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My ass hit the cold surface of what I deduced was the bar, Elliot detaching from me only to hoist my skirt upward so it bunched at my hips, revealing my garters, stockings, and lace underwear, which did little to hide anything. The weight of Elliot’s gaze on my lace-covered pussy was a physical thing.
He let out a low groan that reverberated through my bones and was more animal than human.
Gone was the easygoing fisherman with the twinkling eyes. Those eyes were now smoldering pits of lust, swallowing me whole.
When his gaze focused on the apex of my thighs, I bit my lip, spreading myself wider for him, a brazen action that had me vibrating with feminine power.
The flare in his eyes, the clenching of his jaw… All signs that he was unraveling from desire at being presented with my pussy.
There was a glint in his eye that said he wanted to possess it, sure. But there was something more reverent too, like he wanted to worship me. It zapped my insides with a sensation that was more than just desire.
No man had looked at me like that.
He shifted his stare from where I’d spread for him, with a gesture that looked painful. My eyes went from his to his cock, visibly straining in his jeans. I hungrily reached forward for his belt, desperate to expose it, to have it plunging inside of me. I’d wanted his mouth first, wanted to enshrine my power in this dynamic, to prioritize my pleasure, as I always did in sexual situations. To assert my dominance. But foreplay suddenly seemed inconsequential—which was saying something since I knew firsthand how skilled he was in oral sex. Suddenly, all I wanted was to be filled up with Elliot.
“Hands on the bar.” My arms freezing in their tracks at the rigidity in his tone.
My head tilted upward, finding that expression of control, power. That Dom energy from the first night shimmering between us.
Again, unexpectedly, a flood of desire pooled between my legs at the command, at the raw power in his tone.
And again, unexpectedly, my hands moved of their own accord, obeying his barked order.
“Palms flat,” he instructed, voice guttural.
He wasn’t hiding his hunger for me. The way the entire tenor of his voice changed with it again showed that though he was giving the orders, I had power over him too. A combination of roles I’d never experienced, and something I was a big fucking fan of.
My scalding-hot palms found the cool bar top.
I watched him with expectation, my legs spread wide on the bar which only an hour ago had been full of people drinking, chatting.
The large room was empty, and it should’ve felt overly exposing, but it felt like the entire world had shrunk to only me, Elliot and that bar.
His eyes crawled over me hungrily, like a predator, pausing for five seconds—I counted, breathing rapidly—on my lace-covered pussy before he progressed upward.
I expected the obvious—him to touch me where I was begging for it, where he was obviously desperate to. Maybe a kiss. Maybe ripping my clothes from my body like a caveman.
Any of the above would’ve been welcome right then, anything to relieve the pressure building inside me, reaching a bottleneck.
He stepped forward, in between my legs, and I reveled in his warmth, his scent, waiting for him to consume me. Either set of lips, I wasn’t picky at that point. Okay, I might’ve been a little picky since I was desperate for an orgasm.
Instead of laying his lips on me … anywhere, he reached behind me, mouth inches from mine as he did so, his hands going to the clip that fastened my hair to the nape of my neck.
To my surprise, he pulled it free, tossing it somewhere behind the bar where it landed with a clatter.
“That was a Prada hair clip.” I tried to sound scolding, but my voice was too thin and wispy.
His eyes kept mine prisoner as they lit up, amusement mingling with wanton hunger. “Don’t know what the fuck that means, and don’t care.”
My body tingled as his fingers ran through my hair, combing the strands, the sensation unexpected and somehow erotic. I hadn’t thought I was into fucking hair play. But it seemed I was into anything as long as Elliot Shaw was involved.Elliot leanedback slightly, a handful of hair locked around his finger as he twirled it, watching it with wonder.
“Been wanting to see you like this.” His gaze roved over the rest of my head then my face. “Unraveled,” he added. “I want to unravel you, Calliope Derrick.”
I didn’t understand the depth of the meaning behind his words, but at that moment, that’s all I wanted from Elliot, not understanding how dangerous it was.
Before I could spend too long digesting the words, Elliot grabbed the hair and yanked backward.
I gasped at the explosion of pain—not unbearable, not even uncomfortable—as he exposed my neck, leaning in to graze it with his lips, pausing for a long, audible inhale.