The contact is shocking.
His skin burns mine, and his calluses rasp lightly over my sensitive flesh.
My nipple tightens, peaking hard under the pad of his thumb.He circles it slowly, then rolls it between thumb and forefinger.Then he exerts a little more pressure, making me gasp.
He captures the sound with another deep kiss.
Pleasure arrows straight through me, sharp and insistent, and I feel the first slick rush of arousal.
Frustratingly the gown’s skirt is so fitted that I can’t press my thighs together for relief.The restriction seems to heighten the ache.
Moretti breaks the kiss just enough to let me breathe, but his mouth stays close.“You’re mine forever, Valentina.”
The heat of his breath mingles with mine.
Deliberately, studying my every reaction, he flicks my nipple again.Then he pinches, and the sting blooms into liquid heat that makes my knees tremble.
I clutch his shirt more tightly, and my thoughts fracture into microfragments.This is wrong.He forced this.
But God, he knowsexactly how to touch me.
Against my wishes, my body arches into him, silently begging for more.The mirrors show it all, though: my flushed cheeks, my parted lips swollen from his kiss, the way my breasts strain against the white silk as he teases.
He kisses me again, this time even harder.
My desperation rises like a tide when he plunges deep, stroking, sucking, mimicking the rhythm I suddenly crave lower.
His erection presses against me, thick and unyielding.The heat of him sears through the fabric, and the knowledge that he’s this hard for me makes me want to grind myself against him.
My clit throbs in time with every tug on my nipple.
Confounded man doesn’t stop.
I whimper into his mouth, the sound soft and broken, and he answers by deepening the kiss and working my nipple with even more relentless precision—circling, pinching, rolling until the pleasure borders on pain.
Helplessly I rock my hips forward as much as the tight skirt allows, seeking friction against the hard ridge of him.
But the movement drags the beading across my skin, adding tiny sparks of sensation that scatter through me like embers.
I whimper again, louder this time, raw with the need I can no longer hide.My knees threaten to buckle, and I let my weight sag against his chest as the world tilts.
He supports me effortlessly, one arm banding around my waist, holding me upright while his mouth continues its assault and his hand keeps tormenting my breast.
Every thought narrows to the feel of him—the scrape of his stubble against my chin, the demanding slide of his tongue.
I hate how perfectly he reads me, how the dress he chose amplifies every response, how this moment strips away the control I’ve clung to since childhood, when I found out who my father is and what that meant about me.
Even more, I hate that he can make me crave his touch.
My whimpers are continuous, and just when I think I might shatter from the building pressure alone, he eases his hand from the bodice.
Cool air rushes over my heated skin like a shock, and he steps back.
The sudden loss of his mouth, his touch, leaves me swaying, my breath ragged, my lips tingling, my nipple still throbbing and yet hungry for more.
“Oh yes, my future bride.Fucking you will be worth every moment I force myself to wait.”
Fucking me?
