The cool glass kissed her flushed skin as Ryker turned her, his powerful frame caging her against the mirror. His erection, a thick, undeniable line of heat, ground against the curve of her ass through the fabric of his trousers and her thin sundress. His lips found the shell of her ear, his voice a low, rough vibration that went straight to her core.
"You want to see how an older man fucks, little miss?"
The crude word, so at odds with his sophisticated aura, sent a shocking, delicious thrill through her. Her reflection showed wide, hazy eyes, her chestnut hair beginning to escape its bun. She watched his hands, those capable, dangerous hands, settle on her hips, holding her firm against him.
"Ryker..." His name was a breathless sigh.
"Look," he commanded, his steel-grey gaze locking onto hers in the mirror. "Watch what I do to you."
One hand slid around to her front, his fingers splaying possessively over her lower belly, pulling her back harder against his cock. The other hand released its grip on her hip. She heard the soft click of the ceramic lid behind her. The scent of wildflower honey, rich and cloying, bloomed in the air between them.
She felt his movement, the shift of his body as he reached for himself. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat echoing in the silent, opulent room. She couldn't see what he was doing behind her, only the intense, focused look on his face in the reflection, the slight tightening of his jaw.
Then she felt it.
The first touch was a shock of cool slickness against the small of her back, just above the waistband of her panties. He dragged the honeyed tip of his cock in a slow, deliberate line down her spine. The sensation was bizarre, intimate, utterly degrading. A sticky, golden trail marked her skin. Julia's breath caught, her fingers pressing flat against the cool glass for stability.
"So sweet," he murmured, his voice thick. He painted another line, lower this time, over the cotton covering her ass. The fabric grew damp, clinging to her skin. "Meant for something like this. For marking what's mine."
His hand on her belly moved, slipping down, his fingers hooking into the hem of her dress. He began to gather the colorful fabric, pulling it up inch by agonizing inch. The air in the room felt cooler against her newly exposed skin—her thighs, the backs of her knees. She watched it happen in the mirror, a surreal tableau of her own undressing. His expression was unreadable, a mask of pure concentration, but his eyes burned with a dark fire.
When the dress was bunched around her waist, he stopped. His honey-smeared cock pressed against the bare skin of her upper thigh, a sticky, heated brand. His free hand came up, his fingers slick with the residue from his own length, and he traced the lace edge of her panties."These are in the way, Julia."
