Not so hasty...

Her fingers were nimble, eager, tugging at the heavy leather of my belt. She wanted to skip to the end, to the release.

I covered her hand with mine. My glove was rough against her smooth skin. I didn't pull her hand away, but I stopped its movement completely. I pressed her palm flat against my stomach, holding it there so she could feel the tension in my muscles, the heat radiating through my clothes.

"Patience, Meg," I murmured against her lips. "We aren't running a race."

She blinked, her violet eyes fluttering open, hazy with confusion. She wasn't used to being told to wait. "I thought you said you wanted to use me," she whispered, her voice husky.

"I do," I replied, sliding my free hand from her hip up the side of her ribcage. "But good girls wait for their turn."

I stepped closer, eliminating the last inch of space between us. I was taller than her, broader. I loomed over her, casting a shadow that she seemed all too happy to disappear into.

I moved my hand slowly, deliberately. I traced the curve of her waist, feeling the fabric of her purple dress bunch under my fingers. It was a Grecian style, draped and elegant, but beneath it, she was trembling. Not from cold, but from pure, electrical anticipation.

I leaned down and buried my face in the crook of her neck. I inhaled deeply. Lavender, burnt sugar, and the salt of her skin.

"Does he touch you like this?" I asked quietly, dragging the tip of my nose along her sensitive pulse point.

Megara shivered, her head falling back, exposing her throat. "He... he respects me," she gasped. "He treats me like... like porcelain."

"Porcelain is cold," I said. I opened my mouth and bit down gently on the cord of muscle in her neck.

She gasped, a sharp intake of breath that sounded loud in the quiet garden. Her fingers curled into my coat, clutching the fabric as if to keep her balance.

"I don't think you're porcelain, Meg," I whispered against her skin, soothing the bite with a slow lick of my tongue. "I think you're marble. Hard. Enduring. And you need a sculptor who isn't afraid to use a chisel."

I moved my hand around to her back. The dress was held up by intricate ties. I didn't undo them. Instead, I pressed my palm flat against her lower back, right at the base of her spine. I applied pressure, pulling her hips flush against mine.

Through the layers of our clothes, she could feel exactly how hard I was.

"Oh gods..." she breathed, her knees buckling slightly. She would have slid down if I wasn't holding her up.

I walked her backward. Step by slow step.

She moved with me, her eyes locked on mine, trapped in my gravity. We moved through the high grass until her back met the rough bark of the ancient olive tree.

She let out a soft oof as she hit the solid wood. There was nowhere left to go. She was pinned between the unyielding tree and my unyielding body.

I planted my hands on the trunk on either side of her head, caging her in.

"You act so tough," I observed, studying her face. The cynicism was gone. Her sarcasm had evaporated. All that was left was a woman who was **** to be overwhelmed. "But right now, you look like you're about to beg."

Megara swallowed hard. She tried to summon a smirk, but it faltered into a tremble. "Maybe I just like the view," she deflected weakly.

I smirked. "Liar."

I reached down. I didn't lift her skirt yet. Instead, I took off my glove and ran my hand along the outside of her thigh. I traced the long slit in her dress, my fingers brushing against the bare skin that peaked through. Her skin was incredibly soft, a stark contrast to the rough bark behind her.

I hooked my finger into the slit of the dress and slowly, agonizingly slowly, began to slide the fabric upward.

"Tell me to stop," I challenged her, my voice a low rumble. "Tell me you want to go back to the Coliseum. To the cheering crowds. To the 'hero'."

She looked at me, her chest heaving. She looked at my hand, teasing the hem of her dress higher, exposing her knee, then her thigh.

She shook her head. Her ponytail swayed.

"Don't stop," she whispered, her voice barely audible. Then, louder, with a sudden, **** fire: "Don't you dare stop."

I smiled. It was the permission to conquer.

I pushed the heavy purple fabric up to her waist, bunching it there. The cool air of the garden hit her bare legs, making her skin prickle with goosebumps.

She wasn't wearing anything underneath.

I stared at her exposed form. Her hips were wide, her thighs pale and shapely, and between them, a neatly trimmed patch of dark auburn hair. She was wet. Glisteningly so. The evidence of her desire was right there, weeping for me.

"Beautiful," I murmured.

I looked back up at her face. Her cheeks were flushed a deep crimson, ashamed and thrilled all at once.

"Spread them," I commanded softly.

Megara didn't hesitate. She adjusted her stance, sliding her feet apart in the grass, opening herself to the cool air and my hungry gaze.

I moved my hand between her legs. I didn't penetrate. I just cupped her. My fingers covered her heat, her wetness soaking through between them.

She threw her head back against the tree and let out a long, broken moan.

"That's it," I whispered, watching her unravel. "Let the heavy feeling take you."