Page 90 of Fire and Silk
But I feel him.
His presence shifts the water around me. Heat radiates from him despite the cool. Every inch between us burns like a line waiting to be crossed.
He stops just beside me. Our shoulders almost align, our skin divided by inches, not intention.
“We are using each other, remember,” he says, voice smooth and laced with control. “I need you in a good state to use you.”
The words should sting. But they don’t.
They ground me.
I nod , the motion small. My throat aches from holding everything in.
“I hate myself,” I whisper. “For not choosing Mico. Even though I know he could have given me something real. A decent life. He would have made space for me.”
The water curls between us like breath.
“I feel like a monster,” I continue, my voice thinner now. “Power-hungry and hollow.”
He tilts his head, eyes narrowing just slightly.
“What’s so bad about being power-hungry?”
I look at him.
His face is carved from stillness, but something flickers beneath it—interest, maybe. Recognition. Or the faint amusement of a predator recognizing another.
My heart pounds . Then again.
“Nothing,” I answer.
The word tastes different when I say it out loud.
He steps in closer. His fingers lift slowly, brushing my collarbone, then trailing upward. His hand cups my neck. The pads of his fingers rest just below my ear. The touch is barely pressure, but my chest hitches all the same.
His lips find the curve of my neck.
Not rushed. Not hungry. Just… claiming.
“You look hungry,” he murmurs.
The heat in me coils low.
He takes the wine glass from my hand without asking, his fingers skimming my knuckles. He sets it neatly on the edge of the pool.
His arms curve beneath my thighs, and he lifts me—easily, steadily—until I’m perched on the edge of the pool. Water slides down my legs in slow streams. I feel cold where he’s not touching me. And burning where he is. His fingers drift upward—underwater at first—tracing the inside of my thigh. He reaches my bikini bottoms, and then…
He pushes them to the side.
Just enough.
The drag of the wet fabric over my soaked folds makes my hips jerk.
And then his fingers are there—sliding through the slickness, spreading me open with unholy patience. Two fingers stroke upward, slow, deliberate, until they part my pussy and circle my clit in the warm, open air.
I cry out—quiet at first—then louder as he slides one finger inside me.
My head falls back.
