She gasps, her eyes flying open, glaring at me.
"Please, Giovanni."
I love it when she begs. My name, a prayer on her lips. My fingers resume their relentless rhythm, plunging deep to find that spot inside her, the one that makes her cry out, the one that makes her whole body tremble.
I lower my mouth to her aching pussy and taste her thoroughly, my tongue working her clit.
“Giovanni,” she gasps, her body tensing, her thighs trembling. “I'm going to come."
"Then come for me, mia."
Mine.
I increase the pressure, the pace, my fingers moving in a hard, fast rhythm, pumping deep into her. I close my lips over her clit and curl my fingers.
She comes with a cry, a sharp, beautiful sound that echoes in the quiet kitchen. Her body convulses, arching up off the counter, her inner muscles clenching around my fingers through a wave of pleasure so intense it steals her breath.
I ride out her orgasm, my fingers and my tongue slowing, easing her down from the peak, drawing out her pleasure, savoring every last shudder, every last gasp.
When she’s spent, when she’s limp, when she’s a beautiful, boneless puddle on my kitchen island, I pull away. I look up at her, her face flushed, her lips swollen, her eyes glazed with a sated, dazed pleasure.
I lick my lips, tasting her, a lingering, salty, sweet reminder of what we just shared. I stand up, my body aching with a need so intense it’s a physical pain.
I kiss my way up her body, my lips tracing a path over her stomach, her breasts, her throat. I capture her mouth, a deep, possessive kiss, letting her taste herself on my tongue.
She wraps her arms around my neck, her hands tangling in my hair, her body pressing against mine. I lift her, her legs wrapping around my waist, and carry her out of the kitchen, away from the ticking oven and the simmering beans, toward the stairs.
“Where are we going?” she asks, her voice a husky whisper.
“Where I can fuck you properly,” I answer, my lips finding hers again, a hungry, demanding kiss.
Chapter Twenty Five
Bianca
Giovanni takes the stairs two at a time, his feet pounding on the hardwood floor. He doesn't bother with the lights; the late afternoon light streaming through the windows is enough.
He pushes open the door to his bedroom, his bed a big, inviting shadow in the center of the room. He lays me down, his body covering mine, his weight pressing me into the mattress.
He kisses me again, a slow, deep, drugging kiss that leaves my head spinning, his hands roaming, fingers tracing the line of myjaw, the curve of my throat, the hollow of my collarbone. He's apparently in no hurry.
He sits up, pulling his shirt over his head, tossing it aside. My eyes follow his every move, my gaze sweeping over his chest, his abs.
Under those perfectly tailored suits is a warrior’s body—hard lines, unforgiving strength, danger carved into every inch.
I reach out, letting my fingers trail over the ink that marks his chest, down the ridges of his sculpted stomach, along the sinew of arms built to command… and ruin.
He catches my hand, bringing my palm to his lips, kissing it gently, then he presses it into the mattress.
My heart stumbles, a wild, erratic beat at the wordless command.
He reaches for the button of his jeans, his movements slow, deliberate.
"Tell me what happened next— in the dream," he whispers huskily.
My legs shift restlessly against the rumpled sheets, my breath catching.
He stops moving, his fingers stilling on the button of his pants.
