Page 76 of The Best Wild Idea
“Lie down,” he demands, pointing not to the couch or to the bed tucked out of sight, but to the table stretched between us, the glossy surface as dark and molten as the cake itself.
I rise to my feet without thinking, heart pounding between my legs, and climb onto the table. I’m wearing pajamas I’d never wear back home — a cherry-red Agent Provocateur bodysuit that I don’t remember packing — with a robe over the top. The bodysuit is a lacy, curve-hugging number that’s high-cut over both of my thighs then built like a corset on top, pushing my breasts up until they’re nearly spilling out the top, even more so now that I’m crawling my way across the table on all fours.
“Right there,” he tells me when I get to the middle. “Don’t go any further.”
I stop and lean back onto my knees.
He slides the saucer across the surface, and I catch it before sitting on the tabletop with my legs stretched long between us, robe parting down the middle.
“Is that what you want?” Silas asks, his voice growly and deep.
His eyes trace down my body and I widen my knees just enough for him to see how I’m barely covered by a thin strip of delicate red lace, no wider than two of my fingers, or his.
I lick my lip and bite it.
“Maybe?”
He stands, and I can see that he’s hard beneath those charcoal pants, the material already stretched tight across his lap.
“You know this is exactly what I want,” I tell him, dropping my knees even wider, holding the saucer up.
“Then eat it,” he demands. His eyes narrow darkly.
I don’t know why, but I’m compelled to obey him. To not think for myself. To just let him take charge.
I dip my finger into the center of the cake before swirling it up toward the layer of ice cream, topping it off with so much whipped cream that a quarter-sized dollop falls onto my chest as I carry it up toward my lips.
Then I push my chocolate cream-covered finger deep into my mouth, swirling my tongue over my own skin and nail, tasting my skin along with the cake. Groaning before sucking it clean, then pulling my finger back out of my mouth again. It was as good as I had hoped. But I can do better.
I lick my lips before digging into the whipped cream again. Then hold my finger out to him.
“Want some?” I ask. I bend my knees wider, not really talking about the cake anymore.
My heart pounds in my chest as his eyes travel down to the tiny spot of whipped cream resting on my chest before heading south to a view I know he’s going to like even more: a second dessert.
“Don’t tempt me,” he growls. “You know I can’t touch you.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, my mind blank as to why. “You can’t touch me? Or touch me here?”
I drop my finger, still wet from my mouth, down to the lacy crotch of the bodysuit I’m wearing, pointing to the softness of my body beneath the sheerness of the lace.
“Don’t,” he says, weakly. But I don’t believe him. He’s watching my finger intently as I start to draw circles across the fabric, dipping my legs apart while the sensation starts to build, quickening my breath while I watch him, wanting more.
“I’ve been alone for so long,” I moan, drawing tighter circles, pulling the fabric aside. Then I slip my own finger inside my walls, feeling the coil in me draw open as he watches it slowly disappear.
“Jules,” he pants my name.
“I don’t want to be alone anymore, Silas,” I tell him.
I find the two little snaps of the bodysuit, holding the tiny strip of fabric in place, hoping that once there’s nothing left between us, he’ll climb across the table to finish what I’ve already started.
“Don’t,” he warns, louder.
“You don’t want dessert?” I ask, arching my back. Teasing an invitation.
“It’s going to be worth the wait,” he tells me, not moving.
“Up, Silas,” I demand, nearly lost to my own climax. “Up, up, up. Get up now.”
