His lips pressed lower, sucking a path down the line of my jaw. Each pull of his mouth was a brand, a calculated, slow burn.
Now I understand.
The red gown, the lack of anything beneath it… he hadn't just chosen it to humiliate me. He had engineered it for this. He had dressed me for my own undoing, a feast laid out on his table, and I had walked myself to the platter.
He planned to make my body ache for his touch. And stupidly… he's winning.
A low, traitorous thrum answered deep in my core, a pulse that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the relentless, knowing pressure of his mouth on my skin.
Then his hand fisted in my hair, wrenching my head to the side. The sharp, sweet sting at my scalp was a shock that tightened every muscle. He used the leverage to expose the column of my throat, then my shoulder. His mouth was there in an instant, hot and voracious.
Oh, God.
