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"My dear, you're so short, especially standing by my side." Gideon's lips curl into a smug smirk, voice dripping in condescension. He leans against the marble kitchen countertop and sets down his empty wine glass, deliberately reaching over farther than necessary and fleetingly brushing his arm against hers. Casually, he initiates the process of invading her personal space, like a prowling lion stalking its next meal.
Yasmine feels Gideon closing the distance between them and sizing her up. It's suddenly harder to breathe, as if she could choke on air. Her gaze flits down to the countertop and her fingers idly trace along it, to calm herself. Much to her frustration, the tremor in her hand reveals how uneasy she truly feels.
Gideon's smirk widens as he notices. Oh, how he savours that fear - like the vintage wine that lingers on his tongue. He watches as she silently counts the grey lines along the marble that diverge like tree branches, a nervous habit.
In an unexpected move, Gideon places his huge hand firmly upon her shoulder. She fails to suppress a flinch (and a dizzying rush of heat) as she glances at his calloused fingers making contact with her supple skin.
"I could snap you like a twig." Gideon muses, his eyes lit up with malice and mirth. He doesn't plan to harm her - at least not yet - but he loves to watch her writhe with rising dread. Yasmine avoids eye contact, avoids responding, avoids providing any reaction at all. She refuses to give him the satisfaction.
He leans down to her level and brings his face uncomfortably close to hers, forcing her to look at him. Forcing her to look into his wild, ocean eyes. There's that thunderstorm - untamed and dangerous and hypnotic - demanding her undivided attention. She knows at this exact moment that she is monumentally fucked, trapped in his web.
Willingly, a little voice in her head pipes up. She pretends she can't hear it.
Gideon gives Yasmine's shoulder a small squeeze, snapping her out of her spell. He appears amused and triumphant, knowing he has her utterly entranced. She wants to slap him. And kiss him. And punch herself for even contemplating the latter -
"Alternatively..." He drawls, his deep voice lowering to a dangerous growl that interrupts her innermost thoughts. "I could simply do this."
Before Yasmine can protest or even process what is happening, Gideon picks her up as if she weighs nothing, eliciting a surprised yelp from the red-head. He props her up onto the kitchen countertop, her legs dangling off the edge.
Her brain short-circuits when she feels his strong hands grip her knees, pushing them apart and revealing her underwear. She feels exposed, vulnerable and bare, despite being fully dressed. Can he tell how wet she is for him? Can he smell her arousal? Can he feel the heat emanating from her seeping centre? The clothing concealing her flesh suddenly feels flimsy. Inadequate.
She opens her mouth to speak, but Gideon hastily presses a finger to her lips. "Shh, shh. Let me look at you." His voice is almost a croon, but it's far from soothing. He pauses to see if she complies and when she does (more so out of shock rather than obedience, or so she tells herself), he pulls the digit away from her mouth, spreading her legs wider.
His hands trail along her thick thighs, tickling them, and she jolts with a quiet whimper. It's a slow crawl, like a spider, and he chuckles indulgently at her involuntary jumps and quivers - a helpless little creature, ensnared in his grasp.
Abruptly, he slides her forward, so that she's right at the edge of the kitchen countertop now, one hand effortlessly pinning her in place while the other teases her thighs, nails beginning to scratch at the sensitive skin and dig in to her pliable flesh.
Yasmine gasps as a bolt of fear strikes her heart, mingling with an unbidden flutter of anticipation in between her legs. Her hands clutch the edge of the counter, as if clinging onto a raft at sea for dear life. "Wait...What are you - ah!" She squeals when Gideon pinches her inner thigh. She squirms and kicks, but he twists the skin, tugging harder.
"I said silence. Now," he barks roughly, eyes flashing lightning. She sees the captain in him, the leader that once commanded dozens of men. Yasmine can believe it - she feels how his demeanour exudes absolute dominance. She is compelled to yield against her will, as if spellbound yet again.
More like cursed.
Gideon crouches down and his breath ghosts along her thighs, goosebumps erupting in its wake. "Oh, poor little dove." Within moments, the acerbic reprimand is replaced with a pleased purr. His lips nearly brush her skin where he pinched her, a red mark beginning to bloom.
He tries to sound sympathetic, but he's mocking her and she knows it, his lopsided smirk giving him away. "You seem awfully frightened, but your body tells a vastly different story, does it not?"
His finger slips into her soaked panties and tugs the fabric aside, peeling away her only protection from his inspection. He parts her labia as if unfurling rose petals, butterfly-soft. It scares her more than anything, more than pain. At least pain isn't deceptive. It won't lull her into a false sense of security, like this.
She is sure there is no real tenderness in his touch, but her exposed clit throbs needily anyway. He glides his thumb along her glistening folds languidly, her slick glazing it. Yasmine shivers with a breathless gasp, her nerve endings sparking to life.
Don't want this. Don't want him.
Her clit twitches again, begging and burning for more of him. Illuminating a simple truth: Oh yes you fucking do.