And of course, there had been one other difference between us.
One too vast to bridge. Too deep to even try.
“Morgan,” he says firmly. “Answer me. Whose fault was it?”
I glare up at him. “Mine, if that’s what you want to hear.”
He spins me gracefully around, and the prickling of my dress feels like full-on burning now. But the silky underthings are doing their job too, and I’m very aware of the silk cupping me between my legs as I dance, of the delicate garter belt around my waist. Of how my nipples push against the tulle of my dress.
“It’s not what I want to hear, little witch,” he says, his voice going a little rough, a little possessive over his pet name for me. “Because you’re wrong, you know. It was my fault too.”
I’m so surprised by this concession that I don’t know what to say.
He just gives me another small smile. “Morgan le Fay struck speechless. I never thought I’d see the day.”
And I’m speechless still. As we dance, the burning on my bottom is reaching the point where I imagine flames dancing along my skin. And then Lorne’s hand slides down from the small of my back to grip my ass hard.
Pain—sharp and fiery—singes my skin. And then right behind it, right on its heels, are contrails of wet, achy pleasure. My cunt kicks hard enough with need that I gasp and stumble, although Lorne keeps us gliding effortlessly through the steps.
His hand stays though. A handprint-shaped sizzle of pain right on my ass.
“Lorne,” I manage. “You can’t—there’s something wrong with my dress.”
“There’s something wrong with your dress? Not ‘Stop, we’re divorced’?”
I blink up at him. I try to say stop, I really do. But that stubble and that mouth and those amber eyes behind that mask…
“It hurts,” I whisper instead. “When you touch me there.”
“Does it?” he asks. “So, if I reached into the slit in your skirt, I wouldn’t find you wet?”
My mouth parts. No one talks to me that way. I talk to people that way.
And yet—
And yet.
He’s not wrong. And the heat along my backside is sweetly mirrored between my legs now.
It’s something about this particular pain... just burny enough to keep me on edge, but subtle enough that I can keep dancing, that I can savor the feel of Lorne’s powerful arms guiding me through the steps.
But I’ve never been one to turn down a dare. I lift my chin and look right into his eyes. “Do it and find out,” I dare back.
I think I’ve called his bluff. I expect him to scoff, to back down, to smile again in secret amusement but do nothing else.
But then he does it. Right there on the ballroom floor, right there under the wisteria and roses, he pushes his hand into my skirt and finds the heart of me. Even through the silk panties, I’m embarrassingly wet.
He makes an impatient noise and moves the silk to the side, his fingers searching out my clit, my entrance. And I know what he’s doing. I know because I’ve done it a thousand times with my own submissives. He’s checking to see if my clit is swollen, he’s discerning for himself how wet I am at the source. All while we keep dancing. All while he keeps me held fast in his arms.
Panic hits me, fast and cold. “Lorne, you can’t, there are too many people—”
“Are any of them looking?” he asks, his eyes on mine while his fingers keep probing me. “Are any of them staring at the pretty fairy with the hand between her legs?”
Swallowing, I swivel my head and check around us. The party is in full swing—the night is rich with lust and booze—and everyone is too caught up in their own ecstasies and dramas to notice the vice president has her ex-husband’s hand up her skirt. And we’re masked anyway…
But—
“I’m supposed to meet someone later,” I blurt. “A date. Mark Tintagel set me up with a date.”
This seems to bother Lorne not at all. “And you don’t want to meet this date with a wet cunt, is that it?”
“I—”
“I don’t mind making you wet for another man,” Lorne says, bending low to whisper in my ear. His fingertips glide back over my clit and begin working it. Small circles. Slow pressure. “As long as you let me. And you are letting me, aren’t you? You’re letting your ex-husband play with you in the middle