"Look at you," he whispered, his eyes dark pools of pure desire. "Blonde hair like fucking sunlight against this glass. Eyes that look at me like I'm the answer to a prayer you didn't even know you were still praying."

The hand on her waist slid up. So. Fucking. Slowly. Palm flat against her ribs, his thumb brushing the soft, sensitive underside of her breast through the silk. Not grabbing. Not taking. Worshipping.

"These lips," he breathed, his gaze fixed on her mouth. "Perfect. Pink. The way they part when you breathe. The more I can see your pulse beating here, in your neck."

Patricia's hips rolled against him, a slow, involuntary wave of pure need. Her body was responding to his words, to his touch, to the thick promise of his cock, moving with a sensual rhythm she hadn't known she possessed.

She felt it in her core, a deep, clenching pulse. Her pussy flooded, soaking the silk, a dark, wet bloom of pure need. Her clit throbbed where it pressed against him. Her entire body was awakening from a twenty-three-year slumber, and it was a glorious, agonizing rebirth.

"The way you move," he groaned, and she felt his cock twitch against her, a powerful throb. "Like water. Like silk. Like something I don't deserve but I can't stop wanting. Patricia, the way your body responds to me—the way you're moving right now—it's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

She moved again. Couldn't help it. Her back arched, pressing her breasts toward him, the silk camisole riding up to expose the soft skin beneath.

Her hips rolled, slow and deliberate, grinding against the hard length of him. Creating a friction that made her gasp, made her clit ache, made her want to rip all the clothes off their bodies and fuck him right there against the glass with all of Los Angeles watching.

But she didn't. Her body found a rhythm—a slow, sinuous, erotic dance. Rolling her hips. Arching her spine. Pressing and releasing, moving as if she were already fucking him, as if her body was expressing what her mouth couldn't articulate, every frustration, every desire, every fantasy of the last two decades poured into this single, perfect movement.

Eros squeezed his eyes shut. His grip on her waist tightened, his fingers digging into her ribs, hard, possessive bruises she knew she'd cherish tomorrow. His other hand curled into a fist against the window.

She felt his cock throb again, a heavy, insistent beat against her. Felt it get impossibly harder. Felt the tension in his body, the way every muscle was locked, like he was using every ounce of his godly control not to rip the silk away and take her right there.

"Patricia," he groaned, his eyes still squeezed shut. "Fuck. The way you're moving. I can feel every fucking inch of you. Your hips rolling against me. Your pussy is so wet I can feel it through our clothes. Your body is telling me exactly what you need."

She moved faster, her dance becoming more desperate. Her hips grinding against his cock, the silk shorts pulling tight, the friction a delicious, agonizing torment. Her breasts moved with each roll of her hips, the lace scraping her sensitive nipples, sending electric shocks straight to her clit.

And he just stood there. Eyes closed. Fist clenched. Letting her movements carry him away. Letting her dance against him, express herself, take what she needed without him taking a single thing from her.

His face… god, his face. Eyes squeezed shut like he was in agony or ecstasy or both. Jaw clenched so tight a muscle jumped in his cheek. Lips parted, his breath coming in harsh, ragged pants.

He looked like a man being torn apart. A man in a dream he was desperate to never wake from.

"Don't stop," he whispered, his voice a raw, broken thing. "Please don't fucking stop. Let me feel you. Let me memorize this. The way your body moves. The way you feel against me. This is—fuck, Patricia, this is everything."

She didn't stop. She moved against him like she was possessed, like twenty-three years of stifled, starving sexuality was pouring out of her hips. Slow, sensual rolls. Tight, desperate grinds. Arching and pressing, creating a friction that had her gasping for air, had her soaking the silk, had her balancing on the razor's edge of an orgasm so intense it scared her.

And she felt it. Felt the way his body was responding, even through his monumental restraint. Felt his cock kicking against her with everyroll of her hips. Felt his hands trembling where they held her. Felt the coiled tension in his body, a spring wound tight.

It made her feel powerful. It made her feel divine.

"That's it," he encouraged, his voice strained. "Show me. Show me everything you've been holding back for years. Every desire. Every need. Every fantasy you've had lying awake at night while your husband snored beside you. Give it all to me."

