She’ll tell me when she’s ready. I trust her.
Even if it makes my jaw tense when I hear the small catch in her voice she thinks I don’t notice.
The morning of our fourteenth day together, she wakes before I do.
I feel it in the shift of the mattress, the soft inhale against my chest, the brush of her curls across my collarbone. Savannah moves like she’s trying not to wake me, which is pointless. The second she stirs, my body responds before my eyes even open.
I tighten my arm around her waist. “Going somewhere?”
She stiffens in surprise, then relaxes when she hears my voice. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t.” I nudge her closer, my lips brushing the side of her neck. “I was already awake.”
She tilts her head slightly, giving me more access, and that small movement alone sends heat through me. Her skin is warm. Soft. Still marked from my hands last night in ways only I get to see.
Savannah turns in my arms so she’s facing me. “Morning, then.”
“Morning.”
My hand slides down, slow, deliberate, tracing the curve of her hip. She’s still wearing my shirt from last night. Half-buttoned. Barely covering her thighs. One shift of my wrist and the fabric parts under my touch.
She inhales sharply.
“Riccardo…”
I know that tone. The warning wrapped in want.
I smirk against her skin and ease her onto her back. She lets me, eyes half-closed, lips parted, hair fanned across my pillow in a way that makes something hungry rise in my chest.
I settle between her legs. Her breath catches. Her hands slide up my shoulders like it’s second nature.
“You’re sensitive in the mornings,” I drawl. “I like that.”
Her cheeks warm. “You like everything.”
“Everything aboutyou,yes.”
She blushes hard, and I kiss her. Slow at first, then deeper when she lifts her chin to meet me. The kiss turns intosomething heavier, something that pulls a sound out of her throat I want to hear again.
I trail my mouth down her neck, down her chest, pushing the shirt aside. She arches when I reach the spot just under her ribs. The spot that makes her breathing get uneven.
She whispers, “Riccardo… please…”
I hold her hips and run my hand down her belly, brushing my fingers exactly where she’s warm and soft for me. She gasps—a sharp, surprised sound—and her hands clutch at the sheets.
I take my time with her. Slow strokes. Watch every face she makes and drink in her soft little gasps.
It doesn’t take long. Not in the morning, not when she wakes up already needy for me.
Her legs tense around me, her voice breaking on my name, and when she comes, she tries to hide her face with one hand.
I pull her hand away. “No. Let me see you.”
She does.
And she falls apart beautifully.
When she’s still shaking with aftershocks, I move down her body. Kiss her breasts in turn. I take my time with them, too, playing with her nipples until they pebble under my tongue. “Riccardo, please, I need?—”
