His hands came around my hips, pulling me even closer, and my legs opened to him without a second thought. As he entered me, a loud moan came from either me or the trees. The wind swept up, cool against my overheated skin—my breasts ached, and each spot that he touched burned with his passion.
His thighs were coated in a thin sheen of my want, along with sweat from his effort; crystal beads rolled down his throat, over his shoulders and chest.
Whatever he gave, my body returned.
We fit like a skeleton key to a forbidden lock.
Over the whistling of the wind, the noises from his throat were getting louder, and I was responding to him even more feverishly. Our voices and the pounding of our bodies echoed through the trees, twirling with the wind, floating on the ground with the fog.
His hand came up, over my breasts, and seizing it, I put his fingers to my mouth, sucking, tasting whiskey and us—sweet with a stroke of salt.
The moon was in his eyes, along with my own reflection. He was a wild animal, around me, in me, consuming me. As hard as steel, pulsing, pushing—thrusting deep, deep, even deeper.
I trusted that beast with my life, and I told him so.
Closing his eyes, he tilted his head back, hissing through his teeth, before he faced me once again, penetrating my soul as deeply as he was penetrating me.
“Is a beast what you want now, my wife?” he said in Italian, his eyes not allowing mine to close, to cower away from his intensity.
I moved his hand to my throat, making sure he could feel my frantic pulse, and then lower, to my breasts, even further down, to my hips, applying pressure to his hold.
He flipped me, hovering over my back, his teeth finding the sensitive skin behind my neck, biting down as he took me from behind. His pace was unforgiving, and the noises he made were guttural, his touch just as rough. As chilled as the air was, droplets of sweat rolled from my body onto the ground.
Then suddenly he stopped. I felt bereft, a woman who had lost everything at once, and a surge of anger rose in me, hotter than a blazing fire. A noise close to a growl came frommythroat. My hands clenched into fists, about to urge him to violence. I wanted to scream at him, turn around and pound his chest, bite his skin until he bled, claw his back to shreds.
“Turn around,” he ordered.
Without breaking our connection, I twisted around, bringing my leg over, to face him. He loved that—how flexible I was. I could do things with my body that made him tremble and twitch.
“I want to see you when you scream my name,” he said, the Italian from his mouth never so sensual.
Lifting my leg, he plunged in deep, so deep that I lost my breath and clawed him without thought. Since my claws were sunk in deep, I wasn’t letting go. Not even when I screamed his name, and at the same time, felt his warm seed fill all the secret places only he could find.
* * *
“How do you feel after we do what we do?” I asked.
He ran his nose against the side of mine. We were still connected, and I felt entirely whole.
“I don’t have the poetic means to do it justice,” he said. “Making loveorfucking youcan’t be described in mere words.”
“You do and you just did.” I shook my head. “And by the way, youwillretrieve my crown.”
He gave me a stern look.
“For the queen?” I blinked my lashes at him and smiled really big.
For whatever reason, perhaps the look on my face, or the look on his, we both started laughing. This was one of those nights that were full of twists and turns, highs and lows. Probably from drinking so much.
He laughed into my shoulder, muttering, “only for my queen.”
I sighed a time or two before we settled into one another, his warm breath tickling my neck.
“How do you feel after we do what we do?” he whispered in my ear.
I lifted a hand and let it rest on his smooth back. “I can feel you there, inside of me. Yet, I feel empty without you. I want you home, with me.”
He lifted his head, gazing down at me. “I will always come home to you only,” he said in Italian. He came in closer, touching his nose to mine, our lips a taste apart. “La mia luce.”
