She leans back, resting on her hands, with an impish grin. “Oh, I don’t know about that…”
Oh, the little minx wants to tease, does she?
I pull off my tie and toss it beside her, then remove my cufflinks and put them in my pants pocket. Next, I slowly unbutton my shirt. She sits up tall but doesn’t say anything to try to stop me.
When I shrug out of my shirt, her eyes are wide as she takes me in. “Holy shit,” she whispers. “Somehow the clothes make you look smaller. How is that possible?”
I chuckle, standing still, letting her take her fill of me. She reaches toward me, and her fingertips run over the sole tattoo on my body—my family’s crest above my heart.
“You’re magnificent, Tommaso.”
There’s reverence in her tone, and I cup her chin, tilting her face up to look into her luminous, deep eyes. “The clothes don’t make the person, but to many, they think they do. When people look at me, they see a powerful, successful king who’s in control of his world, because that’s what I let them see…what I want them to see.”
She shifts to pull her legs up, then she rises to her knees. Even with my jacket, the concrete would be hard on her knees, but she isn’t showing any signs of discomfort, so I let her be.
She reaches to muss up my hair, threading her fingers through it over and over again, and I love the feel of her touching me. I might look like I’m in control, but I’m on the verge of snapping and pushing her down on the concrete slab and ravishing her. Worshipping her, so the only thing she knows, accepts, and prays to is me as her god.
“You’re trembling.” She pulls her hands from my hair and places them on my chest. The warmth of her touch sears my insides. “You’re cold.” She reaches for my jacket under her, but I catch her wrist.
I yank her so she’s off-balance and tumbles into me. “I’m not shaking with cold. I’m shaking because, with you, I find it hard to remain calm.” I grip her shoulders and lay her down, leaning over her as she stares up at me, with small, little pants escaping her lips. “I find it hard to remain in control.”
Her eyes travel over my face, and in her gaze, I see a challenge. “Then let go.”
I’ve never understood when people have said they could hear it when their control finally snapped. But I do now.
It’s like a crack of thunder within me, and I grip her as she lifts to meet me. She doesn’t shy away from the ferocity of my kiss or my touch, which is good because I’m not tender or slow; I’m ravenous and unhinged.
Gina’s hands don’t stop moving; she’s exploring every inch of my chest, back, and arms. My face and my hair.
To think she’s untouched is making me mad. She’s a blank canvas. One that she and I can explore together, discovering what she loves, what brings her pleasure. One that we can paint together, depicting the beautiful life I’m determined to create with her.
She whimpers as I bite her throat and arches into my mouth. “More. Please,” she begs.
I suck and kiss the bite mark, soothing away the pain. “What do you need?”
She takes my hand and places it inside her jacket, where her breast fills my palm. I can feel the lace of her bra under her shirt, and her tight, hard nipple.
Breaking the kiss, I lower my hand to the hem of her shirt and lift it slowly, giving her time to stop me. She doesn’t, and when I reveal her breasts, encased in see-through light pink lace, I’m nearly taken out at the knees.
“You’re beautiful.” Those words don’t do it justice, though.
“Touch me,” she pleads.
My eyes lift from her dark, perfect nipples peeking at me through the lace to her eyes. And I fall deeper for her.
Keeping my gaze locked on her, I lower my head and lick her taut nipple first before wrapping my mouth around it, swirling my tongue over it and the lace.
“Oh God.” Her voice shakes. Her eyes close, and she threads her fingers through my hair. “More, Tommaso. God, I want so much more.” Her hips lift and wriggle, searching and needing.
“Tell me to stop,” I say before going back to my ministrations on her perfect breast and caressing her other one, then her ribcage and her stomach as I run my hand lower.
She doesn’t tell me to stop; she only urges me on with her movements and how hard she’s gripping my head and directing it to her other breast.
When I slip my hand under the waistband of her sweats, I pause to check in with her. “Gina.”
She doesn’t answer; she just tries to pull my head back to her breast and arches up into me.
Biting back my chuckle, I say again, more firmly, “Gina.” Her eyes pop open and find mine. “Do you want me to stop?”
