“Christ,” he mutters, his hand squeezing my thigh, “do you have any idea how beautiful you are?”
I shake my head, not sure how to feel about what he’s saying.
He cocks his head to the side, as if sensing my hesitation.
“You don’t believe me.” He leans down, his mouth brushing the curve of my hip. I jolt, the feeling almost too intense to bear. “You should. Every man at that auction wanted you, but you’re mine.”
His fingers hook into my panties and drag them down my legs. I lift my hips to help him, the realization of what’s about to happen making my face burn.
“That’s it,” he says, tossing my panties aside. “Good girl.”
The praise hits me like a drug. I shouldn’t want it. I shouldn’t crave the approval in his voice. But when his hand settles between my thighs again, when his fingers find me slick and aching, I stop caring aboutshoulds.
Gabriel works me slowly at first. One finger, then two, curling inside with perfect precision, hitting my G-spot with such precision that it makes me wonder how the hell he knows my body so well. His touch makes my back arch off the bed, his thumb finding my clit as I fist the sheets and cry out.
“Look at you,” he says, “so fucking perfect.”
“Gabriel—please?—”
I hate that I’m begging, but I can’t help it.
“I’ve got you.” He picks up the pressure, the rhythm, and I’m coming apart under his hands. “Let go, Thea. I want to feel you.”
His free hand moves to my stomach, pressing down, the added pressure making me gasp, my eyes going wide. He stills for a moment, his palm warm and possessive over the softness I’ve always hated.
Instinctively, my hand moves to my stomach to cover it up. As soon as he realizes what I’m doing, however, he moves my hand and sets it at my side.
“I don’t want small,” he says, his eyes locked on mine. “I wantthis. I want every inch you try to hide.”
My hips roll into his hand, seeking more, and he groans.
“That’s it. Take what you need.”
I do. I ride his fingers shamelessly, chasing the building heat, and he watches me like I’m the only thing in the world that matters. His thumb circles my clit in tight, perfect strokes, and when he leans down to kiss me, I shatter.
The orgasm slams into me, white-hot and all-consuming. I cry out against his mouth, my body clenching around his fingers as wave after wave of pleasure courses through me. He works me through it; his eyes locked onto mine.
“Good girl. So good for me. Look at how beautiful you are when you come.”
When I finally go limp, boneless and gasping, he withdraws his hand slowly. I watch, dazed, as he brings his fingers to his mouth and tastes me.
“Fuck,” he says.
I should say something, do something, but I’m floating, my body humming with aftershocks, my brain too fogged to form coherent thoughts.
He smooths my dress down, covering me with a surprising gentleness, then brushes a strand of hair from my face.
“You try to leave again,” he says quietly, “and the consequences won’t be this pleasant, understand?”
I nod, still hazy, the last traces of the orgasm flickering inside.
“Say it.”
“I understand.”
“Good.” He stands. “Get some sleep, Thea. You start work in the morning.”
Then he’s gone, closing the door softly behind him, leaving me alone in the dark.