Her defiance. Her mouth. Her mind. The way she looks at me like she’s constantly deciding whether to fight or forgive me. It fascinates me in a way that borders on dangerous obsession, and the knowledge tightens something low in my gut.
I push the boundary again because the challenge of her is irresistible.
Deliberately.
My hand slides down her side, slow, deliberate, tracing the dip of her waist before settling on the curve of her hip. She stirs, a soft hum vibrating in her throat, but she doesn’t wake fully.
I follow the line of her jaw, my lips brushing against her skin before my teeth graze just hard enough to leave the faintest imprint. She tastes like sleep and something sweet, like the wine we shared last night, lingering on her tongue.
I flick out my tongue to taste her, feel the moment her body reacts: the way her pulse jumps beneath my lips, the way her skin warms instantly, as if she’s been waiting for this just as long as I have.
“Mmm,” she murmurs, shifting slightly, her fingers flexing against my shoulder before her nails dig in, just a little, just enough to tell me she’s waking up.
“Giovanni.”
Her voice is rough with sleep, but there’s something else there too: a thread of warning, but thicker than that, richer, is the unmistakable pull of invitation.
She doesn’t tell me to stop. She doesn’t push me away. Instead, her thighs press together, just slightly, like she’s trying to ease an ache I put there.
I kiss her again, deeper this time, slower.
My lips part against hers, my tongue sliding into her mouth with a possessive stroke, claiming her. She melts into it, her body arching towards mine, her fingers curling into the muscles of my shoulder. I let the kiss stretch, let the tension between us build until it’s thick enough to choke on, until the air between us crackles like a live wire.
When I finally pull back, it’s just enough to let her breathe, just enough to let my words sink in.
“Lucia, mybella ragazza,” I murmur, my voice rough, my accent thicker with desire.
My hands slide up her body, palming her breasts, my thumbs finding her nipples and circling them until they tighten into hard little peaks.
She gasps, her back arching, pushing herself further into my touch. She whimpers when I pull back.
“W-what are you doing?”
“Making this better. Get up here. Straddle me.”
Her eyes flicker open, dark and dazed with sleep and something darker, something hungrier.
For a second, she hesitates, her gaze searching mine, uncertainty flickering there. But I don’t let her think too long.
My fingers pinch her nipples, just hard enough to make her whimper, her hips jerking forward involuntarily. “Umm…”
“Trust me,” I murmur, my voice a low rumble against her ear. I guide her hips, my hands firm on her waist, lifting her just enough to shift her over me. “Let me taste you.”
She swallows, her throat working, her breath coming faster now. I can see the battle in her eyes—the part of her that wants to be good, to resist, warring with the part that wants to give in, to let me ruin her.
But I already know which side will win.
I’ve seen the way she looks at me when she thinks I’m not paying attention. I’ve felt the way her body responds when I touch her, when I tell her what to do.
Slowly, she nods, her fingers trembling as she reaches for the headboard, gripping the carved wood like it’s the only thing keeping her grounded.
I help her, my hands on her waist, lifting her until she’s straddling my face, her thighs bracketing my head, her pussy hovering just above my mouth.
The scent of her hits me first—warm, musky, intoxicating—and my cock twitches, leaking against my stomach. Fuck, I want her. I want to bury my face between her thighs and never come up for air.
But I don’t rush.
Instead, I let my breath ghost over her, hot and deliberate, my lips brushing against the inside of her thigh. She shivers, her fingers tightening on the headboard, a soft whine escaping her.
