“No, I do,” she confirms. But then, she hesitates.
I roll my lips together and lean back, patiently waiting. “What is it?”
Her eyes find mine, almost bewildered. “I’m not good at this part,” she whispers.
“What part? You’re perfect at everything.”
“No.” She shakes her head. “Not this, with you…”
I slide my hand to the top of her thigh so she can gather her thoughts without the distraction of my ministrations. “You can tell me anything.”
“That’s just it. I know that. I…” Carla shakes her head and takes a centering breath. “Sex is just sex to me. It’s hot and it’s good and it’s fun. But I rarely feel as much for my partner as I feel for you.” The words are a hushed confession. Then, she chuckles. “I’m doing this all wrong. I’m ruining the moment.”
“You couldn’t ruin the moment if you tried, cucciola. Keep talking.” I want all her words. I want to understand her, make sure she wants this, with me, more than anything. Because if I claim Carla García, I won’t fucking give her up.
“I’ve liked you for a long time, Luca,” she continues, her eyes holding mine. “And doing this with you, it’s more than just sex. The emotions…they’re catching me off guard. Does that make sense?”
“Yes,” I promise. “It makes a hell of a lot of sense. Doing this with you means something to me too. Something big. And if we do this, I’m not going to just walk away in the morning.”
“Promise?” she asks, her voice cracking.
“Te lo prometto.”
Biting her bottom lip, she nods.
“You sure?” I check.
“Yes.”
“Then lie back and let me make this good for you.”
She drops back onto the mattress. “Like fireworks good?” she teases, injecting levity in her voice.
I snicker and snap her thong at her hip, brushing the fabric away. “Like Fallas good, cucciola.” Then, I drop my mouth to her sweet pussy and make Carla García scream my fucking name.
Over and over and over again.
17
Carla
“Holy shit, Luca!” I swear as I come, again, before the futbolista between my thighs looks up and gives me the most satisfied grin I’ve ever seen.
But fuck if he didn’t earn it.
His curls are messy, but his eyes are clear and his lips gleam with…how fucking badly I want him.
“Get over here,” I demand, reaching for him.
He smacks my hand before gripping it, and moves up my body, settling over me.
“Spin me. I want on top.”
“Demanding, are you?”
I nod as he flips us. Once I’m astride him, I work his boxers down his thick thighs and nearly groan as his cock springs free. Dropping back to the tops of his thighs, I fist him and relish the sound of his moan as he tips his head back.
He arches his neck, his Adam’s apple bobbing, as his eyes flutter closed. He’s beautiful, dark curls, long lashes, a full mouth. Luca DiBlanco could have been carved from marble. He’s so damn classically Italian, sometimes I wonder if there is a painting of one of his ancestors in a museum somewhere. But right now, he’s at my mercy, and a surge of power, of desire, of fucking giddiness rolls through me.
