"I… don't know.”
He leans forward, and his lips brush against my ear. My heart pounds against my ribs, and what little breath I have left catches in my throat.
"What are you doing?" I ask him.
He responds by tilting his head and kissing the side of my neck, first just below the ear, then lower. His mouth begins a slow trail down toward my shoulder, and the sensations that dance across my skin at the contact make my head buzz.
"Mr. Cunningham, I—”
"Calder," he murmurs against my neck. His voice is deeper, but there's still a hint of amusement there. "I'm just trying to show you what I mean about the painting." His mouth brushes against the place where my neck meets my shoulder. His tongue slips out, flicking softly against my skin, and I suck in a breath.
Warning bells go off in my head. I need to take control of this situation. I need to lead this seduction, not the other way around. But his tongue brushes against my neck again, and all of my protests slip out of my head.
Certainly there's nothing wrong with teasing him a little, letting him think I've succumbed to his charms. I'll give him a taste, fuel his desire, and then I'll have him right where I want him.
He tightens his hold on my hip, pulling me closer to him. His other hand moves to the shoulder of my shirt, yanking it aside so he can continue his soft march of kisses. I shiver involuntarily.
"Calder," I whisper. "Perhaps we should—" I gasp as he nips at me with his teeth.
"Is that what you really want?" he says against my skin. His hand moves forward along the neckline of my shirt, his fingers skimming just beneath the edge of the fabric. He slides the garment off my shoulder, exposing the top curve of my breast.
"You have such beautiful breasts," he says, his mouth against my ear once more. His hand moves lower, gliding over one of my breasts and then the other, his touch feather-light.
My breathing is shallow, uneven. I know I should stop him, take back control of the situation, but I don't. In this moment I'm not even sure I want to.
"Feel the frustration building?" he breathes against my ear.
His hand moves lower and lower, with such agonizing slowness that I have to struggle to keep from pressing back against him. His fingers graze my nipple. I stiffen as his takes the nub and rolls it gently between his forefinger and thumb.
"It's subtle at first," he whispers, giving a soft pull. "Your blood pumping faster, your skin becoming more sensitive. The beginning of an ache between your legs."
His fingers become more insistent, pinching and tugging at my nipple.
"That's where we want to focus. On that ache."
I close my eyes and let my head roll back against his shoulder. My nipple is rock hard beneath his touch, and still he massages it, pulling and twisting to the point of pain. I should tell him to stop, but I don't.
And then, suddenly, his fingers release me. A sound of protest escapes me before I can stop it, and Calder chuckles into my hair.
"We're not done yet," he says.
He moves to the other breast, pulling it halfway out of the shirt so that he can reach the nipple. He repeats his rolling and pulling until that one, too, is hard and sensitive against his rougher skin.
"It builds slowly," he murmurs into my hair. "But little by the little the ache grows stronger, more insistent."
He moves his hand from my hip and across my upper thigh, stopping at the place where my legs meet. He pushes down softly, just enough to press the fabric of the skirt against my most sensitive spot.
"What, then, is the cause of this frustration?" he breathes. "What's the cure?" His hand slides further between my legs. I push back against him involuntarily, and he tightens his grip on me, keeping me hard against him. I can feel his arousal through his clothes.
His hand continues to move against me, back and forth across the fabric between my legs.
"You can't ignore it now," he says. “You can't think of anything else. It's more than an ache, now. It's a hunger. A need."
He stops touching me, but only to tug up the edge of my skirt and slide his hand beneath it. His fingers dance over the skin of my inner thigh, tracing the same path my own fingers followed last night. He touches the fabric of my panties, and then he shifts them aside, slipping his fingers beneath. I shiver when his touch meets my bare flesh.
I need to stop him. I need to pull away. I need to control this situation. But I can't make myself move. I can no longer pretend I don't feel an intense attraction for him, and I can't ignore the sensations coursing through my body, across my skin. I'm reckless, wild, free—just as I was in the passageway last night.
"So wet already," he whispers in my ear. His hand moves slowly—too slowly. I squirm against him, trying to shift against his touch, looking for the friction I so desperately crave.
"Not so fast," he says, pulling his hand away. "We're doing this at my pace."
I still, and he resumes his agonizing touches, his fingers sliding along my folds. This is exciting him, too, I can tell. His breath is short and shallow and hot against my ear, and I can feel his heartbeat galloping away against my back. He gives me another yank back, drawing me harder against his arousal.
"The ache is growing more desperate now. You don't know how much longer you can stand it. All you can think about is relieving that tension, finding release."
He slips the end of his finger inside of me, and I whimper.
"You're so close," he says, his voice ragged, his finger moving slowly in and out of me. "But that just makes it worse. You're hot with need, aching for release, and the more the frustration builds and builds, the farther away it seems."
It's all I can do not to grind against his hand, but I won't beg for it. Not from him, no matter how much I want it. My legs tremble beneath me, and if it weren't for his arms around me, I wouldn't be able to stand. My entire body is on fire, alive with need and frustration just as he claims.
"Tell me what you want, Lily," he whispers. "Tell me." He slips a second finger inside of me, and I moan.
I want to touch him. I want him to feel this desperation, too. I start to reach around behind me, but he tightens his hold and closes any last sliver of space between us.
"No," he says gently. "This is about you. What you want."
I want to touch him, to make him melt beneath my hands. I want to see the wickedness I know I'll find in his eyes. But I can't find the words to say that out loud. Instead, I close my hand over his hand between my legs and press against it. I want him to stop the slow, cruel movements of his fingers and instead ram them inside of me.