The sensation is so sharp, so agonizingly perfect, that I feel like I’m being unmade.
For years, I’ve imagined this, but my imagination was a pale, flickering candle compared to the sun-bright intensity of his actual touch. I’m writhing beneath him, my fingers fisted so hard in the sheets that I can hear the threads groan.
I think I’m going to die of pleasure.
"That's it," he murmurs, leaning over me until his shadow consumes me. "Let me see you fall apart, Isabella. Give it all to me."
The command is what breaks me. I don’t just come; I shatter.
My vision whites out at the edges, the world narrowing down to the friction of his hand and the sound of his name spilling over my lips.
My body shakes with the violence of the release, a series of tremors that start in my core and radiate outward until I’m vibrating in his arms. And he doesn't pull away. He gentles the rhythm, guiding me through the aftershocks, his touch turning from a demand to a devotion until I collapse back against the mattress, boneless and utterly spent.
I’m still trying to remember how to breathe, when I feel the shift.
He moves. He doesn't pull back to give me space; he moves deeper. His mouth brushes my hipbone, a searing heat against the sweat-dampened skin, and then he’s moving lower.
"What are you—" I start, my voice a thinned-out wire of shock.
"Shh," he breathes against my thigh, his eyes dark with a hunger that makes my blood turn to molten lead.
Then his mouth is on me and the question dissolves into a moan.
"God, Enzo?—"
My hands fly to his hair, my fingers tangling in the dark strands, pulling him closer.
"Tell me if it's too much," he says against me, and then his tongue finds my clit and I stop being able to form sentences entirely.
He takes his time, learning what I like, and when he slides two fingers inside me while his mouth stays exactly where it is I nearly come off the bed.
"Oh god, oh god, oh?—"
"You taste so fucking good," he says, and the vibration of his voice against me is almost enough to send me over again. "I could do this for hours."
"I can't—" I whimper, tears in my eyes, thighs shaking. "I can't take?—"
"Yes, you can." He doesn't stop, doesn't slow, just works me higher and higher until I'm begging incoherently, my hips moving against his mouth, chasing something I can barely name.
When I come the second time it's harder than the first, longer, my whole body going taut before the release crashes through me and I collapse back with a soft broken sound.
He presses a kiss to the inside of my thigh and then another, and then he's moving up my body, kissing a path up my stomach, between my breasts, my throat, until his mouth finds mine and I can taste myself on him.
I reach between us and find him hard and straining against his jeans.
"My turn," I whisper against his mouth.
"No."
"Enzo—"
"Tonight is about you." His hand catches my wrist gently. "Next time."
"But you?—"
He kisses me to stop the argument and I feel him, thick and hot against my hip, and I want him so badly I ache with it.
"Take me.”
