This.
We kiss again, making out like teenagers.
The kisses turn ravenous, all teeth and tongue and surrendered breath. Marco’s hands slide into my hair, holding me still as he deepens the kiss until I’m dizzy with it.
His tongue isn’t asking as it darts into my mouth... it’sclaiming. A slow, deliberate invasion that silences every whisper of the woods outside.
He explores the heat of my mouth like a restaurant he’s paid to conquer, mapping the ridges and softness with devastating focus.
The woods aren’t just forgotten, they’re fucking erased. All I know is the velvet stroke of his tongue against the roof of my mouth, the sharp nip of his teeth on my lower lip, the way he moans when I suck gently on his tongue.
He tastes like theaglio e oliowe ate earlier, and something else... something decadent. Untamed.
I arch against him, my hands fisted in his shirt,and he responds with a growl that vibrates through my bones.
Distract me, my body begs.Drown the shadows.
He does. His tongue sweeps against mine in slow, drugging circles, then plunges deeper, stealing my breath until I’m trembling. He licks the inside of my mouth like he’s savoring a rare vintage, finding every hidden corner. The sensitive spot behind my teeth, the fragile seam where inner cheek meets gum.
When I whimper, he palms my throat, his thumb tracing my pulse as he swallows the sound.
“Still scared?” he murmurs against my lips.
I can’t remember the question. Can’t remember my own name. There’s only the slick, primal slide of his tongue against mine, the primal rhythm of our breathing as it syncs, the way his hips grind mine into the couch until the fabric burns.
He breaks for a moment to study my face like he’s reading a menu he’s trying to perfect. Our cheeks are covered in our own saliva, glistening in the dim firelight.
Then he stands, pulling me up with him.
“Come here,” he says.
I follow him to the center of the room where the rug stretches out in front of the dying fire. He stops. Turns to face me.
He waits.
I’m confused for only a moment.
I nod slowly, and reach for my wrist.
Unclasp my bracelet.
The signal we’ve been using since that first time.
Permission without having to say it out loud.
I walk to the lamp on the side table. Loop the bracelet over the knob where it catchesthe light.
When I turn back, he’s watching me with an intensity that makes my skin feel too tight.
“Mine,” he says.
Not a question. A statement. A claim.
And God help me, I want to be claimed.
“Yours,” I whisper.
He crosses the space between us in two strides. His hands frame my face. Then he’s kissing me and it’s not the desperate, hungry thing from earlier. It’s slower. Deeper. Like he’s trying to memorize the taste of me.
