"Kiss me," he repeated, his thumb tracing my swollen bottom lip. "I kissed you. Now it's your turn. Show me how much you've missed this mouth."
"That's—you're—" I sputtered, heart hammering against my ribs. "We just kissed, you megalomaniacal control freak!"
"No," he corrected, applying gentle pressure to my lip until I could taste the salt of his skin. "I kissed you. Now you're going to kiss me. I want to see how well you remember your lessons from the forest."
Lessons. Like I'd been some kind of student rather than a reluctant participant in their alpha dominance displays. The audacity made me want to bite his thumb clean off, but my body had other ideas—namely, another embarrassing pulse of slick at his commanding tone.
"If I kiss you, will you put me down?" I asked, hating how needy I sounded.
His laugh was low and dangerous. "If you kiss me properly, I might consider it."
"Might?"
"Kiss me, Leo," he commanded, not bothering to answer my question. "Now."
My omega hindbrain responded before my conscious mind could object. I leaned forward awkwardly, tilting my head at what I hoped was the right angle, and pressed my lips against his with more force than finesse. Our teeth clinked together painfully, making me wince and pull back slightly.
Great. I kiss like someone who learned romance from textbooks. Because I basically did.
I tried again, more cautiously this time. My lips touched his softer, gentler, completely unsure what to do next. Did I move them? Keep them still? Was I supposed to open my mouth immediately or wait for some signal?
In my confusion, I froze against him, lips connected but not moving, like the world's most awkward statue.
Stefano's chest rumbled with something that might have been amusement or frustration. "Relax," he murmured against my mouth. "Follow my lead."
He demonstrated with a slight movement of his lips against mine, a gentle pressure that invited reciprocation. I copied him hesitantly, moving my mouth in what I hoped was a similar pattern.
Is this right? Am I doing this correctly? There should be a manual for this shit.
His hand slid from my neck to cup the back of my head, fingers threading through my hair as he guided me. When his tongue traced the seam of my lips, I opened for him instinctively, remembering how he'd explored me moments before.
But instead of taking control again, he waited, his tongue barely dipping past my lips before retreating. An invitation. A challenge.
Oh. He wants me to…
I cautiously extended my tongue, tracing the contour of his lower lip with experimental slowness. The taste of him—coffee and mint and something uniquely Stefano—made my head swim. When my tongue brushed against his, a spark of electricity shot through me, making me gasp against his mouth.
His growl of approval vibrated against my lips, encouraging me to continue. My movements grew bolder as instinct took over, tongue sliding against his in tentative exploration. I discovered the ridged roof of his mouth, the sharp edge of his teeth, the velvety softness of his inner cheek.
Each new discovery pulled another growl from his chest, the sounds sending pulses of heat straight to my groin. My hands, uncertain where they should be, fluttered against his shoulders before one moved hesitantly to his hair.
The texture surprised me—softer than expected, silky strands sliding between my fingers. I tightened my grip experimentally, and the sound he made had my cock twitching against his thigh.
"Good boy," he murmured against my mouth, the praise sending a jolt of electricity down my spine. "Such a good boy for me."
Heat flooded my face at the words, my entire body responding like it had been programmed to. I felt more slick gathering between my thighs, my cock straining painfully against the thin fabric of my shorts.
His mouth left mine, trailing along my jaw to my ear. "I think you deserve a reward for such a sweet kiss," he whispered, his breath hot against my skin.
"Reward?" I echoed stupidly, brain struggling to function through the haze of arousal.
His free hand moved to the neckline of my oversized shirt, fingers playing with the stretched collar that had already slipped off one shoulder. "Show me your chest, little prince."
The request—no, the command—sent a fresh wave of heat through me. "What? No—we're outside—they're watching?—"
"Let them watch," he growled, tugging the fabric lower. "Show me."
Some distant part of me recognized I should be outraged, should be fighting harder against this public display. Instead, my hands moved to the hem of my shirt, pulling it up just enough to expose my chest to the cool morning air.
