He lets out a long breath. “Because...” He hesitates, then mutters, “Because I overheard you in the locker room after rugby practice one day.”
I raise a brow, waiting.
“You said you measured yourself hard,” he says, face flaming, “and it was eight inches.”
My smile is slow. Sinful. The kind that would tempt angels to fall.
I kiss him again, biting his lip just hard enough to make him gasp before I pull away.
“Oh, baby...”
I stand, tug him upright by the hands, and watch as he sits back up on the edge of the bed, blinking up at me with flushed cheeks and parted lips.
Then I shove my lounge pants down and step out of them.
My cock—hard and heavy—springs free, hanging thick and proud right in front of his face.
“That,” I murmur, brushing my thumb along his bottom lip, “was when we were sixteen, Lucciolina.”
He stares.
“You’ll find,” I say, voice dropping, “I’m quite a bit longer now.”
His breath catches. His eyes drop, taking me in with slow, reverent hunger. His hands slide up my thighs, warm and steady.
He wets his lips—and my cock twitches at the sight.
He looks up, grinning now. Seductive. Confident in a way that makes my chest tighten.
Then, without a word, he closes his eyes and finally takes his first taste of me.
Grant sucks me like he’s dying.
Like he’s been starving for this—for me—and finally, finally has permission to devour.
All breath is sucked out of my body with each pull of his sinful mouth.
My head falls back, a groan tearing out of me as pleasure hits like a goddamn freight train.
“Fuck—Grant, Cristo, così bravo?*,” I choke out, fingers threading into his hair. I try to be gentle, but the second he tries to take me deeper—all the way down—I lose the ability to pretend I have any self-control left.
“Sì, amore mio?*... just like that.”
I fist his hair and start to thrust—slow but deep—and he lets me. No flinching. No hesitation. Just wide, wet heat and soft moans that vibrate down my cock like he wants me to lose it.
And fuck me—I might.
He feels like heaven.
But I want to see his face. I want to see the hunger in his eyes—the same hunger clawing through me.
I pull him off with a gasp, and he lets go with a wet, obscene pop.
His lips are swollen. His eyes wild. His cheeks flushed like he’s drunk on me.
“Look at you,” I murmur, brushing his messy hair back, voice wrecked with need. “You’re fucking starving for me, aren’t you?”
He nods, breathless.
