Page 39 of Lady and the Butcher
The day laid itself down at our feet. And the rules—the ones that had always kept me safe—went quiet long enough for me to hear what I’d asked for answer back.
13
The glass was cool under my palms, but my skin burned everywhere else.
He stepped behind me, quiet, inevitable. His heat reached me before his hands did, a tide rolling up my back. I could see him in the reflection—broad shoulders, the dark cut of his shirt. I could see myself, too, mouth parted, dress skimming my hips, eyes a little wild.
“Look at the city,” he said.
The bridge arched pale against a watercolor sky. Boats stitched white wakes across the water. A gull hung in the air like a pinned note. None of it mattered. All I could feel was the line of his body aligning with mine, not touching, close enough to make my lungs forget their job.
Finally, he touched me like he had all day to do it. A slow slide of fingers along my forearm. A pause at my wrist. His palm tracing the inside of my elbow. The softest curl over my shoulder, then down. My breath hitched. His hand settled on my hip, claiming without crowding, and his mouth found the shell of my ear, without kissing.
“Hands on the glass,” he murmured. “Leave them there.”
I did. I could feel my pulse in my fingers. I could see it in the reflection, the tiny tremor I couldn’t hide. He eased my hips forward, a patient press that tilted me until the silk drew tight over the curve of my ass and the city came closer.
A thought struck—I was no different than a cat in heat, hoisting her rump for the alley to judge. The thought should have burned. It didn’t. It broke something open. I didn’t care who was watching. I cared that he did.
His other hand found my throat. Not a grip. A warm weight. His thumb rested under my chin, a quiet order: keep your eyes open. Keep looking.
My breath bounced off the glass and came back hotter.
“You’re begging already,” he said.
“I’m not?—”
“You are.” The words kissed the back of my neck.
He rocked his hips forward just enough for me to feel him.
His cock was hard. Certain. Big and thick in a way I hadn’t known was possible, a heavy promise. The thick pressure of him slid over the curve of me and my knees almost gave. Heat punched low. I made a sound I didn’t recognize, hunger and panic married in one short breath.
“Please,” I whispered, and there went my pride, falling like a coin into a well.
He liked that. I felt the approval in the way his hand flexed on my hip. I felt it in the way the air around us changed shape, tighter, darker.
“Say what you want,” he said.
The words lodged behind my lips. There were so many ways to say the same thing.Touch me. Take me. Don’t be gentle. I picked none of them. I pushed my hips into the glass and hated myself for it. Loved myself for it.
“More,” I managed.
His mouth brushed my jaw. “Good.”
His hand on my throat dropped away. The other slid lower, under the hem. Knuckles grazing the back of my thigh. Heat and silk and skin. I jolted like he’d found a live wire—and he had, because my whole body fired at once. He traced the inside of my leg with maddening care, inch by inch, up and in, until?—
I sucked in a breath so fast I swayed. His touch was the lightest brush of my pussy. I trembled so hard my palms squeaked on the glass. He didn’t push. He didn’t give. He drew the outline of my desperation and then took his hand away.
“No,” I said, raw, before I could call it by a calmer name. “Don’t?—”
The absence was a slap. He smoothed my skirt before it fell. He set my hips exactly where he wanted them again, a correction as precise as anything I’d seen him do all day.
“You’ll keep standing,” he said, voice easy, as if he’d asked me to hold a door. “You’ll remember how this feels when you sit across from me and try to chew.”
I hated him. I wanted to cry. I wanted to turn and bite him. I wanted to press my forehead to the glass and beg. I did the weakest thing of all. I nodded because my mouth refused to make any sound that didn’t give me away.
He leaned in, and for a second I thought he’d put me out of my misery. He kissed the place where my shoulder met my neck. A single, soft press. It undid me more than anything else he’d done.
