It releases tingles through me, and I gasp, needing to feel more of his skin on my skin.
Gio never slows his fierce, possessive rhythm as I clench my stomach muscles to keep me upright and go for the buttons of his shirt.
But my fingers are clumsy with passion, and I gasp when an unexpected jerk of my wrist pops several of his buttons loose.
They ping across the counter and floor—and Gio just releases a low, throaty chuckle, his lips curving into a smile against mine.
Emboldened and so driven by lust that I can’t help myself, I rip his fine dress shirt open, sending the rest of his buttons flying, and then his bare, glorious chest is against me.
I’ve been sleeping with him for weeks, touching each line and rock-solid muscle as I use his chest as a pillow, but it feels like I’m discovering him all over again, each chiseled, powerful inch.
The smell of his skin, masculine with the blend of jasmine, amber wood, and cedar from his cologne, makes my core flutter.
His chest has more dark, soft hair than it used to—and more tattoos. A physical manifestation of the two different men I know.
But both of them are here with me now, loving me, owning me, with all the passion we might possess if this were our last day on earth.
His cock thrusts deep, then slides slowly out, as if he can’t stand to be apart from me, even for a fraction of a second.
And every time he buries himself inside me, the silken iron of his tip presses against that hidden point that drives me wild.
I’m so wet for him, our skin comes together with soft squelching sound, and it would almost be funny if I weren’t so far over the edge.
“Gio,” I moan, my spine tingling as a knot builds deep in my core, like a ball of rubber bands tight and ready to snap.
“Come for me,vita mia,” he growls, his voice jagged.
I remember that name—the one he tattooed on the back of his hand sometime after I was taken.
My chest aches with a sadness that feels as though I’m finally living the grief that he’s endured these eight long years.
And though it brings tears to my eyes, nothing is going to stop this freight train carrying me toward the precipice.
I gasp, cry out, and bury my face against his strong neck as I come so hard, it releases fireworks behind my eyelids.
Gio’s responding groan steals the breath from my lungs, and I can feel him swell further inside me, growing harder as I ripple around his cock.
“That’s my good girl,” he urges, a playful praise kink he used to slip into our sex lives because he knows it makes me feverish.
Then one strong arm is wrapping around my hips, pulling me closer as he cradles the back of my head and kisses me like his life depends on it.
I can’t breathe, can’t think. I’m so consumed by Gio that in this moment, he’s all that matters.
“Merda,” he grunts, his hips slowing to a tantalizing pace as he breaks our kiss to rest his forehead against mine.
“What?” I pant, stomach fluttering at the Italian he seems far more willing to use around me now that I’ve regained my memory—as if he’d worried I might make the connection before if he showed too much of himself. And that stings a bit.
“I didn’t put a condom on.”
A predicament we seem to have carried forward into our new relationship.
Our passion has always been like a spark on tinder—instant, all-consuming, and with little warning.
It added to the thrill of fucking wherever and whenever we wanted.
And here we are again, being entirely irresponsible.
“Pull out,” I tell him, though I know how this ends.
