I turned, displaying the unapologetic swell of my derriere barely veiled in sapphire. My eyes gleaming, my breath quick. I don’t remember if I spoke aloud or if desire alone moved me, but I reached out, my fingers crooking in silent command, a lascivious little invitation. And he followed.

Laughter rose in glimmering notes, followed by low murmurs and languid exhalations, like satin slipping off a shoulder. Fingers trailed over ribs, down thighs, across bellies. Lips pressed into the slope of a back or the hollow of a throat. Nothing rushed. Nothing concealed. They touched a whisper of forbidden worship.

Bared teeth grazed tender flesh, a wicked drag that held just shy of pressure, of puncture. Not feral, not animal. But decadent. Salacious. A gesture crafted not for dominance but for delight. For mine.