The tip of my tongue traced the outer curve of her ear (not her neck) in one slow, wet drag. She jerked in the chair, a sharp inhale slicing the silence, her thighs spreading a helpless inch under the table.
"Eros—" My name tore out of her like a plea and a curse.
I hummed, low, approving, and let my breath fan hot across the damp trail I'd just left.
"Shhh. No talking yet. Just feel what happens to a powerful, married, forty-something woman when a teenager decides she doesn't get to be in control anymore."
One fingertip—only one—touched the hollow just beneath her ear, then began a torturously slow descent. Down the column of her throat. Over the frantic flutter of her carotid. Along the razor edge of her collarbone.
Every inch I traveled, her skin flushed deeper, rose blooming under porcelain like spilled wine.
When I reached the first button of her blouse, I paused.
Circled it with the pad of my finger.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Never undoing it.
