Page 5 of Once Upon a Dream
“It hurts,” I whisper instead. “When you touch me there.”
“Does it?” he asks. “So, if I reached into the slit in your skirt, I wouldn’t find you wet?”
My mouth parts. No one talks to me that way. I talk to people that way.
And yet—
And yet.
He’s not wrong. And the heat along my backside is sweetly mirrored between my legs now.
It’s something about this particular pain... just burny enough to keep me on edge, but subtle enough that I can keep dancing, that I can savor the feel of Lorne’s powerful arms guiding me through the steps.
But I’ve never been one to turn down a dare. I lift my chin and look right into his eyes. “Do it and find out,” I dare back.
I think I’ve called his bluff. I expect him to scoff, to back down, to smile again in secret amusement but do nothing else.
But then he does it. Right there on the ballroom floor, right there under the wisteria and roses, he pushes his hand into my skirt and finds the heart of me. Even through the silk panties, I’m embarrassingly wet.
He makes an impatient noise and moves the silk to the side, his fingers searching out my clit, my entrance. And I know what he’s doing. I know because I’ve done it a thousand times with my own submissives. He’s checking to see if my clit is swollen, he’s discerning for himself how wet I am at the source. All while we keep dancing. All while he keeps me held fast in his arms.
Panic hits me, fast and cold. “Lorne, you can’t, there are too many people—”
“Are any of them looking?” he asks, his eyes on mine while his fingers keep probing me. “Are any of them staring at the pretty fairy with the hand between her legs?”
Swallowing, I swivel my head and check around us. The party is in full swing—the nig
ht is rich with lust and booze—and everyone is too caught up in their own ecstasies and dramas to notice the vice president has her ex-husband’s hand up her skirt. And we’re masked anyway…
But—
“I’m supposed to meet someone later,” I blurt. “A date. Mark Tintagel set me up with a date.”
This seems to bother Lorne not at all. “And you don’t want to meet this date with a wet cunt, is that it?”
“I—”
“I don’t mind making you wet for another man,” Lorne says, bending low to whisper in my ear. His fingertips glide back over my clit and begin working it. Small circles. Slow pressure. “As long as you let me. And you are letting me, aren’t you? You’re letting your ex-husband play with you in the middle of a ballroom because you need it so bad?”
His voice is…it’s different. Not sharp, because Lorne Lothian doesn’t cut, he doesn’t slice—not even in the courtroom, not even on the other side of a conference room table about to sign the papers for his own divorce.
No, Lorne is like the aged whiskey echoed in the color of his eyes. He pours himself inside you; he burns on the way down. He intoxicates you and thrills you and coaxes himself inside your veins, and before you know it, you’re drunk. You’re drunk with his convictions, his passions, his utter presence, and you’re stumbling with it all, you’re falling down. You’re trying to close your eyes to make the spinning stop and it won’t, it won’t, it won’t.
It’s enough to make a woman beg for sharpness instead. Because a blade will dull over time—but whiskey? Whiskey only gets stronger with age.
And neither of us are young anymore.
“Lorne,” I say. “Stop.”
He stops, although the minute he’s no longer stroking me, I wish he was. Especially when he brings his fingers to his mouth for a taste.
I feel like I can’t breathe. “You’re shameless,” I whisper.
“Better than being ashamed, Morgan le Fay.”
“Don’t call me that name,” I say.
I miss you calling me that name; I miss it every day.
