Page 13 of Gilded Shackles
Like hell.
I grab his shirt and drag him back to me. He grins, feral and sinful, like I just gave him exactly the answer he wanted.
"I want more," I whisper against his mouth.
That's all he needs.
His mouth leaves mine and blazes a trail down my throat, teeth and tongue and the rough scrape of his beard against my skin, and I tilt my head back, offering more. Everything. Whatever he wants.
If this is the first and last time I ever do this, I want to remember every single second.
"You smell incredible," he murmurs against my collarbone. His hands slide down my sides, around to my hips, then lower to grip my thighs. "But I bet you taste even better."
His fingers find the hem of my dress. Inch it up. Slow. My breath comes in short, stupid bursts as his palms slide against bare skin, thumbs tracing circles higher and higher until they brush the edge of my panties.
I'm already embarrassingly wet. I know he feels it when his thumb presses against the damp lace and his jaw flexes like he's the one losing control.
He tugs at the waistband, jerking the fabric. And then it’s gone. A sharp swat to my ass.
"Oh my God," I breathe. The sting radiates outward in sweet, sharp waves.
He smirks against my neck. "Like that?"
"Yes." It's almost a sob.
“That’s for going to a hotel room with a stranger.”
My brain is far too lust-drunk. I can’t argue with his reasoning. Would it be bad if I asked for another?
He grins like he just found a switch he plans to wear out. His hand presses between my thighs. "If you were wet before, you're soaking now."
I should be mortified. Instead I'm fucking thrilled.
I reach for his belt because I need to feel more of him, need to touch him the way he's touching me. The leather slidesthrough the loops with a hiss and I let it drop. I go for his shirt next, fingers clumsy with want. He helps, shrugging it off, and sweet mother of God.
The body underneath should come with a warning label. All lean muscle and tanned skin, with scars that tell stories I'll probably never hear. A tattoo curves around his left shoulder, something in a language I can't read, and the ink from his hands continues up his forearms in dark, deliberate patterns. I trace one line with my fingertip. Commit it to memory.
"Your turn," he says, reaching for the zipper at my back.
The dress pools at my feet. Black fabric on white marble. I'm standing in front of a stranger with his gaze raking over me with the kind of hunger that makes me feel like the most powerful person in the room.
"Fuck," he says quietly. "Look at you."
His hands cup my breasts, thumbs brushing over my nipples until they harden into tight peaks. I arch into his touch. Then his fingers trail up my spine, slow, tracing each vertebra, and the tenderness of it after all the heat nearly breaks me.
This is the moment it hits me. I'm in a hotel room with a stranger, half-naked, on my twenty-sixth birthday.
So long, meek, well-behaved Elle.
This version? She's done asking permission.
He kisses me again, walking me backward toward the bed, his mouth never leaving mine. The backs of my knees hitthe mattress and I'm on my back, staring up at him as he towers over me.
He kneels between my legs. His fingers trail up my inner thighs. Then one slips toward my entrance, gentle, exploring, and I tense.
He meets resistance and pauses. Looks up at me with narrowed eyes.
"Elle." His voice holds a question.
