A sound, raw and wanting, escapes me as I close the final, treacherous distance. My gloved hand slides up, the cool leather a shocking contrast against the warm silk of her stomach, and finds the clasp of her bra. A flick of practiced fingers. A release. My palm settles over the rapid, captive flutter of her heart, feeling its wild rhythm sync with my own.
The kiss turns seismic. It is no longer a dance, but a yielding. I drink her in, the soft gasp she makes, the taste of want and surrender. My other hand leaves her hair to cradle her jaw, my thumb stroking the high arch of her cheekbone as I angle her head, taking the kiss deeper, darker. I am not gentle. I am thorough. I map the heat of her mouth, the shudder that runs through her as my thumb brushes a spot just below her ear.
When I tear my mouth from hers, it's to trail a line of fire down her throat. My lips find the frantic beat at the base of her neck. I press them there, feeling her life pulse against my tongue.
"See?" I whisper, the word a hot breath against her damp skin. My hand over her heart flexes slightly, possessive. "You were made for this. To be unraveled. By me."
She doesn't speak. Words have been burned away, leaving only a language of breath and tremors.
A full-body shudder rolls through her as the clasp gives way, a silent, seismic concession. When my hand covers her heart, her back arches—not to escape, but to press that frantic beat more firmly into my palm, a silent plea etched into her very bones. The gasp I swallow is sweeter than any sound I've ever stolen.
Her hands, which had been suspended in the charged air between us, finally find their purpose. They fist in the fabric of my shirt, not to push, but to pull. Her nails scrape against my shoulders through the material, a sharp, grounding punctuation to the drowning softness of her mouth. She kisses me back now with a clumsy, desperate hunger, all learned restraint shattered. It's an answer more honest than any she could ever voice.
When my mouth leaves hers to travel down her throat, her head falls back in a gesture of pure, abandoned surrender. A broken sigh escapes her, my name woven into the exhale like a prayer. Her eyes, when I glance up, are wide, dark pools, the pupils swallowing the irises whole. There's no fear in them. Only a dazed, devastating wonder, a reflection of the storm I've unleashed.
She is coming undone, and she is letting me watch. She is letting me cause it. That trust, more than anything else, is the most potent aphrodisiac. It's in the way her body aligns to mine, the way her breaths are ragged little promises against my skin. She is not just accepting the consequence. She is embracing it, meeting my fire with her own silent, spreading blaze.The scent of her, dark berries and warm spice, like wine left to breathe, floods the small space, thick and intoxicating. It drowns out the sterile smell of new fabric and dust. I am drunk on it, lost in the haze of her skin and the frantic rhythm under my palm.
Then, the sharp sound of a latch. A burst of giggling and chatter from the other side of the curtain, the rustle of clothing racks. The outside world crashes in.
A smirk touches my lips. Let them hear.
In one fluid, possessive motion, I spin her around. Her back meets my chest, and I guide her hands to the mirror on the wall, covering them with my own. Her wide, stunned reflection stares back at us, at me, looming behind her, a shadow of pure intent. The flush on her skin is magnificent. My lips find the shell of her ear, my voice a dark velvet promise meant for her alone.