I gasp. It starts gentle, careful, a brush of lips. But then he tilts his head and kisses me deeper, his tongue sliding against mine, and something sparks low in my stomach.
I press closer, hungry for more.
He groans. His arm slides around my waist, pulling me in, and now I can feel the hard planes of his body, the heat of his bare skin. His mouth finds my neck, and I moan, arching against him.
His thumb strokes the hem of the shirt. My skin.
"Off," he murmurs, kissing me again.
I sit up and reach for the hem.
But he catches my wrist, stopping me. "Wait."
In the dark, his eyes glint. He takes his time, sliding his fingers under the edge of the fabric. My skin sparks as he eases it up, inch by inch. The hem brushes over my thighs, my stomach. Higher. I lift my arms, and the shirt falls free.
My nipples are hard in the cold. He kisses my neck, then slides his lips lower. My collarbone. Lower still. He brushes his lips across the curve of my breast, and I shiver, hands twisting in the sheets. I've never like felt this with anyone else. Never been kissed like this, worshiped like this.
"You're perfect," he whispers, kissing a path lower, between the valley of my breasts, the flat of my stomach. "So fucking perfect."
And then he dips his head lower.
He slides one hand up my inner thigh. I tremble in anticipation. What's going to happen now? What's he going to do to me?
Is he going to touch me, like he did before? Make me come with his fingers like in the bathroom?
But no. His body's sliding downwards, too, Luca's gaze far darker and more intent than it was earlier. He's hungry, I realize, but for what?
Then his mouth presses between my legs.
Oh.
Oh.
The wet heat of his tongue slides up, and it's all I can do not to moan. His thumb strokes over my clit, and pleasure arcs through me. He keeps going, teasing, sucking, his tongue flicking over sensitive flesh, and soon I'm rocking my hips, gasping, clutching his hair, his shoulders, anything I can hold onto.
Then his fingers slide into me again.
This time, I do moan, arching, desperate. It feels so good, so impossibly good. The rhythm is steady, his mouth relentless, his tongue pressing, sucking, flicking. His fingers curl, stroking, and a bolt of pleasure shivers through me.
"Please," I gasp, "oh, please, don't stop?—"
His breath is warm on my skin, his lips wet and swollen. "Stop?" he drawls, hot and thick and so husky I could die. "Not a chance. I haven't finished my meal yet."
Then he dives back in.
I arch, gasping. He grabs my hips with both hands and pins them against the mattress, trapping me underneath him.
"You're staying right here," he growls, low and rough and almost animalistic. "With me. Forever."
All I can do is moan, trembling.
I can't breathe. Can't think. All I can do is feel, feel the slide of his tongue on my clit and the scrape of his stubble against my thighs and the weight of his body as he pins me to the bed.
I've never felt anything like this.
It's overwhelming. It's intoxicating. It's terrifying.
I dig my fingers into his hair and rock my hips. I feel so ashamed, chasing my pleasure like this, canting my core against his mouth like I've got any right to ask for more. But god help me, I do want more. For the first time in my life, Iwant.
