Soren's hands began to move. Slowly. Deliberately. Palms sliding over the thin ice-silver slip as though the fabric were an insult keeping him from what was his.
He cupped her waist, thumbs tracing the flare of her hips, then higher, groping the soft weight of her breasts through the silk until her nipples peaked hard against his touch. Every stroke was possessive, reverent, hungry.
Eris tried to hold onto the last threads of composure. "Soren—this is—you need to, "
"Need to what?" His lips brushed the shell of her ear, breath cool and deliberate. "Stop touching my wife?"
The words were a velvet blade. They cut through her protest before it could fully form. She opened her mouth again, but nothing came, only a ragged exhale as his fingers kneaded her flesh with shameless entitlement.
Her body betrayed her at every turn: hips tilting forward, thighs pressing together, the slick heat between them growing unbearable under the aphrodisiac's relentless tide.
