His voice came rough and low. “Tell me to stop,” he said. “And I will.”

She could hardly think. Her body shuddered as his palm slid over her thigh through the thin fabric. She could feel the heat of his touch burning deep even through the layers of cloth, impossible to ignore. His hand moved lower and lower until he gathered the hem of her dress in his fist. Her heart dropped and then raced wildly, filled with anticipation that felt sinful. 

Her voice came out a breathy whisper. “What are you doing?”

His eyes flashed like fire, wild and dangerous. “Deciding,” he said, his tone laced with anger, “between slitting your throat or fucking you until you forget your own name.”

The words hit her like a shock, they were dark and intoxicating. Her breath hitched as his hand slipped beneath her gown. Her skin came alive with shivers, her breathing quickened, and her stomach tightened. His large, ringed hand slid up her bare leg, his touch tracing fire wherever it went, teasing the sensitive skin of her inner thigh.

Oh heavens.