Roman’s low, sinful chuckle rumbled through his chest. “Olivia, you look like you’ll faint when you step out of this water.” His fingers swept along my waist, his grip possessive, commanding. “Let me help you. Let me take care of all your needs, amore.”
Our eyes drifted down, both of us fixating on his throbbing cock, bobbing between us in the water.
The need to feel him, to take him in my mouth, to own him, was unbearable.
I curled my fingers around him, feeling the thick weight of him, the pulsing heat, the rigid hunger.
Roman’s lips parted, his breath catching?—
Then, with a wicked smirk, he pried my fingers away, bringing them to his lips.
“Not yet.”
A growl of frustration tore from my throat, but he only chuckled, leading me to the stone bench lining the pool.
He sat behind me, pulling me between his legs, his chest pressing flush against my back, his cock teasing the curve of my lower spine.
“Relax, amore.”
I did.
Because the moment his hands moved over my skin, I knew I was his to ruin.
Reaching out of the water, he retrieved a creamy, fragrant bar of soap.
“The count told me this luxury soap comes from Florence,” Roman murmured, rubbing it between his palms until it lathered. “He claims virgins make it, but I think that’s just his way of justifying the price.”
His low chuckle vibrated against my back.
I let out a breathy laugh. “And what is it made of?”
Roman’s hands glided over my shoulders, arms, and ribs, the rich, foamy lather spreading across my skin.
“Olive oil. No lye. Scented with sage, marjoram, chamomile, rosemary, and orange peel.”
His voice had dropped lower, rougher, like he was drunk on the feel of me.
I sighed, pressing back against him, feeling his arousal against my spine. “It smells fantastic.”
“You smell fantastic,” he murmured, dragging his mouth along the curve of my neck.
His hands explored every inch of me, rubbing the soap over my breasts, my stomach, and between my thighs, moving in strokes that made my breath come hard and fast.
My thighs quivered.
“Roman.”
His chuckle was dark, sinful. “Shhh, let me worship you.”
He worked the lather into my hair, massaging my scalp, his fingers tangling in my wet strands before rinsing me with warm water.
By the time he was done, my skin tingled, my body aching, burning.
His hands drifted to my belly, his fingers splaying possessively across my lower stomach.
His lips brushed my ear.
“I discovered new ways to please you in the twenty-first century,” he teased.
