I wanted to respondyours, but my breaths were coming out too fast to catch. I could not manage anything but breathing and moaning. My nails were sinking into his wide shoulders.
“That’s it, Annie,” he barely got out. “You’ve already marked me below skin; now you mark my skin for the world to see.”
I scratched him, and he groaned. I used my other hand to drop below the water, and, emboldened by what we were doing, I gripped his hard cock. He closed his eyes, groaning louder this time, pushing into my touch. He was long and thick and so perfect.
He positioned me with my legs around his waist. “Fucking perfect,” he breathed against my mouth. He tasted of salt from our sweat and mint from the leaf he had at lunch in the sweet tea.
In a rush, he lifted me from the springs, steam wafting from my body. Myculowas partly on the bank, partly pointed toward the water. He ripped the thin gold bikini bottom frommybottom. He directed my legs toward his shoulders, and once over them, he opened me up to him. I was almost sliding off the side, so full of want, I was grinding against the ground. Incoherent with desire.
He was my central point—all else had faded.
“Still,” he said in Italian.
“I do not think I can,” I said, speaking some language. Could have been my first, second, or third.
“Still,” he said again, this time more forcefully.
My eyes slowly roved to his, and his met mine. I moaned, licking my lips. Trying to be in the moment. To absorb it. However, I could not be stopped. I needed this from him. He seemed to read the signs from my body, and when his head came in between my legs and he started to kiss me there, using his tongue…
My eyes rolled, and my head felt dizzy.
Perhaps I was having an out-of-body experience, though I was so inside of myself, every nerve felt as if it was exposed to him. I do not know how long I lasted, but it was not long.
Or perhaps it was.
Time did not exist when we were this way. His tongue was the ruler of my body, and it went to him in a rush I could not control. My skin, my nerves, were as virginal as I was. I released a cry that seemed to be as pent up as my first orgasm had been. My entire body shuddered and shook around his face. It was buried deep between my trembling thighs.
His eyes slowly came to mine, and he took a step back, licking his lips. I could not tell if it was sweat or me glistening over his mouth. I realized in that moment what a hunter Mariano Fausti was. I, his long-awaited dinner.
“You are all meals,” he said, seeming to read my mind.
Or perhaps I had whispered it. The word for hunter in Italian wascacciatore. Perhaps, since my mind was still spinning, my body along with it, I had confused the word for Casanova.
“You are so beautiful, Sistine. So beautiful tome.” He hit his chest. “Mine.”
I sat up some, reaching for him, and his mouth came straight to mine. What he did to my body did not feel as if it were enough. I needed more.
I wondered if what existed between us could ever fade. It did not feel as if it had an end. Only endless space that would continue to stretch and grow over time.
The thought scared me.
The alien feelings terrified me.
He had not touched me beyond what we had done, but just the thought of him making love to me, then becoming separate from me, did things to my body that did not feel normal. I began to shake.
I never imagined this would ever exist for me.
Especially not with a Fausti.
Fausti.
We were going to become a war between his family and mine.
“Tell me,” he said in Italian.
He wanted me to tell him what was on my mind. I swallowed hard, playing with the ends of his hair. He shivered, then leaned in, placing a kiss between my breasts.
“Make love to me,” I breathed out. I translated to Italian.
