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Strong fingers sink into my hair. His grip is firm. Unbreakable. A tug that tilts my head back, exposing my face, jaw and neck to the spotlight I feel burning into me.
“You’re mine.”
“Y…yes.”
His thumbs graze gently over my cheeks as he angles my face this way and that. “Every inch of you belongs to me,” he breathes.
The terrifying finality of the statement ratchets up my every emotion.
I feel another shift of air and the whirr of cameras as he rises, his hands still locked in my hair. Rough fingers gently massage my scalp.
“Open your legs.”
My knees part. He moves between them, bringing his essence and magnificence even closer. He tilts my head further back, secures me with one hand. With the other, he sets a trail along my jaw, my throat, pauses at my pulse, before drifting over my shoulder to clasp my arm. I sense him bend forward.
His smoky cedarwood scent intensifies. My belly quivers when his breath whispers over my face.
“I’m ready for your lips, Lucky. Are you ready for mine?”
The tingle that seizes my mouth is immediate. The russet red gloss applied on them in no way alleviating their dryness. I slick my tongue over them. “Yes.”
A low laugh, tinged with a whisper of the sinister. “I don’t mean those lips, honey. Those can wait. The lips I crave are between those gorgeous legs.” He takes a step back. “Stand up.”
I totter to my feet. A little disoriented and drunk with heady emotion, I sway. He doesn’t steady me. My arms flail for a second before I gain my feet. The impulse to reach forward, touch him, fires through me. But I intrinsically know touching is out of bounds until he gives me specific permission.
Or maybe I don’t want to find out if he’s human or not? I curb the absurd thought and bring my hands to my sides.
His hands land on my shoulders, trail down my arms to the tips of my fingers before he sets me free. I sense a huge height disparity between us. He must be thinking it too, because his next words, over a foot above my head, are, “So small. So fragile.”
I shake my head, a spark of rebellion firing. “I’m not—”
“Shh. Hush, my little pocket firecracker. Take off your panties.”
Using the back of the seat as my compass, I slowly turn around. I sense him take another step back. The immediate whir of the camera makes me think they operate on motion sensors. I try to block them out as I hook my fingers into the French shorts and peel them over my hips, but the sound grows until I can’t block it out.
My fingers stall, one corner of the panties over my hip, the other below.
“I’m waiting, firecracker.” There’s a tense warning in his voice.
I swallow and force myself to keep going. I lean forward to step out of the scrap of silk and the scent of warm skin fills my nostrils. I’m not sure which parts of his body I’m closest to, but I know he’s less than an inch from my face.
The knowledge lances me with craving, hot and fierce. My panties drop. I carefully step out of them, but I don’t want to straighten. I want to lean further forward. Taste him.
“Found something you want?” Q asks, his voice lending further fire to my heated core.
“Maybe,” I whisper, my own voice weak.
“You have to wait, Lucky. Until my craving is seen to. Do you understand?”
You’re not in control here. He said that to me in the kitchen this morning over the simple washing of a plate. I know it’s a thousand times more so in this room.
“I do.”
“Sit back down. Hands on the chair. Open your legs.”