“What exactly are you suggesting?” I ask, wary.
His gaze darkens.
“Something persuasive. Especially if you want me to reconsider your little jaunt to Queens.”
I don’t plan it. I don’t weigh it. But it feels like one of those things that unleash with very little prompting, a thought or deedforming without permission and deciding when it wants to be brought into being.
“Fine,” I say, standing abruptly.
His brows lift a fraction, his eyes raking my robe-clad form, lingering on the usual places he likes to linger, knowing full well it turns me on more than I’ll ever admit. But there’s thinly amused wariness there too, which gives me a kick.
“Lucia—”
Too late.
I cross the space between us before I can talk myself out of it, my pulse roaring in my ears, the enormity of the moment catching up only when I sink to my knees in front of him, the marble floor cool beneath my skin.
His breath stutters.
“Christ,” he mutters. “You better not be fucking toying with me,ragazza.”
I shake my head, my hands already moving, my thoughts narrowing to sensation and intent, to the way power can shift when you choose it instead of having it taken.
When I tug at the ties of his robe, his composure finally cracks.
His coffee cup clatters onto the table and his eyes turn hooded.
He watches me like a hawk as I drift my fingers down his torso, from collarbone, between chiselled pecs and over clenched abs.
I revel in the tiny tremors that shake through his muscles when I slide one finger along the top seam of his boxers.
His cock jumps within the confines of expensive cotton and my mouth dries, then immediately floods at the thought of what I’m about to do.
This ambitious venture I’ve only ever done once, a very long time ago, and with results that still make me cringe. Back thenI’d been hoping to quieten Dominic Redwood’s pressure for sex. It’d bought me the short time I’d needed to realise he was an arsehole I needed to dump.
Now…?
Now, I’m not buying myself time so much as showing my husband he doesn’t hold all the cards. And that blazing, feral look in his eyes right now?
Yes, I won’t deny it’s also addictive.
And that lends me the strength I need to delve my fingers beneath the elastic of his underwear, take Giovanni’s shaft in hand for the first time.
My throat moves in a convulsive swallow at his size.
I stroke him from root to tip, repeat, repeat, glorying in the smooth, hot velvet texture of him. Enlightenment dawning at the addictiveness of touching him like this. Why women take pleasure in this. The power. The heady knowledge of delivering pleasure. The?—
“Who taught you this?” he snaps gruffly, his voice rougher now, threaded with something dangerously close to fury and reluctant awe.
I don’t answer. I won’t open that door. I won’t give him that part of me. Not least because the look in his eyes declares blatantly that he will have issue with me dropping another man’s name into this moment. And also because what I’m doing now comes nowhere near what I did back in my distant past.
“Focus,” I murmur instead, surprising myself with the steadiness of my voice.
His eyes narrow into feral slits, the faster rise and fall of his chest declaring that he is fully under my control.
And so, not willing to give away momentum, I lower my head, flick my tongue over his sensitive crown, and taste my husband for the first time.
I watch as his cock jumps within my grip, his jaw clenching tight before, “Madonna mia,” spills through.
