"Spread your legs," he says.
I do.
He settles between my thighs. Presses a kiss to my inner knee. My thigh. Higher. His breath is hot against my center, and I'm already aching, already wet, already desperate for contact.
"Leone, please."
"I've got you." His mouth finds me. Soft at first, exploratory, his tongue tracing through my folds like he's learning my shape. Then more focused. More deliberate. Circling my clit in slow, maddening patterns.
My hands find his hair. Grip tight. He groans against me and the vibration sends sparks up my spine.
He takes his time. Builds me up slowly, backing off every time I get close, drawing out the pleasure until I'm shaking. His fingers join his mouth, sliding inside me, two at first, then three, curving upward, finding the spot that makes me see stars.
"Look at me," he says.
I force my eyes open. He's watching me from between my thighs, dark eyes burning, his mouth slick with me.
"When you come," he says, "I want you looking at me. I want to see it happen."
He sucks my clit into his mouth and crooks his fingers and I shatter.
The orgasm crashes through me in waves. I cry out, his name, profanity, sounds that aren't words. My body convulses, my pussy clenching around his fingers, and through it all I keep my eyes on his. Watching him watch me fall apart.
He works me through it. Gentles me down. Presses soft kisses to my inner thighs while the aftershocks fade.
Then he rises over me, stripping off his pants, and I see how hard he is. How much restraint it took to focus on me while his own body ached.
"Inside me," I manage. "I need you inside me."
He notches himself at my entrance. Pauses. Looks at me.
"I love you," he says again.
"I love you too. Now please, Leone, I need—"
He pushes in.
Slow. So slow. Inch by inch, letting me feel every moment of him filling me. When he's fully seated, he holds still, forehead pressed to mine, breathing ragged.
"You feel like home," he whispers.
I pull him down and kiss him. Taste myself on his lips. Roll my hips, urging him to move.
He moves.
Long, deep strokes. No urgency. No desperation. steady, relentless pressure, building me back up toward the edge I fell over. He watches my face the entire time. Studies my reactions. Ads his angle when I gasp, repeats the motion when I moan.
"There," I breathe. "Right there."
"I know." He does it again. Again. "I'm learning you, Alexandra. Every spot. Every sound. I'm going to know your body better than you do."
I believe him. The way he's touching me, the attention he's paying to every response, it's not just sex. It's study. Devotion. A man cataloging the woman he loves like she's a sacred text.
The pressure builds. Different from before. Deeper. He's hitting something inside me that makes my entire body clench, and I can feel another orgasm approaching, bigger than the first.
"Oh my God, I'm going to—"
"I know. I can feel you tightening around me." His voice is strained. He's close too. "Come with me, my love, give me all of you."
