His hands barely skimmed my skin as he rose, stopping when we were eye-to-eye.
“Oh, there it is,” I almost cried. “Kiss me.Adesso.”
He did, and with desire so full of ardor that once he was through, I realized he was the only thing supporting me. The heat made us more aware of our bodies, opening us up to nothing but one another, every touch as distinct as a snowflake falling on warm sand before it melts.
He laid me down softly on the bed—my hands reaching out to bring him closer. He stood over me, running a thumb along his bottom lip. “Always so eager, Ballerina Girl.”
I grasped his arms, yanking him down on top of me. We were both shocked. Not at the aggressive move, but that he actuallylet me.
“For you. Always,” I breathed in his ear. “Don’t tease me,mio marito. Not now.”
He entered me but stopped. We both made noises that fed the frantic desperation. As lost as we were to the pleasure, this had become more, so much more. I knew it. He knew it.
“It feels like—” he moved again, eyes closed, face set in ecstasy as thick as the air we breathed “—the first time.”
It did, in more ways than one. We were claiming each other again, fusing our bond even stronger, floating into our own oblivion.
His movements became more intense, and though I welcomed it, just like the first time, a searing pain tore through me, my body stretched, struggling to accommodate his size, before it became an aching pressure that began to swell and storm.
He groaned, deep in his throat, and I welcomed him in even deeper, my body bowing to meet his.
“Even then you knew how to move with me,” he whispered.
I went to grasp the sheets, to tug and squeeze, to allow some of the overwhelming desire to be set free, but to also hold it in my grasp and keep it close.He refused to allow me to.
“Touch me only.”
My hands found his hot skin, fluttering, and then finally sinking my nails into his shoulders. I whimpered. “You feel so good.”
His love felt like madness, and the push and pull between us pure insanity. Our bodies moved in a smooth, slick rhythm, soaked with perspiration and my desire, not even cooled by the constant fluttering breeze.
Coconut, lime, mango, Tahitian gardenia, and something that belonged entirely to the South Pacific surrounded us, enchanted us, and I knew I’d always think of this moment when the scent drifted underneath my nose. A memory sealed in a bottle.
Brando lowered his face, his mouth coming to my ear, nibbling at my earlobe, before his tongue swirled over the shape of it. “I meant what I said,” he whispered, his warm breath fanning over my skin. “I can’t stop. I need you too much. No more separating. Now hold on tight but let go, Ballerina Girl. I need you to fall with me.”
We fell together, in a purl of sea that swept us away in time. The only brand of the passingtick tockwas a distant conch horn that marked the sun rising and the sun setting somewhere on the island.
He had meant what he said. He couldn’t stop. Neither could I. We ate only in bed, feeding each other until we had our fill, and then returned to the needs of the flesh.
At some point during the night—first or second, all I knew was that the moon was full and plump, casting us in a silver glow—I breathed something about a bath. We were coated in a fresh layer of slick sweat.
He took in my body like a hungry beast on the prowl. With a look, he stripped me down bare to the bone, all the way to marrow, bringing me to raw instinct that relied on scent and need, an animalistic drive to mate so we wouldn't go extinct.
“Nothing on you but me,” he said, licking his lips. “No washing. No other scents. Just us.”
I made a noise that turned his eyes to the hunt. A glistening bead of sweat ran from his chin, and I went to it, using my tongue to reverse its trail, from his lower stomach to his throat. Then I bit him, ever so gently on the side of his neck.
“Just us,” I said, breathless.
He set his head back and howled at the moon. He grinned afterward, but instead of making me laugh, the sound made me shiver, and sent goosebumps skittering across my skin. My lower stomach clenched in response to the onslaught of ache. The sound parted me wider than he could.
He flipped me over, kissing a trail from my ankles to the grooves of my knees, licking over my behind, to the tender flesh behind my ear. “On your knees,” he ordered. Just a whisper commanded my body, but the true power was in those intense eyes. “Hold on.”
I rose, quivering and unsteady, clutching the wooden headboard, about to burst from heat and expectation.
He came over me, and I could feel all of him, his muscles as hard as the rocks that sustain a mountain, thick tufts of hair, the tender skin of his balls, his erection as hard as his force, and his breath as hot as the air on my back. He bit my neck, hard enough to make me release a sharp sound from my mouth, before he rose and thrust his hips forward, jolting me with a strike of lightning that reached my womb.
The breath hissed out of me.
