The older he got, the more… “Animalesco” he became.
“Animalesco,” he murmured. “Is that so?”
The word must have slipped out, and not on purpose.
The subtlest of nods was my only response; I was unable to manage more than that. He started to circle me, appraising me as though I were worth more than the diamonds and emeralds around my neck and dangling from my ears.
“I gave you instructions, Scarlett.” He touched the bow that tied the underwear together in the back. The silk material was emerald green, a perfect match to the jewelry. I closed my eyes and knew it was coming. I bent over and his hand came against my cheek in a nice slap.
A whimper came from my mouth.
“In that case,” he said slowly, “this is nice.Per adesso.”For now.
Anticipation was a trembling woman. She wasme. I could feel the heat from his skin and his breath, and also from the slap, like the heat from a fire coasting along every inch of my bare flesh, and I longed for him to reach out and touch me again. Brand me with his insignia. But he made slow work of the appraisal.
He stood behind me. “Your gift,” he said in Italian.
My hand went to the necklace. “It’s more beautiful than words can express.Grazie, mio marito.”
“The emeralds reminded me of your eyes. The diamonds are as flawless as your skin.”
His hands barely brushed over my behind. My eyes shut. I could feel thousands of goosebumps rise from my skin, and the lower part of my stomach tightened in anticipation, the pulse between my legs throbbing.
“You have the nicestculo,” he said, this time taking both of my cheeks in his hands, squeezing, caressing the area he had stung.
My lips parted and I breathed out slow, trying to tame my heart.
He moved as a predator would when it doesn’t want to spook its prey, coming to stand in front of me. His fingers slid down my throat, around the shape of the necklace, and then around my breasts.
Were my knees making a sound as they knocked together? It was hard to hear over the thundering of my heart.
He took a seat in the darkest area. “Balla per me,” he whispered.
I had to take slow, deep breaths as I started to move for him. As if I had never been intimate with him before, the moment and sensation seemed fresh and undiscovered. Then again, his eyes moved me because we had done this dance many times before.
This performance, though I was the only one moving, was still a duet. The noises he made when he especially liked something or the increase in heat from his eyes fed my own desire and kept me dancing.
On a sensual turn, I kept my back to him, offering myculo, and he released the bow, keeping the fabric as a gift. When I started to explore my own skin with slow hands, he rose and stopped me by pinning me to the wall, arms above my head.
A bead of sweat ran from my throat, and he used his tongue to catch it. “Are you thirsty, Mrs. Fausti?” He released one of my arms so he could reach over and take the glass full of champagne from the counter. Bubbles rose to the top as the inside of the crystal glowed gold.
I nodded and went to reach for the glass in his hand, but he shook his head and pulled the glass out of my reach.
His other hand drifted along the back of my neck, and taking a fistful of my hair, used it to guide my head back. My mouth parted and he brought the glass to my lips, the smell intoxicating. He poured the liquid in and I drank, a delicious fizzle down my throat.
“More?”
I opened my mouth again. Some of the fizz slipped out and ran down my chin. He used his tongue to lick it up, stalling when he came to the part of my mouth.
“That mouth can be the death of me. Later.” Then his tongue made a quick trace around the shape of my lips, over much too soon.
In the darkness, our eyes locked, and from it a connection—a sort of electrical shock—started to hum as loud as an over-excited heart in silence. I had the insane urge to whimper, to crumble in his hands and surrender, but not even the impulse could move me from where I stood and how we were.
This was the ritualistic dance before the slaying, before complete and utter surrender. I wouldn’t hold back.
“I don’t even need to touch you to know that you’re ready for me,” he whispered. “I can sense it—smell it.” Then he said something in Italian—the words rolling slowly from his mouth—that made me tremble.
He had said, you smell so sweet, or something close to it. The translation could’ve been a bit off, seeing as my mind was starting to shut down in lieu of letting my attraction, if that was even a strong enough word, take control.
