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my
instincts were wrong, which I never enjoyed, or that they were right and Iva
was just going to choose to stay in her shell.
    Then she nodded nearly
imperceptibly in the twinkling, shifting club lights and said, “If that’s what
it takes to get this out of my system.”
    That was all the
invitation, all the consent , I needed
from my submissive. I surged forward
and forced Iva abruptly against the balcony rail, pressed my tensed body the
length of hers. Taut muscle against full, warm curves. Thigh to thigh. My knees
flexed just enough to fit my straining erection into the juncture of her groin
even through unyielding clothes.
    I smiled with my lips
against hers, with the scent of vanilla and peach filling my senses, as Iva
sighed out a sudden raspy groan. “Get what out of your system?” I asked.   “How much you enjoy the music and the lights?
Or the bristle of adrenaline stinging the inside of your veins as you wonder
what’s going to happen next? Or that artist’s lifestyle you find so
distasteful?”
    While Iva turned her
head to avoid my words, my lips, while she tormented us both by denying the
kiss, she also pushed the swells of her breasts and her restless thighs against
me. Her mind was arguing with her body, and I had a clear favorite to win.
    “Or me, Iva? Are you
thinking you’ll get me out of your system? Because colder women than you have
tried and failed. With that hot blood in you, there isn’t a hope in hell, Brown
Eyes.”
    Iva bent away from me
but not to avoid me. She bowed her spine so that she could lean backward over
the dance floor with my arm around her waist and with the rail to keep her from
falling. She drew in a long slow breath that seemed to fill and fill and fill
her. Her loose hair swayed in the air. Then she spread her arms like she’d have
let herself tumble back, but like she knew she wouldn’t fall. The posture
pushed her hips forward into mine and ground us against one another at the
groin. When I gently bounced her, so slightly, she sighed haltingly and arched
deeper. It was possibly one of the most open, sensual, trusting, submissive
positions a woman had ever assumed with me. Only feeling her impaled on my
painfully rigid cock like this would have made it better.
    “I’ve already learned,”
Iva crooned in a drugged, languid voice that rang of sensuality at its purest,
“that too much of a good thing….”
    “Is still a good
thing,” I finished for her.
    She shook her head,
brown curls swinging again, and corrected me, “Is still too much. This is too
much. You are too much. The constant tension and the excitement… the indulgenc e, it eats away at your
judgment and frays you at the seams. The… the center cannot hold.”
    “Yeats,” I breathed hot
against the swell of her cleavage and felt Iva shiver.
    “You know the poem.”
    “I wrote the lines in
lipstick on models’ bodies for a European photo shoot last year.”
    Which made her laugh,
even if it rang sullen. “Heathen.”
    “Oh, you have no idea,”
I promised Iva as I hauled her up from her dancer-like bow and dragged her
behind me through the crowd until I found a semi—very semi—private corner in
Haute’s maze of luminescent glass walls.
    Iva lost her breath as
I shoved her back against the glass bricks. Stepped up flush against her, I
pulled her arms above her head, loomed over her. “Keep your hands there,” I
instructed her clearly despite the rampaging hunger grinding my voice to
gravel. And she obeyed, holding her arms stretched aloft in surrender as my own
hands roughly explored the yielding curves of her full breasts and hips and
ass.
    My lips kissed a
ravenous path down Iva’s neck to the swell of one breast above the immodest
neckline of her dress, my tongue flicking and testing the light salty sweetness
of her skin. And she trembled. Oh did she tremble, so defenselessly, so
perfectly. It was this kind of… purity that I’d have given anything to catch
and