They pebble hard beneath the sundress, aching for his mouth, for the scrape of his teeth.
How is this possible?
A couple of hours ago I was a virgin.Now I remember his touch, and I yearn for more.
Without thinking, I lean into him, my body already surrendering, no matter what my mind tells me.
All that matters is the heat of his chest against my breasts, the hard ridge of his cock pressing into my belly through his jeans, the low rumble I feel more than hear when he exhales against my hair.
He hooks his fingers beneath the thin straps of the sundress and eases them down my shoulders.
The fabric whispers over my skin, pooling at my waist, then falling to my feet in a soft heap.
I stand in front of him wearing nothing but a pale lace bra and panties.The cool air whispers over my bare stomach and my thighs.
He sweeps his gaze down my body, every bit as potent as a physical touch—slow, thorough, claiming every inch.
My nipples strain against the lace, and he brushes the backs of his knuckles across one peak.Thought it’s nothing more than a light graze, my knees weaken.
A soft sound escapes me, half sigh, half plea, and his mouth curves in that dark, satisfied way that always undoes me.
He doesn’t speak.He simply reaches behind me, unclasps the bra with one hand, and lets it fall.
My breasts spill free, heavy and sensitive, and the sudden exposure sends a rush of heat straight to my core.I feel myself grow wetter, the lace between my legs already damp, clinging.
Dante settles his hands on my hips and hooks his thumbs into the waistband of my panties.
Slowly, deliberately, he peels them down kneeling as he does so until his face is level with the apex of my thighs.
The sight of him there—dark head bowed, powerful shoulders flexing—steals the air from my lungs.His breath ghosts over my mound, warm and teasing, and my clit throbs in response, aching for contact.“Oh, God.”
I thread my fingers into his hair without meaning to, needing something to hold on to as he presses a single open-mouthed kiss just above my slit.
The heat of his tongue flicks out, tasting me, and my hips jerk forward on instinct.
He grips my ass, holding me steady, and the possessive pressure of his fingers digging into my flesh makes me moan low in my throat.
He rises again, stripping his own clothes with efficient grace—henley gone, gun placed on top of the nightstand, jeans shoved down, boots kicked aside—until he stands naked and hard, cock thick and flushed, the head already glistening.
The sight of him sends another wave of heat between my legs.I want him inside me.I want the weight of him, the stretch, the relentless rhythm that always drags me under.
He backs me toward the bed until my knees hit the mattress.I sit, then lie back when he presses a hand to my chest, his palm warm over my racing heart.The sheets are cool against my overheated skin, a shocking contrast that makes my nipples tighten even more.
Dante follows me down, settling between my spread thighs, his cock heavy against my belly.He doesn’t enter me yet.Instead he braces on one forearm and uses the other hand to cup my breast, thumb circling the nipple until I arch off the bed, gasping.
Every nerve ending feels alive, singing under his touch.He lowers his head and takes the peak into his mouth, sucking hard, then softer, then hard again, the contrast pulling a broken sound from me.
I fist my hands in the sheets.
Without me consciously being aware of it, I rock my hips up, seeking friction.He gives it, sliding his cock along my slit, coating himself in my wetness without pushing inside.“Moretti…”
“Dante.”Instantly, harshly, he corrects me.“You called me that earlier.Give it to me again.”
He continues the tease, the exquisite torture.
I feel every ridge, every vein, the blunt head nudging my clit on each slow glide, and my thighs tremble with the need to have him deeper.
And he captures my other nipple, tormenting me horribly.
