She made a move to unzip his racing suit. But he stopped her.
She was puzzled. “Don’t you?”
“Don’t I what?”
“Don’t you want—”
“What I want, Nico, is for you to stop moving your fucking hands and getting in my way. If you must do something to occupy them, here.” He placed one hand on his erection. “That’s nice,” he said, still working on the button. “Why do they make these things so fucking difficult?”
Her hand slid up and down the length of him.
He glanced up, gazed into her eyes, and leaned his torso into hers.
Underneath the thick racing suit, which he was wearing over jeans, she could still feel him. And then she had a sudden thought as he struggled with that button.
“Wait! Your father and grandfather …”
His eyes opened wide in mock horror. “Nico?! How can you think of my papa and nonno when your hand is on my cock?”
She blushed. Her mouth opened to say something. But no words came. What could she say?
The button of her jeans sprung loose.
Her hands flew on top of his. “Where are they? Will they?”
He shoved her hands aside. “No, they won’t.”
He leaned into her. She felt him. All of him.
Down went the zipper.
A cool breeze lay a trail of goosebumps on her thighs as he slid the jeans down her legs until they circled her ankles along with the racing suit.
He unbuckled one boot, took it off, and tossed it aside, not bothering with the other one. He lifted her foot, and foot and ankle sprung loose from suit and jeans.
As he rose, she felt his hands glide up her body followed by his hot breath until he was gazing back at her, his hands resting on her hips.
Her breath caught as one of his thumbs slipped under the elastic of her panties. He kept his eyes fixed on hers as he brushed her hip with it—back and forth.
“Are—you—sure?” Her words were forced between gasps of her faltering breath.
“Yes, I’m sure,” he said as that thumb continued to move methodically, matching the beating of her heart. “You don’t have to worry, Nico. But if you want to leave, we’ll leave.” He paused. “Do you want to leave?” he asked, his voice deep like the low throttle of a powerful engine.
The thumb stopped and he slid that hand under her panties and between her thighs. One finger slid along the slick lips of her vagina.
He grinned. “I’ll take that as a no.”
His finger slipped inside her.
He placed the elbow of his other arm up against the tree and leaned into it, hanging his head. She shivered as strands of his hair and his hot breath grazed her shoulder.
“Fuck,” he muttered.
He’d said it so quietly, she thought maybe he didn’t want her to hear him. She wasn’t even certain she had heard him. Maybe it was her who had muttered.
His breathing began to mirror hers—heavy and labored, coming and going in deeper waves as though there wasn’t enough oxygen to satisfy his lungs. She felt there might not be enough to satisfy hers. She could hear it but feel it too as his chest moved against her own.
“Fu—uuu—ck,” he groaned. This time, more a guttural sound than an actual articulated word.
