"Sei così bella," I murmured against her throat, switching to Italian without conscious thought. "Voglio sentirti venire per me." You're so beautiful. I want to feel you come for me.
Her movements grew more desperate, her breathing erratic as she ground down harder against my erection. I guided her with my hands on her hips, setting a pace that had us both panting. The bench creaked beneath us, but I barely registered the sound over the rush of blood in my ears and the soft, needy noises she made with each roll of her hips.
"That's it," I encouraged, my voice a rough growl against her skin. "Take what you need from me."
Her fingers tangled in my hair, pulling almost painfully as her movements became more frantic. I could feel the tension building in her body, the way her thighs trembled on either side of mine.
"I can't—" she started, her voice breaking.
"You can," I insisted, one hand sliding lower to grip her ass and pull her harder against me while the other hand continued to tease her nipple. "Let go for me, Cecelia. I want to see you fall apart."
Her entire body went rigid, her mouth opening on a silent scream as she shuddered against me. I held her firmly, guiding her through the waves of pleasure I could feel rippling through her.
As the tension drained from her body, she collapsed against my chest and pressed her forehead against my shoulder. I wrapped my arms around her, holding her close as her breathing gradually steadied. My own arousal was a throbbing demandbetween us, but I ignored it, focusing instead on the weight of her in my arms, the scent of her hair, and the warmth of her breath against my neck.
For several minutes, neither of us spoke. The only sound in the room was our combined breathing and the occasional creak of the bench as I shifted slightly to accommodate her weight more comfortably.
Eventually, she lifted her head, her eyes meeting mine with a mix of wonder and uncertainty that made my chest ache.
I'd crossed a line. One I had no intention of stepping back from.
And based on the way she was looking at me—lips swollen from my kisses, cheeks flushed, eyes wide and vulnerable—I wasn't the only one.
Chapter 18
Cece
Iwas nervous.
Blowing out a breath, I smoothed my hands over my silk dress for the hundredth time since we left the penthouse.
“You're fidgeting,” Rafe murmured as he navigated into a parking space.
I shot him a look. “Very astute, Mr. de Luca. Did they teach you those observation skills in PR school?”
The corner of his mouth ticked up, and that little dimple I'd become addicted to made a brief appearance. “Actually, yes. Noticing body language is part of the job.” He killed the engine and turned to face me, those dark eyes sweeping over me in a way that made heat bloom across my skin. “You look beautiful, by the way.”
“You already said that. Twice.” I glanced down at the emerald silk dress I'd chosen—a birthday gift from Evie last year. “But thanks.”
“It bears repeating.”
It’d been four days.
Four days of cautious circling, of dinners where we'd talked about everything except what had happened between us. Four days of him arriving home late from work, exhausted from handling some PR crisis for a client, but still making time to eat with me, to ask about my day, to tell me about his.
Four days of learning the little things—how he took his coffee (black, no sugar), his favorite composer (Chopin for sad days, Debussy for good ones), and noticing the way he always loosened his tie exactly three minutes after walking through the door.
Four days of wanting more but not knowing how to ask for it.
“Hey.” His hand covered mine where it lay on the seat between us. “It's just dinner with our friends. Nothing's changed.”
I laughed, the sound sharp and slightly manic. “Nothing except I came so hard on your lap I think I blacked out for a second.”
His pupils dilated, darkening his eyes to near black. “That's not nothing,” he agreed, voice dropping low enough it made my thighs clench. “But it doesn't change the fact that these are our friends. They don't need to know the details of our arrangement.”
“Our arrangement,” I repeated, pulling my hand away from his. “Right.”
I couldn't quite identify the feeling that tightened around my ribs—disappointment, maybe, or frustration. Whatever it was, I didn't like it.
