“Howl for me,” she said, holding a fig close to my mouth.
My teeth tore through the skin of the soft fruit with ease, and I chewed, enjoying the sweet flavor before I did as she had asked. She became quiet afterwards, and I looked at her.
“You like that?”
She smiled. “Yeah.” She held her arm out for me to see. It was puckered with goosebumps.
“I like this,” I said, reaching up and touching her crown. “But I love this—” I touched a lock of her hair, ran a finger along her forehead, down her nose, above her lips, on them, down to her chin and throat, and along her chest—back and forth, a slight caress, my skin barely touching hers.
She shivered. “Sei ubriaco, mio marito?”
I smiled at her. “Am I drunk?”
Nodding, she came in even closer to my lips, inhaling. “I think you are.”
“That makes two of us.”
A heartbeat passed and we both started laughing, her face finding its way into my neck. After a second, her laughter tapered off, and so did mine. Her mouth started to venture. Kissing, at first, and then increased to sucking, until she started to bite. Her hands fluttered over me, barely touching, just a cool breeze passing every so often, but they grew increasingly more restive with her lips.
A low growl came from my throat, vibrating my chest, emanating from a caged-up place deep inside.
“Let me,” she whispered in Italian, sliding her hands along my arms, asking me to allow her to put them above my head.
I did as she asked, and she entwined our fingers even tighter, pieces of her wavy hair falling over her face as she kissed and sucked and bit her way lower.
Her mouth was warm and slick on my skin, and without realizing it, I must’ve squeezed her hands too hard. Letting out a low squeak, she wiggled her fingers a bit, loosening the strain.
“Mi dispiace, mia moglie,” I breathed out. But I couldn’t say any more. My breath was coming out in pants, and my eyes refused to stay open. My hands unraveled themselves from hers, and instead, found her hair. The breath hissed out of my teeth when she made a move that almost had my hips bucking up, and I looked down, our eyes meeting. “Do that again.”
“This?” Her eyes were so heated, almost possessed.
I made a wild-sounding noise in response.
A cool wind fluttered by, bringing me to my senses instead of my knees. It was about to end. Not yet. I pulled her up by the arms, meeting some resistance, until my hands searched her body, my mouth hard on hers. Skimming her legs with my fingertips, lifting her dress, I found her underwear. I hated fucking layers.
My hand lifted the thin string between her ass cheeks. That was all it was. A front and a string in the back. She had worn these before, only for me, but rarely under a dress.
“In caso di,” she muttered, breathless.
I laughed, raspy and quiet, at her response—in case of—and popped the string. Then after lifting us both, I stuck the irreparable thong in my back pocket. She sat up, straddling me, framed by the moon, and stared down into my eyes.
One at a time, as slowly as I could, I undid each button of the dress, until I came to her waist. Her breasts spilled out. Her nipples were as hard as pebbles through the thin bra. In under a second, she was freed from its restraints, bared to me and the night.
The moonlight highlighted all her prominent bones, throwing her skin in shadow. I could make out the curves of her elegant collarbone, her chest bones, along with her ribs.
“Are you cold?” I said in Italian, rubbing my hands along her arms.
“Never with you.”
I lifted my arms, straightening her crown.
“Does it look ridiculous?” she said.
“No,” I breathed. “You deserve to always wear one.”
She licked her lips. “Are you hungry, my king?”
My eyes were lowered, my teeth about to sink into her flesh, my hands digging into her hips. When I nodded, she leaned over and came up with a bunch of purple grapes.
