“Good,” I say. “Then we move together.”
I kiss her again. Deeper now.
My hand finds the hem of her shirt, sliding beneath to flatten against the warmth of her waist. Her skin jumps under my palm. She arches into the contact like her body’s been waiting for it since the moment I walked through her door.
Piece by piece, we shed the day. Her shirt. My T-shirt.
She pulls my shirt over my head with a little huff of determination, fingers fumbling only once before finding their rhythm.
My chest meets hers—skin to skin, heat to heat—and she makes a sound that is all want and no fear.
“God,” she murmurs. “You feel…”
“Like something you should not want this much,” I supply, remembering her words from the morning.
She smiles against my mouth. “Exactly like that.”
Her hands map me—over my shoulders, along my ribs, down the long line of my back. There is wonder in her touch, but not hesitation. She is claiming, not cataloging.
My own hands move with a reverence that borders on worship.
I find the clasp of her bra, pausing long enough for her to stop me. She doesn’t. The band loosens, the straps sliding down her arms, and then she is bare to me—soft skin, rising breath, perfect heat.
I take a moment. Just to look.
She flushes under my gaze, but doesn’t hide. Her chest rises and falls, breath a little quick. Her nipples tighten in the cooler air, drawing my eye like a magnet.
“You are…” I shake my head once, helpless. “There is no word I know that is enough.”
“Use Latin,” she says. “Cheat.”
A hoarse laugh escapes me.
“Pulcherrima,” I murmur. “Fulgor meus. Vita mea.”
She shivers, even though her translator is on her bedside table and she doesn’t know the exact meaning.
My mouth lowers to her throat—slow kisses along the line where her pulse beats strong. I taste the salt of her skin, the faint tangof soap. My tongue finds the hollow at the base of her neck and lingers.
Her fingers slide into my hair, not tugging yet. Just holding on.
I move lower as we sink back onto the mattress, bodies aligning without thought.
The first time my mouth closes over her breast, she inhales as if someone pulled the ground out from under her.
I take my time. No hurry. I circle her nipple with my tongue, teasing, then suck gently, drawing it into my mouth until she breathes my name.
“Flavius…”
“Yes.” My voice is a growl against her skin.
I give each breast equal attention, tracing the reactions I remember too well. I feel like a prince when I make her draw in a sharp breath, and like a king when her voice goes thin in the middle and her hips shift restlessly against the mattress.
Her hands clutch at my shoulders, fingers digging in when I graze her with my teeth, then soothe with my tongue.
By the time I trail kisses down her stomach, her muscles are trembling.
Her waistband waits like a line we have already kissed and touched and crossed in every way but one.
