On Thin Ice

Chapter 26- Drowning

(Y/N) POV:

My steps fumble as I backtrack. His are assured, certain, confident. A quickness in my own and a slow unrushed pace to his own. My skin feels like livewire, the shape his lips feel branded against my mouth and the press of his fingertips at the inside of my thighs.

The inside of my mind feels frazzled. Senses driven haywire and malfunctioning, working into overdrive, overwhelmed by the way he swarms them.

Still feeling the press of his lips and the way they'd shaped to mine, moulded mine to the shape of his. Still feeling the way his hands had traced at my waist, had drifted down to drag across my hips.

Thoughts short-circuiting with lust and want, eyes swarmed by the sight of dripping curls, a smirking mouth. Skin pebbling, goosebumps skimming across skin, where the temperature shifts. Shivers tracing their way down my spine, racing past the rivulets of water, body fraught with want because of the rasp of his voice that promises to drag each syllable and rich, deep timbre of it across my body. Promises oh so much more.

It's a heady pull that I want nothing more than to sink into, lose to.

And yet.

I move back.

And so he slowly advances.

Lips curling up with a smirk, a flash of teeth, pearly in the darkness, silhouette a dark shadow of muscles and broad imposing height.

Something about him... at the sight of him advancing. Slow purposefulness. Each step deliberate. Slowly...slowly treading towards me.

Something about the way his eyes remain fixed on me as if he doesn't have it in him to even contemplate looking away. Unbothered, unresistant to the will power to do anything but rake his eyes over me. Looking at me as if he'll relish in making true on his words.

Something about the slow, ambling steps, confident and assured and decisive makes heat pool under my skin.

Makes heat wind its way through my gut, slowly tightening coils that trap me in their noose.

The noose that makes the breaths shake in my lungs, each exhale wobbling.

Betraying.

Wanting.

Body pliant. Willing. Needing.

Letting his hand fall to my waist, letting the sprawling grip of a broad palm and long fingers curl into my side...letting him steer me backwards until the pool fades from sight. Until a dim darkness presses in, shadowed silhouette advancing, quiet steps near-ringing in my ears. Let him steer me back towards a door, under dimmed strobe-lights, steps fumbling where his remain surefooted. So aware of his movements, of his surroundings.

An unspoken confidence that makes the heat under my skin flare.

So aware that when his lips quirk into a half-grin, half-smirk, it's in anticipation of the way my eyes flare when the door gives way to the press of my body. His hands at my hips, steadying the tumble.

Amusement briefly flickering in dark, dark starving eyes.

It's impossible to ignore how big his hands feel against my sides. How they feel, weighted and heavy and sprawling with intent, with sureness. It's impossible to feel his hands still lingering like phantoms across my body and not want them everywhere else.

Hands steering me until my back presses to a wall, the surface firm, his touch firmer. Unyielding. Body bracketed in by the larger press of his own coming to crowd close, to press into me, to slot together. Puzzle pieces of muscles and softness. Body arching slightly. The hard press of a toned torso flush to my chest, muscled thighs astride my own. Caging. Pinning.