And then we’re kissing again, slower this time, deeper, and nothing else matters.
Nothing else exists.
Just us.
We’re still kissing when his hands find the hem of my shirt. His fingers slip beneath the fabric, brushing the bare skin of my stomach, and I gasp against his mouth. He swallows the sound, kissing me deeper, his touch trailing fire everywhere it goes.
“Is this okay?” he murmurs against my lips.
It’s more than okay. It’s everything I didn’t know I wanted. “Please, Cristiano.”
He pulls back just enough to lift my shirt over my head, and I raise my arms to help him, my heart pounding. The air is cool against my skin, and I’m suddenly aware of how exposed I am in just my bra, faded and plain, with nothing sexy about it.
But Cristiano is looking at me like I’m the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
“God, Mina.” His voice is rough. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve imagined this?”
Before I can answer, his mouth is on my collarbone, trailing kisses down to the swell of my breasts. I arch into him, my fingers tangling in his hair, and a sound escapes me that I’ve never made before.
I glance toward the door, suddenly self-conscious and notice with surprise that it’s closed. When did he close the door? I don’t remember him closing it. He must have done it while I was unwrapping the snow globe, and I was distracted by the gift and the tears and the overwhelming emotion of it all. Why did he close the door when we were just talking?
But then his mouth closes over my nipple through the thin fabric of my bra, and the thought dissolves into nothing.
I moan in his arms and arch against him.
“I’ve got you.” He reaches behind me, fumbling with the clasp of my bra. “I’ve got you, Mina.”
The bra falls away, and his hands are on me, cupping my breasts, his thumbs brushing over my nipples until I’m gasping, writhing, unable to think about anything except his touch.
“So beautiful.” He’s breathing hard, his eyes dark with want. “So fucking beautiful. I lie awake at night thinking about this. About you. About what you look like, what you sound like, what you taste like.”
His mouth replaces his hands, and I cry out, my back arching off the bed.
“That sound.” He groans against my skin. “God, that sound. I want to hear you make that sound forever.”
Everything is moving so fast. His hands are at my waistband, tugging at the button of my skirt.
“Can I?” he asks, and his voice is thick and desperate. “Please, Mina. I need to see you. All of you.”
“Yes,” I breathe. “Yes, please.”
He peels my skirt down my legs, so careful of my ankle, lifting it gently as he slides the fabric free. Then I’m in nothing but my underwear, and he’s staring at me like I’m a miracle.
I reach for his shirt. He helps me pull it over his head, and then he’s bare-chested above me, all lean muscle and golden skin.
He lowers himself over me, and our bare chests press together for the first time. The sensation is overwhelming, skin against skin, his heart pounding against mine.
We’re kissing again, deeper now, hungrier. His hand slides down my stomach and slips into my underwear, and I gasp as his fingers find me.
“So wet.” His voice is guttural, and almost pained. “Fuck, Mina, you’re so wet. Is this for me? All of this?”
I hold on to his shoulders as pleasure and embarrassment war inside me. I’m soaked for him, but one look at his face tells me he’s in awe of my slipperiness all over his fingers. He strokes me, slow and exploratory, learning what makes me gasp, what makes me moan, what makes me clutch his shoulders and beg for more. Neither of us know what we’re doing, but he’s paying attention and drinking in every sound I make.
“I’ve thought about this so many times.” His breath is hot against my ear. “Touching you like this. Making you feel good. Making you mine.”
The possessiveness in his voice sends a bolt of heat straight to my core.
“Cristiano,” I gasp.
