I gasped into his mouth.
The friction sent sparks racing up my spine.
His hand—the one not pinning my wrists—slid up my ribs, cupped one breast, thumb brushing the peak.
I arched into the touch without thinking.
He groaned against my lips—low, raw—then broke the kiss just long enough to drag his mouth down my throat, teeth grazing my pulse point.
He released my wrists.
Both hands went to my thighs. Pushed them wider.
I tensed instinctively—legs clamping together before I could stop the reflex.
He paused. Looked down at me.
“It’ll hurt less if you’re soaked,” he growled, voice deep and gravelly.
“I need you relaxed and dripping for me. Trust me on this... I’m going to make your first time so fucking good you’ll be begging for more.”
The words were soft.
Almost tender.
I swallowed.
Nodded once—small, shaky.
He waited.
Slowly—agonizingly—I let my knees fall open.
His hands guided them wider—gentle this time, thumbs stroking the sensitive skin of my inner thighs.
When I was fully exposed he simply stared again.
Not judging. Not mocking.
Just... looking. Like he was memorizing every inch.
“You smell so good,” he murmured—almost reverent.
Heat flooded my face.
My thighs trembled.
He lowered his head.
I felt the first brush of his lips against my inner thigh—soft, deliberate—then higher.
Hot breath fanned across my core.
My hips jerked before I could stop them.
“Vincenzo—”
“Quiet.” One word.
