Her cheeks are pink again as I rise from the chair and stalk toward her.
“As you wish,” I say, reaching her in two long strides.
She stands her ground until I’m close enough to feel the warmth of her skin. My fingers run lightly under the waistband of her panties.
“You’re not wearing pants,” I say against her ear. “So I’ll have to remove these.”
Her breath hitches as I begin to slide them down slowly, savoring every inch of newly exposed flesh. She doesn’t stop me and there’s a thrill in knowing that despite everything between us, she wants this.
The lace slips to the floor, and she’s breathtakingly bare. My cock twitches.
Without warning, I scoop her up and lay her back across the poker table. I’ve had enough of Aurelia driving me wild.
I spread her legs to see how wet she is for me.
“Adrian, what—” she starts to say, but it’s too late; my face is already buried between her legs.
I feast on her with a hunger I denied for over a decade, tasting her for the first time. Truly, the first time I’ve been in this position with her. It pains me to think I never once did this to her before, that I held myself back from enjoying her this way, held myself back from giving her this intense pleasure because I stubbornly thought it would keep her safe. Instead, it only led her deeper into the lion’s den.
No more holding back. I eat her pussy with aggression and abandon, making her moan and squirm in ways I’ve never heard. She cries out my name, and it encourages me, so I stuff two fingers inside her, then a third, testing how much she’ll open. Her pussy is tight; it doesn’t want to take all three, but she must if I’m going to fuck her—and Iwillfuck her later.
The taste of her makes me unbearably hard as I eather out and finger-fuck her until she comes with a shuddering orgasm that shakes the table beneath us.
I don’t stop until every aftershock rips through her, until she’s gripping the edge of the table with white-knuckled desperation. Only then do I lift my head, wiping my mouth as I savor the rawness of this moment.
“You’ve never done that,” she gasps between ragged breaths.
“A lot has changed.”
“So I’ve noticed.” There’s a new vulnerability in her voice—a crack in the armor she’s worn for so long.
She stays on the table while she catches her breath, the rise and fall of her chest mesmerizing. Her eyes find mine again, still hazy with desire but sharpening quickly. “I’m tired of playing games, Adrian. And I don’t mean poker.”
The shift is abrupt—from her moans to something far more dangerous. Something unpredictable. I remain still, assessing potential responses.
I move back to my chair as she sits on the edge of the table.
“This isn’t a game,” I eventually say, my voice carefully modulated.
“Then what do you call this?” She gestures between us. “What are we doing? Are you using me for your vendetta against the Consortium? Am I just a convenient ally because I have my own revenge list?”
“No. Of course not.”
She stands abruptly, grabbing her clothes and pulling them on with quick, agitated movements. “Then explain it. Now.”
Her frustration manifests physically—rapid movements, elevated respiration, heightened color across her cheekbones. She’s close to her breaking point. A response is required, yet the appropriate words are hard to find.
How do I explain a decade of calculated decisions and missed opportunities? How do I articulate the complex, contradictory impulses that have defined our relationship?
She waits, green eyes searching mine for answers.
“I don’t know where to begin,” I finally admit.
“Try the beginning.” She returns to the edge of the poker table, arms crossed protectively over her chest. “Why did you ask me out ten years ago? The real reason.”
The question cuts to the heart of everything. I stand, unable to remain seated for this conversation. Three steps take me to the far wall, where I can organize my thoughts without the distraction of her closeness.
“It was to protect you,” I say, turning to face her. “From my father.”
