Page 20 of Endless Obsession

There’s a relief that comes with that. With giving myself up to this man’s knowledge, to his touch, to whatever it is that he has planned for me. I exhale a breath as his gloved hands slide up my calves, cool and soft, so supple and flexible that it would be easy to forget that they’re gloves at all, and not his bare hands.

Except I don’t think I do want to forget. It adds a layer of strangeness, of mystery to all of this, that makes it that much more erotic. Just like the masks, the anonymity, this entire theatrical display of hedonism.

His hands reach my knees, the hem of my velvet dress. My revenge dress, now, instead of one that was supposed to mark a special night in my life. A turning point. A new beginning.

But it occurs to me, as he begins to push the dress slowly up my thighs, that this night could still be all of those things. This could be the night that I discover something new about myself. Where I become the kind of person I’ve always envied from afar.

The kind who takes chances. Who prioritizes herself. Who lets herself want.

Someone who doesn’t dismiss her own needs and desires as impossible.

Because this—what he’s making me feel, felt impossible before this moment. It feels as if sparks are dancing over my skin, my lungs tightening, my skin growing hotter and more flushed with every inch that he pushes the dress up my thighs. The sensation of the cool silk lining against my heated skin makes me gasp, all of me sensitized with curiosity and anticipation—and he hasn’t even touched anything that could really even be called an erogenous zone yet. He’s touched my feet and my legs—that’s it. And yet, I’m on the verge of panting, of whimpering, of begging.

I’ve never felt like this before.

He pauses as the dress reaches halfway up my thighs, his hands dropping to my knees. “How are you feeling, little dove?”

I look up at him helplessly, my lips parting, but nothing comes out. My mind feels foggy, like all I can think about is more.

“More,” I whisper, and there’s something knowing in his smile this time.

“Gladly, little dove,” he murmurs, and his hands tighten around my knees, pushing them apart.

The movement shoves my dress higher up my thighs, rucked up around my hips now as he pushes my knees wide and flattens them against the bed, exposing the smooth black material between them. I’m suddenly thankful that I chose black, because I can feel how wet I already am, the fabric clinging to my folds, and I don’t know if I could handle the embarrassment of him seeing how thoroughly soaked I am when he hasn’t done—really anything, yet.

“Keep your knees against the bed,” he murmurs, and another jolt of heat washes over me at the firm command, issued in that rich, smooth voice. “Or as close to it as you can.” He pushes gently down on my knees again, a reminder to hold the pose that he’s situated me in, and then those gloved hands start to skim up the inside of my thighs.

I can feel myself shuddering under his touch. I don’t realize how hard I’m biting my lip, stifling any possible noise, until his hands suddenly pause at the very top of my inner thighs, and I open my eyes to see him looking at me.

“Don’t be quiet, little dove,” he murmurs. “I want to hear you through all of this. Every sound you make turns me on. Moan or beg or scream if you want to. I’ll enjoy it all.”

The idea of anything making me scream in bed sounds ridiculous. But I’m already on the verge of moaning. The only reason I haven’t is because a part of me is embarrassed to let him hear how much I want it. How much he’s already aroused me.

But if he wants to hear it?—

His hands press down on my inner thighs, and I suddenly feel the firm press of one of his gloved fingers, between my legs. Over the wet material of my panties, just against the seam of my folds, rubbing there back and forth.

A gasping moan slips free. I can’t help it. My hips arch up into his touch, a burst of pleasure rolling through me from the friction of his thumb, rubbing my folds against each other, against my clit.

He chuckles, but there’s no amusement in it now. It’s a dark, rough sound, a sound of masculine pleasure, and when he pulls his thumb away, I gasp.

“You need this more than you realized, little dove,” he murmurs, and his hands slide up my hips, just beneath the crumpled velvet of my dress, hooking in the edge of my panties as he starts to draw them down. “I’m going to make you come so hard. And then I’ll make you come again.”

The promise in his voice sends another shudder through me, even if I still don’t believe him. But it sounds like he believes it, and that’s enough to make me wonder.

He slides the panties down my hips, over my legs, and as he pushes my knees apart again, back into that pose where he arranged me the first time, I feel the first temptation to resist. Because there’s nothing between me and his hungry gaze any longer. Nothing except his own mask, which somehow makes me feel even more exposed, because he can see every wet, swollen inch of the most intimate part of me, but I can’t read his face. My only hint at his emotions is in that ever-present smirk on his face, and heat blooms through me, my fingers curling into the silk-velvet duvet.

His eyes drop between my thighs, taking in all of my exposed, vulnerable flesh—and he licks his lips.

Like he’s hungry. Like he can’t wait to devour me.

My hips lift up off of the bed without my meaning for them to, a wordless plea, my body begging for something that I’ve never had and can’t begin to imagine. But somehow, subconsciously, something in me seems to answer to that promise in his smile, in his eyes, hiding behind that mask.

He moves closer, stretching his long, muscular frame onto the bed between my legs. I realize with another flash of heat that he’s still fully clothed, entirely covered except for the lower part of his face and the upper part of his neck, while I’m disheveled and half-undressed, naked from the waist down. His hands move up, his gloved thumbs resting on the seam of my folds, and I shudder at the touch, another moan slipping from my lips. I hear that dark, rumbling chuckle again, and then he leans forward, his thumbs parting me—and his tongue touches my most intimate flesh.

I feel it, flat and soft against me, wet and hot, dragging a searing line upwards from my entrance to my clit. My head falls back, my entire body reacting to the sensation after so much foreplay, and I cry out without meaning to, a shudder of pleasure rippling through me.

It feels better than any mouth on me has ever felt before. And it’s only the first touch.

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