"Now," he says softly. "Tell me."
I swallow, my throat working.
"My cock was inside you," he says, finishing the sentence for me, his voice a low growl that sends a fresh wave of desire through me.
I nod.
"Then what?"
"I-I woke up," I stutter. "Right as it started."
A slow smile spreads across his face. A predator's smile. It's full of dark promises and raw hunger. It promises to fulfill a dream and so much more.
"Poor Bibi," he says. "So unsatisfied."
Bibi. He heard my mother calling me that. It's a childhood nickname. One that only family uses.
But he's using it now, and it doesn't sound childish or sweet. It sounds possessive. Dangerous.
Sexy.
He slides off the bed, stepping out of his jeans. He's hard, a thick, impressive length that makes my breath catch. He climbs back onto the bed, covering me with his body, his heat, his scent.
"Tell me more," he whispers against my skin, running his lips over my throat.
He's a slow, deliberate tease, and it's driving me crazy.
"About what?" I barely manage as his tongue teases my collarbone.
"The dream."
"I woke up," I say before gasping as he nips my earlobe.
"After you woke up," he says, guiding a knee between my legs, pressing it against my core. "Were you horny?"
My face floods with heat. "I—"
"Were you wet, Bibi?" His knee moves against me, a slow, deliberate friction.
"Giovanni," I protest weakly, even as I arch against him.
"Answer me," he says, a soft command.
My hips roll against him. "Yes."
"Did you touch yourself?"
My cheeks are so hot they could start a fire. I squeeze my eyes shut. "Yes."
"What did you think about?"
"You," I whisper.
"What about me?" he presses. "Be specific."
I'm on fire. The dream is a pale imitation of this, a shadow play compared to the real thing. The real Giovanni is a thousand times more intense, more commanding, more intoxicating.
"You, inside me," I say, my voice a ragged gasp.
