Her breath stuttered as she swelled and throbbed beneath his finger sliding …
Back and forth.
In and out.
“You must really like having my Ducati between your thighs,” he murmured in her ear, his head still hanging to the side so that she couldn’t see his face. He plunged his finger inside. “Damn,” he whispered hoarsely, “I bet you taste good, Nico.”
She trembled as she felt herself clench his finger.
She reached for his shoulders to steady herself, but just as she did, he began to lower himself and his finger slipped out. Now that heavy wet between her thighs began to throb.
She was going to fall. “I’m going to—”
“No, you’re not,” he said. “I’ve got you.”
“What, what are you doing?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” he said as he slid her panties down her thighs and sprung one ankle free.
He didn’t need to ask. She opened her legs, and he placed his mouth there.
He made a groaning, guttural sound. When he spoke, his words with his breath vibrated, hummed, and then sank deep inside her.
“Damn, Nico, you taste like butterscotch,” he said as he ran his tongue up and down.
Those words vibrated and sparked every cell from the top of her head to the ends of her toes so that every inch of her was humming. Her insides clenched. Her legs quivered. Her entire body began to shake so violently, there was no way he could hold her now.
But he did.
And his words, with his breath, with his mouth, with his tongue—entered her.
“You’ve made a great first impression, Nico. If they show up now, just think how great the second one will be.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
ROCCO AND NICO
Rocco was hungry. But not for the feast laid out before him on the table. He was starved for what sat opposite him.
Nico.
What he’d done earlier should have sated him. It didn’t. In fact, it made him even more ravenous. His mind was racing, trying to come up with all the possible ways he might get her alone.
He stretched his long legs under the table and gripped both of her feet, sandwiching them between his own.
It caught her by surprise. He watched her lips part just before she swallowed what he felt certain she wanted to say, what he felt certain she would have said if it weren’t for the fact that his family was sitting at the table.
She glared at him. But that only made him grin. She tried to free herself. But that only made him hold on tighter.
I’m not letting go of you.
A flicker of light flashed in her eyes but then quickly disappeared, and she turned her head. He watched a soft blush bloom across her cheekbone as though it had been put there by the stroke of a paintbrush, and he suddenly wondered if she could read his thoughts just by gazing into his eyes.
He let go. She still kept her eyes averted, but she left her feet where they were between his.
What drove him to throw her off-balance like this? Like he had when he’d lifted her off the motorcycle and backed her up against that tree.
He’d liked when she’d grabbed hold of his arms. Liked that it had felt desperate and immediate—her body’s response to his own.
