entire life.
"Watch," he says, then slides a finger inside me. A full-throated moan escapes my lips, and I reach behind me to grab onto the back of his neck to keep from falling to my knees. He starts a slow, steady rhythm, in and out, a tantalizing preview of what’s to come.
My body is a taut bowstring, every nerve ending singing with pleasure. I'm so close, so close to the edge, but he's holding me there, suspended in a state of exquisite agony.
"Roberto, please," I beg, my hips moving in tandem with his hand. "I need..."
"I know what you need, Olivia," he says, his breath hot against my ear. He adds a second finger, stretching me, filling me, and the added pressure is almost enough to send me over the edge. But still, he holds me back.
I watch, fascinated as his fingers disappear into my pussy then slide out, coated in my arousal. He pulls his hand away from me, and I make a sound of protest.
But he's not denying me. He's just changing the rules. He brings his glistening fingers to his lips and tastes.
He groans, a deep, guttural sound that vibrates through me.
It’s an intimate act, more intimate than anything I’ve ever done, and it sends a fresh jolt of arousal straight to my core.
He pulls me back against him, my back flush with his chest, my ass nestled against his erection.
"Look at how beautiful you are when you're turned on," he says, one arm wrapping around my waist, pulling me even closer. His other hand goes back to my pussy, but this time, he doesn't tease.
This time, he’s giving me exactly what I want.
His fingers find my clit again, and he starts to rub, a firm, insistent circle that has my hips bucking against him.
"That's it," he coaxes, his voice a low, hypnotic murmur. "Let go, Olivia. Give it to me."
I cry out and grip his arm as my body goes taut.
"Watch yourself come, Olivia," he says, voice rough against my ear. "Look how gorgeous you are when you come."
But he doesn't have to because my eyes are locked on us. The way his fingers work my clit, and my face contorts in pleasure. At my body arching against him. At the possessive look on his face, as if he owns my pleasure.
And then I'm flying.
The world goes white, and my ears ring, drowning everything else out. My body convulses, waves of pleasure crashing over me, so intense, so overwhelming, I feel like I'm breaking apart.
He holds me through it, his arm around my waist, steadying me, taking my weight.
He doesn't stop, his fingers continuing to work their magic, drawing out my pleasure, until I'm a boneless, trembling mess, completely and utterly spent.
I slump against him, my body limp, my mind a blissful blank.
He holds me for a long moment, letting me catch my breath, letting me come back to myself.
Then he scoops me up in his arms, one arm under my knees, the other around my back.
I wrap my arms around his neck and bury my face in his chest, breathing in his clean, masculine scent. I’m too exhausted to be embarrassed by being carried like this.
He carries me to the bed and gently lays me down in the center of the sprawling mattress.
I watch him as he stands at the foot of the bed, watching me. His eyes are dark, unreadable in the dim light.
I'm suddenly aware of my nakedness, of the way I'm splayed out before him in just my heels.
And I'm suddenly, achingly aware of how clothed he still is.
"Take your clothes off," I say, my voice still husky from my orgasm.
A slow smile spreads across his face. "Patience, sweetheart."
He reaches up and loosens his bow tie. He then presses my wrists together and holds them in one hand while he uses the other to wrap the tie around my wrists and binds me.
The silk is smooth against my skin, and the knot isn't very tight.
But he's not done. He takes my bound wrists and lifts them over my head.
"You're mine, Olivia," he says, as he wraps the loose ends of the bow tie around a spindle on the headboard.
The words send a fresh wave of desire through me.
He tests the knot, then straightens up and looks down at me.
I tug against it, testing it, but it holds fast.
"What are you doing?" I ask, my voice barely a whisper.
"Whatever I want," he says, the look on his face leaving no room for argument.