Patricia whimpered, her movements becoming frantic. Her hands slid up to grip his shoulders for leverage, using his solid frame to grind harder, press closer, create more of that maddening friction against her throbbing clit.

The silk was utterly, shamelessly drenched now. She could feel it, a wet second skin, no barrier at all between her aching pussy and his rigid cock. She could feel every ridge, every vein, every powerful, promising throb.

"I want to rip this off you," he groaned, his voice thick with restraint. "Want to tear this silk away and feel your bare pussy against me. Want to slide inside you and feel you come apart. But not yet. Not fucking yet. This is… Patricia, this is worship. This is me giving you what you need. Letting you take it. Letting you use me."

She cried out, a broken, beautiful sound. Her body moved faster, chasing something building in her core, a fire threatening to consume her entirely.

She could come like this. Could come just from this dry, clothed dance, from his word-worship, from the feel of his cock.

"That's it," he whispered, sensing her teetering on the edge. "Take what you need. Come against me. Let me feel you. Let me know what I do to you."

But he didn't let her. Just as she felt the first contraction, his hands tightened, lifting her away from the glass, away from the friction, even as she whimpered in protest, her hips still rolling, seeking what had been denied.

He spun with her. Carried her through the penthouse while she writhed against him, her body continuing its desperate, sensual dance even while suspended in his powerful arms.

"Not yet," he murmured against her hair.

He set her down on the cold marble of the kitchen counter. The freezing stone against her nearly bare ass made her gasp. He stepped between her legs, his strong hands spreading her wide, his cock pressing right against her drenched core.

And she moved again.

God, she moved. Her hips rolled on that marble counter, grinding against him, the shocking cold beneath her and his searing heat in front of her creating a delicious tension that made her dizzy. Her back arched. Her head fell back, blonde hair caressing the stone.

"Eros," she moaned, his name a prayer, a curse.

"Touch yourself," he said, his voice a ragged, velvet command. "While you move. Show me how you make yourself feel good. Show me what your husband has been too fucking stupid to appreciate for twenty-three years."

Patricia's hands slid up her own body. Over her stomach, up her ribs, to cup her breasts through the silk.

She squeezed, thumbs brushing over her straining nipples. And she kept moving. Kept dancing. Hips rolling on the cold marble while she touched herself, his dark eyes burning into her, worshiping her. One hand slid down, over her stomach, to where the silk shorts were soaked, clinging to her pussy.

She pressed against herself, and the combined sensations—the dance, his gaze, her own touch—made her cry out again.

"Don't come yet," he warned, and it sounded like a plea.

He lifted her off the counter, carried her to the plush sectional, and laid her down like she was a precious, sacred offering. He stood above her, looking down, his fists still clenched.

"Dance for me like this," he said softly. "On your back. Show me how your body moves when you're lost in pleasure. Show me."

Patricia's back arched off the cushions. Her hips rolled toward him, her hands sliding back down her body, one to her breasts, one between her legs. Her legs fell open. A dance on her back. Sensual and shameless. Her spine undulated like a wave. Her hips rolled in slow, sinuous circles. She looked like a siren, a fantasy, a wet dream made flesh.

Eros watched, a marble statue of restraint about to shatter. His breath was harsh in the quiet room. "I'm going to remember this," he said, his voice strained. "Every time I close my eyes, I'm going to see this. You, moving like this. This is the most erotic thing I've ever witnessed."

She could feel it building again, bigger this time. A tidal wave. Her movements became frantic, desperate.

And before she could fall, he was there, pulling her up, lifting her. He pressed her against the window one last time, and this time, his hands slid under her camisole. His hot, rough hands touched her bare skin for the first time, and a raw sob tore from her throat. He cupped her breasts, his thumbs brushing over her nipples, and she threw her head back and moved against him, a fever pitch of pure, unadulterated need.

His control finally snapped. "Patricia," he groaned against her skin, his voice thick. "Fuck. This is—you're—I can't—"

He couldn't finish. He just held her, his body trembling, and let her dance against him, her pussy grinding against his throbbing cock, her body expressing everything she'd ever wanted, everything she'd ever been denied.

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