Page 42 of Gilded Shackles
Elle stands there like a dream I never asked for but might burn for anyway. Strapless bra, pale and delicate. Her breasts lift gently above the lace. And her panties. White. Not innocent-white. Strategic. Designer. The kind made to destroy whatever composure a man pretended to have.
The only sound in the room is the pounding in my chest.
"Just get it over with," she says quietly. "Before they break down the door."
And that. That right there. That's when everything in me shifts.
No.
I'm not letting her walk into this like it's duty and I'm some chore to be endured.
She's going to feel this. She's going to remember I touched her.
I move toward her. Slow. Letting my hand skim the curve of her waist as I step behind her. Her breath catches.
"Elle." My voice drops into that register that gets me every confession I want. "Look at me."
She hesitates. Then turns, looking up with flushed cheeks and wrecked eyes.
I take her chin between my fingers. Tilt it up.
"I don't want to get it over with," I murmur. "I want to memorize you."
Her eyes widen.
Before she can overthink, before she can run, I bend my head and kiss her. Hard.
I cup her throat with one hand. Not squeezing. Holding. Anchoring. The way a man claims something he isn't planning on returning. Her lips part a second later, instinct, and her body leans into mine like it's been waiting for permission.
She makes a tiny noise, barely there, and it shoots straight to my cock. I deepen the kiss, tongue sliding against hers, dragging a groan from somewhere deep in her chest. My hand slides lower, over the swell of her breast, thumb brushing the top of white lace.
She shivers.
"Beautiful," I say against her mouth. She flinches like no one's ever said it and meant it.
I back her toward the bed. Slow. Deliberate.
Her knees hit the edge and she falls back, catching herself on her elbows, and fuck. Her body in my bed. Soft curves, pale skin, chest rising in quick uneven breaths. Hair wild. Eyes blown wide.
Every fantasy I refused to have comes crashing in at once.
"Part your legs."
Her breath hitches.
She obeys. Slow.
I drag my hand up the inside of her thigh. Featherlight. She jerks and hisses.
Then my fingers find it.
I stop.
I pull back and push her legs open to see what I’m feeling. Crescent-shaped cuts on the inside of her thigh. Fingernails.
The garter sits just above them, silk edges framing the damage like a frame around something obscene.
I go very still.
