The Widower (18+) | [Complete]

Eight

I'd like to say it was part of my plan—that it was a crucial piece of a plot to get through to him—but that wasn't quite the truth. 

No matter how much I tried, I could not prepare myself enough to fight the temptation of a dominant man like Augustine. It was like instinct—I was a moth ready to set myself aflame. As I looked at him, every red flag and warning in my mind faded to desire.

He brushed my hair from my face, his fingers tracing down my cheek. His thumb rubbed over my lips. When he slipped it into my mouth, I sucked it, and as I teased it with my tongue, I watched his lips curl into a grin.

He pulled his hand from me. "Come on then."

With a turn, he began to descend the stairs, not looking back. 

It was an out-of-body experience following him down the stairs. As if floating through a dream, my body behaved on its own, my brain numb as it witnessed it all. He only turned back once he reached the end of the stairs, watching me follow as he walked up the hall.

I had never been in his room before. I had never even seen it. As he led me, I tried to convince myself to change my mind, but I was too aroused and far too curious.

Once I made it inside his office, I found him standing at the double doors near his desk, unfastening the buttons at his wrists. The confidence he had tempted me further. I walked past him through the open leaf. Once inside, I stopped in my tracks.

The room was eerily plain. There was nothing but a grand, four-post bed centered on the back wall with side tables, an armoire, and two antique chairs positioned in front of the huge windows. No rug, no curtains, no decorations on the walls or tabletops. It was a larger version of my room. Temporary lodgings.

I heard the doors close behind me and the clicking sound of a lock. I looked over my shoulder at him as he strolled closer. In the darkness, a sane woman would fear a man with his temperament, but it only made me want him more.

Augustine stepped closer and weaved his fingers into the hair on the back of my head. He tugged it gently, making me look up at him. He leaned closer, his lips a breath from mine. My heart pounded in my chest as he placed his hand gently at my jaw. With a trace of his thumb against my chin, he parted my lips and slid in his tongue. I had to keep myself from moaning.

He kissed like a Frenchman. Passionate, sultry, with plenty of tongue. It was the kind of kissing that reminded me of sex—the heated teasing that created a noticeable ache between my thighs. Every time I thought I should stop, he placed a more delectable kiss to my lips.

I felt his hands run down my neck to my breasts. He massaged them gently for just a moment, teasing me before he began to undo my shirt. His fingers plucked at my buttons, one by one. Finally, he dragged the material off my shoulders, then did the same with my bra.

Once topless, I started to return the favor with quivering hands, feeling lucky that a few buttons were already undone. He pulled it off and I started to undo his belt. We kissed more passionately, our breathing became heavier as his fingers made quick work of my zipper. He pulled the tight material over my backside and pushed it to fall to the floor, exposing the stockings hiding beneath. His fingers tickled over the lace top of them then slid beneath the side of my panties. He ripped them down to my thighs.

When our lips parted, I instinctively went in for another. My lips only brushed his when he pulled away.

He stared down at me as his hand slid between my legs, his fingertips sliding through my slick folds. A quiet hum rumbled in his chest. 

That was about the time it stopped being about getting through to him. I didn't care who he was or what we were to each other. I just wanted to fuck.