“Touch me anyway.” My words were breathless, plea the undercurrent.
His expression didn’t alter—he was still locked on me—steady, serious, and hot, but I could sense the humor he didn’t show.
He gave me a slow nod before he slid to his knees, his warm hands caressing my sides as he went down, and I realized he wasn’t going to use hishandsto explore. I sucked in a breath at first contact and let it out on an ecstasy-filled sigh.
He urged my leg up, and up it went, flush against me. I was as flexible as a rag doll. But as the pressure increased, I started to quiver, and he guided my leg down to rest on his shoulder.
“No, no, no,” I pleaded, almost cried. I didn’t want the buildup of pressure to stop. I wanted it to send me over the edge. “Don’t stop!”
He looked up at me, a smug look on his face. And then I did when he went back for more. I shattered into a million pieces while he watched me crumble. The release didn’t satiate me—it made me even hungrier for him—though it made me feel so dizzy that the entire world spun.
Satisfied, he licked his lips and stood, one arm to each side of my head. He leaned in close, so that our noses touched, our lips a kiss away. “Undress me,mia moglie.”
“My pleasure,”I said in Italian, unbuttoning his shirt.
“Your pleasure?”
I moaned at the word “pleasure” coming from his sensual mouth, and the feel of his bare skin against my palms. His chest was sculpted, perfect, and the thrill of his heartbeat sent mine into overdrive.
All that revealed itself afterward only added to the stimulation. Using my hands to explore him, I felt the muscles in his stomach contract, and his breath picked up, warm against my mouth. I opened mine even further, yearning to take him in.
His breath smelled of champagne and chocolate, and his skin of whiskey and cologne. There was something else there, too. Something feral that existed right below the surface. Spicy and natural…a subdued ferocious streak in both anger and love.
He was the only man I had ever been with, and a lot, yet there were times I was still shocked by his size. There was a moment of panic, wondering how my parts would fit with his, but then it melted into pure sensation when his secure touch reminded me that we were made for each other.
The hesitation came from the practical side of my mind; my body was his instrument to play. The mind followed the melody right after.
Caressing his neck, my hands snaking their way around, I lifted myself, wrapping my legs around his waist. My bare skin against his seemed to shock even more life into me.
The kiss started off slow, tongues moving in rhythm with each other, but then as the sound of my pleasure vibrated against his mouth, an echo of his want vibrated against my skin. The humming became a hive of stimulated bees. I was close to climaxing by his kiss alone. He had me do this very thing once by just biting my bottom lip.
I needed to be filled to the point of overflow. I needed friction, like the strike of a match to red phosphorous. I needed…I needed…I neededhim.
“Ah!” I cried out when he entered me. My arms flew out and my eyes rolled.
“Hold on to me, baby.” His voice was low, rough.
I wrapped my arms around him, hanging on as he walked us toward the bedroom, joined. I went to move, to take him deeper, but he kept me in place.
“Still,” he said.
Still, such a simple word, but one that could cause severe havoc. In the bedroom, he positioned us in the center of the bed, me on top. The mirrors behind showed my face; the standup mirror to the right showed us entirely.
“Voglio guardarti,” he said slowly, biting his bottom lip. Sweat had started to coat his skin, rain drops running against Adonis done in bronze. “Si guarda nello specchio.”
Brando made me feel like a woman, even more than that at times. A goddess. A creature he had never experienced before. Still, I had to admit, mirrors gave me a frisson of unease. I wasn’t perfect. Though we had participated in sexual reflection before, it was never on this scale—me front and center, and on every one of these stages.
He was going to watch me.Iwas going to watchus. What if I made stupid faces? Or my stomach poked out? I had a lot of cake earlier. I bit at my lip, torn between saying the hell with it and becoming the goddess—my lashes looked great, at least—or flopping over, letting him deal with the mirrors from the top. He had nothing to be ashamed of. Not a damn thing. When he took his pleasure and gave it, he was even more beautiful, something to see, like effing art.
“Scarlett.” He fingertips glided along the necklace, over each stone, and then he traced the shapes of my breasts. He lingered up and up, over my throat, to touch my lips. “Tu sei perfetto, mia moglie.Tu sei lamiadea.” You are perfect, my wife. You aremygoddess.
If any other man had said those words to me—you are my goddess—I probably would’ve caught the giggles. Not this man. It was said out of truth.
I nodded, slow. Then I started to move. The mirrors faded into the universe, out of ours, and all I could concentrate on was his face, his eyes gazing into mine, and the maddening build.
I slowed by sheer reaction, wanting to hold on, but also wanting to keep moving—that delicious push and pull. But he refused and came up with a move so swift that I lost my breath, then moaned so loud that he came up to swallow it. The move reverberated, shimmying into bone.
“Watch,” he ordered, lowering once again. Every muscle in his body was tense. The veins underneath his taut skin were swollen. “Orologio.”
