Page 161
“I know.” His voice drops to that register that bypasses rational thought entirely.
When I grab at his shirt, he tugs it off himself, faster than I can manage, and tosses it aside. Then his hands find my hem, and he drags the fabric up inch by inch, until I lift my arms and let him take my shirt off too. He unhooks my bra with practiced ease and steps back just far enough to gaze at me.
The way he looks at me still undoes me. Not like prey. Like something he’s decided to keep.
His palms slowly trail up my rib cage, his thumbs circling the undersides of my breasts before his mouth follows, unhurried, his tongue tracing heat across my skin while my back arches and my fingers curl into his hair.
“More,” I breathe.
He hums against my breast, not quite in agreement, not quite in refusal. Takes his time. Moves to the other side. His teeth rake my nipple, and I gasp, my hips pushing forward instinctively, searching for the friction he’s withholding.
“Enzo.” His name comes out frayed at the edges.
“Patience.” The word brushes against my sternum.
I have none left. “Please.”
That gets a response. His hands fly to the waistband of my underwear and draw it down, his mouth following the path south—my stomach, my hip bone, the inside of my thigh —until I’m trembling against the pillows and clutching the sheets.
He glances up at me from between my thighs, his dark eyes holding mine with that focused, devastating calm. “Tell me what you want.”
My face burns. “You know what I want.”
“Tell me anyway.”
“Enzo—”
“Sophia.”
“Your mouth,” I say, breathless. “Please. Now.”
He obliges.
The first swipe of his tongue yanks a sound out of me that I don’t recognize as my own. My hips rise to meet him, and he pins them down with one forearm, keeping me exactly where he wants me while his mouth works with ruthless patience. No hurry, no mercy, just that relentless pressure that dismantles me.
I fist his hair. “Don’t stop…don’t you dare…”
He doesn’t stop.
The orgasm crests and crashes through me in a long, shuddering wave, my thighs clamping around his head, his name breaking apart on my lips. He works me through every tremor, drawing my pleasure out until I’m pulling at his shoulders.
“Up,” I manage. “Come here. Now. I need…”
“I know what you need.”
He works his way back up my body, his mouth tracing my stomach, my ribs, my throat. I reach between us and wrap my hand around him, relishing his sharp intake of breath. He’s hard and hot as I stroke him while watching that iron control crack.
“Sophia.” A warning.
“Please.” A demand.
He pushes my hand away, settles between my thighs, and meets my eyes. That sinful, steady gaze strips me down to nothing every time.
“Look at me,” he says.
He presses into me. That first stretch—that overwhelming fullness that I still haven’t gotten used to and hope I never do—makes me gasp. When he’s buried deep, he stills, his forehead dropping to mine, his breath ragged and uneven in a way he’d never allow himself to be anywhere else.
“Enzo.” His name comes out wrecked.
