Owning Violet (The Fowler Sisters #1)(59)

I’m going to relish proving him—and myself—wrong.

His warm fingers tug the zipper of my dress down until it stops just at my lower back and he reaches up, skimming his fingers along my exposed skin. I close my eyes and waver on my feet, letting the overwhelming lust I have for this man take over me. His touch feels so good, his nearness, the sound of his breathing, the scent of his cologne … it’s all too much.

Yet not even close to being enough.

“Thank you,” I whisper as I let my hair fall down my back. I open my eyes and stare straight ahead. A little shocked, but my determination wins out and I’m about to shrug out of my dress when he stops me, pushing my hair to the side so he can press his mouth to the back of my neck. His lips are warm and damp and they move across my nape slowly. Seductively. He licks me with his tongue, bites the side of my neck with his sharp teeth, and a shaky breath leaves me at the sting of pain.

I don’t want him to ever stop. I’m addicted to his touch, his mouth, his words. The way he commands me, the demands he makes of me. He makes me feel like I’m someone else. A better, stronger version of myself.

“Take the dress off, Violet,” he whispers against my neck and I shrug out of it, letting the sleeves fall from my arms and the top drop to my waist, before I shove it from my hips and the beautiful white dress I wore purposely today falls to the floor in a delicate heap at my feet. I step out of it just as I feel his hands brush against the center of my back, his nimble fingers quickly undoing the clasp of my bra.

The nude lace and satin cups loosen around my breasts and his hands rest on my shoulders for the briefest moment before he’s pushing at the lacy straps so they drop halfway down my arms. The bra falls away, fluttering to the floor to join the dress, and when he settles his hands on my hips, I know what he’s going to do.

He’s undressing me. Slowly. Carefully, with very few words, with hardly a sound. His strong fingers curl into the lace waistband of my panties and he tugs, drawing the silky fabric down, past my backside, exposing me to his gaze.

“Beautiful,” he whispers as he bends slightly to tug my underwear down my thighs. His fingers brush against my sensitive skin and a little sigh escapes me when I feel myself go damp and fluttery in anticipation.

I want him. I want him to touch me, want his sure fingers to plunge inside my body, his lips and tongue taking me straight to oblivion. I want his hands to grip my hips so hard he leaves bruises. I want him to make me come so hard I see stars …

But he doesn’t want that. He’s demanding something else from me. Something I want to give.

No matter how much it frightens me.

When there’s no more clothing for me to remove from my body he turns me around, his hands firm on my shoulders, his gaze direct on my face. He doesn’t look down, as if he’s afraid somehow he’ll offend me, when I want nothing more than his heated gaze on my skin, on the most intimate parts of me. The parts Zachary and the other men I’ve been with never really seemed to see.

This man may be using me, but he sees me. Every single thing that makes me who I am, he notices. And he wants to see more.

“Take off the shoes,” he says, and I kick them off, settling to my rather average height of five-foot-four. He towers over me completely since he’s well over six feet, and I keep my eyes trained on his, feeling a calming sense of compliance settle over me. I’m letting him be in control and I like it. Prefer it.

“Now I want you to lie on the table,” he says, his voice like velvet as he commands me. “Completely back.”

I do as he says as he goes to the door, turning the lock into place with a loud snick. A sharp gasp escapes me when my bare butt makes contact with the marble table and I shiver.

“Tell me what you’re feeling,” he says as he comes back toward the table.

“It’s cold against my skin, the marble,” I say as I lie down just as he told me to do, my shoulder blades sharp and awkward against the solid surface. My hair spills out everywhere, the marble uncomfortable beneath my head, and I adjust myself as best I can.

“I’m sure.” He sounds amused. Of course, he would be. “Spread your legs, Violet.”

I widen them without hesitation, savoring the strangled sound he makes when I do. He must see how wet I am, how much I want him. I can smell myself, the heady scent of my sex filling the room, and my skin tingles in anticipation of what I’m about to do.

“Scoot backward,” he urges, getting me into position so he can see me better, I presume. “Bend your legs at the knees.”

He settles into a chair right in front of me, and I prop myself on my elbows so I can see him. The lascivious expression on his face as he studies me between my legs fills me with such power I almost feel dizzy. He wants me. He wants to touch me.

But he won’t.

“Are you brave enough to do it?” he asks as he leans back in his chair, his startling blue gaze meeting mine. “Or will you chicken out?”

He knows just what to say to both infuriate me and make me want to prove him wrong. “Watch and see,” I say, hoping I don’t sound as nervous as I feel.

I push the nerves aside and lie completely flat against the table, giving up on getting comfortable. I stare up at the ceiling and blow out a long, steadying breath, close my eyes, and count to five.

Showtime.

Keeping my eyes closed, I touch my breasts, cup their heavy weight in my palms, brushing my thumbs over my nipples. Once, twice, feeling them harden. I don’t say a word and neither does he, and I’m fine with that. More than fine with that, because I don’t want to say something stupid and ruin the moment.