Chapter 21 Holding Back
Orion’s POV
The walk back to the resort is a test of my own restraint.
Cora is leaning into me, her weight shifting against my side with every step we take across the manicured grass.
She isn’t stumbling, not exactly, but there is a looseness to her limbs that wasn't there an hour ago.
The wine sat untouched for the longest time, but once the dam broke and we started talking about things that actually mattered, she began to sip.
Then she drank.
By the time we stood up to leave, the bottle was empty and her eyes had taken on a hazy, glass-like sheen that makes my chest tighten.
The humidity of the night clings to us, making her skin feel damp where it brushes against my arm.
Every time her hip bumps mine, I feel the jolt of it clear down to my fucking bone.
I keep my arm firmly around her waist, anchoring her to me, trying my damn hardest to keep her steady.
In reality, I just want to feel the heat radiating off her body.
We reach the door of the cottage, and the click of the lock sounds unnaturally loud in the quiet of the night.
I lead her inside, the air conditioning hitting us like a cold wave, but it does nothing to cool the fire currently burning under my skin.
“Easy,” I mutter as she trips slightly over the rug in the entryway.
She lets out a soft, melodic giggle that vibrates against my ribs.
“I’m fine, Orion,” she says, her voice trailing off into a whisper that sounds like velvet.
I don’t answer because if I speak, I’m afraid I’ll say something I can’t take back.
I guide her toward the bedroom, the moonlight filtering through the sheer curtains and casting everything in shades of silver and deep blue.
I steer her to the edge of the large bed and gently push her shoulders down until she’s sitting.
She flops back against the pillows with a sigh, her dark hair fanning out around her like a halo.
I drop to my knees on the floor between her feet.
I reach out and take hold of her right heel, sliding the thin strap over her ankle.
The skin there is soft, and my thumb lingers for a second too long against her pulse point.
I set the shoe aside and move to the left one, trying to focus on the task and not the way her legs look stretching out before me.
Suddenly, Cora bolts upright.
The movement is so sudden I nearly lose my balance.
She’s staring at me, her eyes heavy-lidded and dark, looking beady and incredibly sexy in the low light.
There’s a hunger in her gaze that I’ve never seen before, a raw honesty that the wine has stripped bare.
She reaches behind her back, her fingers fumbling blindly for the zipper of her dress.
“Cora, what are you doing?” I ask, my voice sounding strained even to my own ears.
“It’s too tight,” she whispers, her breath hitching.
She starts tugging at the fabric near her shoulders, the silk straining against her movements.
“Orion,” she groans, her eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that makes my blood roar.
“Take it off,” she begs.
“Please. Take this dress off me.”
I swallow hard, the sound audible in the silent room.
My throat feels like it’s filled with sand.
I can feel myself getting hard, a dull, demanding throb in my jeans that makes it difficult to breathe.
I know she’s had too much to drink, and I know I should be the responsible one here.
But looking at her—at the way her lips are parted and the way she’s looking at me like I’m the only thing in the world that matters—is breaking me down.
“You’re tipsy, Cora,” I say, though it sounds more like a plea for my own sake than a warning for hers.
“I don’t care,” she shoots back, her voice dropping an octave.
“I want to feel you. Help me.”
I move from the floor to the bed, crawling up until I’m behind her.
My hands are shaking as I reach for the zipper.
The metal is cold against my fingertips, a stark contrast to the searing heat of her back.
I slowly pull the slider down.
The sound of the teeth parting is the only thing I can hear over the pounding of my heart.
The dress loosens, falling away from her skin, revealing the delicate line of her spine.
I pull the fabric down her arms, letting it pool around her waist.
She turns in my arms, her face inches from mine.
She smells like expensive wine and the floral perfume she put on earlier, a combination that is currently acting like a drug on my system.
She leans in, her eyes fluttering shut as she aims for my mouth.
I catch her by the shoulders, gently but firmly holding her back.
“No,” I choke out.
She freezes, her eyes snapping open.
Confusion flickers through the haze of her expression.
“No?” she repeats.
“Cora, you’re drunk,” I explain, my jaw clamped shut so tight I’m surprised my teeth don’t crack.
“I’m not going to take advantage of you when you aren't thinking straight.”
She pulls away from my touch, her lower lip jutting out in a pout that is far more dangerous than she realizes.
“You don’t want me,” she says, her voice trembling with a mix of hurt and intoxication.
“That’s what this is. You’ve been holding back for days because you don’t actually want me.”
The words hit me like a physical blow.
It’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard, and yet, in her state, I can see that she truly believes it.
The frustration that’s been building up inside me for the last week finally boils over.
I’m tired of being the saint.
I’m tired of the careful distances and the polite glances.
I reach out and grab her hands, my grip firm and undeniable.
I pull them down, guiding them toward the front of my jeans.
I press her palms flat against the heavy, rigid length of my cock, trapped behind the denim.
I grit my teeth, a low growl escaping my throat as the contact sends a surge of pure electricity through my body.
“Does this feel like I don’t want you?” I rasp, leaning in close until our foreheads are touching.