Pretty Little Secret - LIV POV

Olivia was paralyzed. Physically rendered immobile by pleasurable indecision. To move or not to move, that was the question. She silently cursed up to the heavens. And wonder for the millionth time how she managed to let Fitz literally talk her out of her panties. Damn that man. She didn't dare move. The slightest movement caused the fabric of her skirt to brush across her bare skin. She fought against the urge to close her eyes and moan. It was all too much. It felt too good. It was so wrong. This was neither the time nor the place. But Fitz had been right, she was consumed with thoughts of him. Every touch of fabric was his hand gently caressing her ass. Every soft brush against her hip was his hot breath grazing sensually across her cheeks. She did not dare move. But she'd be damned if she stayed still. With a deviant sway of her hips and neutral grin on her face, she waltzed over to the back corner of the church and began talking with a small group of churchgoers.

Look away. Olivia pretended to be engrossed in the conversation happening around her. She nodded and mumbled responses all the while acutely aware of a pair of eyes staring at her from the front of the church. Fitz had been unwavering in his visual tracking of her and relentless in his gaze. A slow burn began to stir, starting in the pit of her stomach, rising up to her chest, and descending to her core. It was all consuming, it was demanding. It was becoming impossible for her to stand still. She grew increasingly uncomfortable as her treacherous mind conjured up images of the night before. She wished he'd stop staring at her. She wished she had the strength to meet his eyes. Olivia unconsciously reached up and played with the collar of her blouse while trying to discrete cool herself down. As the hot air seemly escaped from its confines within her blouse she swore she felt a phantom lick up her neck. She snapped to attention, her unfocused eyes becoming clear once again. The hand on her collar abruptly stopped moving as she made eye contact with one of the old ladies in the group who had been eying her exposed neck with a knowing smile.

She was going to explode. Her nerves were on edge and she was ready to jump out of her skin at any moment. She had to get out of this church. She pressed a hand to her heart, relieved that it seemed to be slowing down. She chuckled softly to herself and thought back to moments earlier where she had been convinced that she was seconds away from tearing Fitz clothes off and fucking him senseless right on the hallowed grounds upon which they stood.

To think it all started with a gust of wind. She'd been standing slightly off to the left of the church doors when she felt a harsh gust of wind slap across her legs and upper thighs. Shocked, she'd been momentarily rendered mute as her mind involuntarily travelled back to last night where she'd discovered Fitz's affinity for smacking her ass. Desire shot through her like a bolt of lightening as her eyes – with a mind of their own – sought his. Much to her chagrin, he'd witnessed her reaction and wore a self-satisfied smirk on his lips.

She stared at him with wide eyes and willed herself to look away. Her jaw dropped as she watched him take his hand out of his pocket – the pocket which held her panties – and slowly run his index finger across his bottom lip. He wore a faux pensive expression but his eyes shimmered with mischief. He was trying to kill her.

She had to get out of this church.

Olivia was certain, absolutely certain, about very few things in her life. To Olivia, being certain meant to reject the idea of variable change, something not in her wheelhouse. If nothing else, she prided herself for always accounting for the unaccountable. For understanding and appreciating that certainty was an illusion existing for the sole purpose of lulling one into a false sense of security. But standing in the back of the church watching Fitz, hand on his hip, pretend to be interested in the pastor's words as his long fingers leisurely stroke the outside of his pants pocket, Olivia was certain - beyond a shadow of a doubt - of three things. One, this man was made for sex. Absolutely born to fuck. Two, she was, despite her best efforts, madly in love with Fitzgerald Thomas Grant the Third. Three, she'd gravely underestimated said Grant. And don't forget, four - I'm going to straight to hell.

Despite her instant attraction to the man, Olivia had been convinced that Fitz was white bread, plain vanilla. Like most, she'd seen his perfect appearance, perfect hair, and cavalier disposition as indicative of the man's true nature. The fact that his marriage was in shambles, contrary to public perception, only served to suggest layering and perhaps a hint of complexity. But his eyes and his smile proved to be his contradiction. They hinted at a secret, something deeper, something wanton; they hinted at a promise of satisfaction. She'd been drawn in – slowly and irrevocably – by the hunger burning bright in his eyes and the deviously innocent smirk that always seemed to play on his lips whenever he looked at her. She fell despite herself. She fell despite the circumstances. She fell, because at the end of the day, not falling was not an option.

Vanilla he was not. He was layered. He was mysteriously hidden in plain sight. He was delicious. He was rocky road ice cream. And goddammnit if that wasn't her favorite flavor.

She sighed heavily and glanced around the church, a single thought floated through her hear. I have to get out of this church.