Chapter 24 #2
Her hair slides over my knuckles, dark and heavy, and pools against the open line of her sweater. I let my hand settle there, just above the fabric, not quite touching skin. Close enough to feel the heat of her. She doesn’t move.
“Giovanni,” she says, like my name is a warning and a dare.
“Bianca,” I answer, the same.
I trail my fingers down, slow, following the curve of her shoulder to the inside of her arm. Gooseflesh rises in a neat line under the path I haven’t quite taken. She’s breathing a little faster. So am I.
“Turn around,” I say, low.
She does. Her hair falls forward. I push it back with one hand, tucking it behind her ear. My thumb finds her cheekbone, the same place I touched in Luca’s kitchen a lifetime ago. She tips her face into it.
“Say stop,” I tell her, even though I already know she won’t.
She doesn’t. Her gaze drops to my mouth, then lifts. “Don’t make me,” she murmurs.
I step in. The island presses at my hip; the oven ticks behind her. My other hand finds her waist, the thin knit and the heat beneath it, the small give of her body meeting mine. She rises onto her toes before I pull, as if we’ve rehearsed it.
The first touch of her mouth is soft and sure, no flinch, no apology. Heat floods my chest. I angle her closer with my palm at the small of her back, and she comes to me, opening like she’s been holding her breath since New Jersey.
She tastes like olive oil and salt and the promise of the wine we’re not drinking yet.
She makes that small sound I’ve only heard over a plate. This time it’s for me.
I keep it unhurried. No rush, no grabbing. Just the slow press and slide that says yes, and yes again. Her fingers curl in the front of my shirt. I lift her jaw a fraction, changing the angle, taking a second kiss like I have all the time in the world and none to waste.
The garlic confit is supposed to go in the oven.
The beans need checking. The lamb, soon, will need its turn.
I do not care.
I kiss her again, a little deeper this time, a little slower. Her breath hitches, and she holds my shirt tighter, her body a question I am aching to answer.
I draw back just enough to see her face. Her lashes are dark against the flush on her cheeks. Her lips are swollen. Her eyes are wide, and she’s looking at me with a mixture of desire and apprehension.
“What are we doing?” she whispers.
“What we both want,” I say.
She doesn’t argue, doesn't deny. Her fingers loosen their grip on my shirt. I let my thumb brush the underside of her jaw, feeling her pulse, steady and fast under my touch.
“I should check the beans,” she says, but she doesn’t move.
“They can wait.”
She nods. “Okay.”
I dip my head, kissing a slow path along her jaw. She shivers, a little sigh escaping her lips. I trace the shell of her ear with my tongue, feeling her breath catch. I bite down gently on her earlobe, and she arches into me, her hands fisting in my hair.
“Giovanni,” she breathes.
I’m lost. Lost in the scent of her, the taste of her, the way she’s melting against me.
The kitchen fades, the ticking oven a distant hum, the afternoon light a blur.
All that exists is her, the warmth of her skin, the softness of her sighs, the way she’s moving with me, like we’ve been dancing this dance for years.
My hands slide down her back, cupping her ass, pulling her flush against me. She grinds her hips, a slow, deliberate movement that sends a jolt of electricity through me. I’m hard, and she knows it, a small, triumphant smile playing on her lips.
I take that smile with a kiss, a hard, hungry one this time, a claiming. She meets it, her tongue tangling with mine, her hands roaming over my chest, my back, my shoulders. I slip a hand under the hem of her sweater, my fingers tracing the smooth skin of her stomach.
She tenses, a sharp intake of breath. I freeze, my hand resting on the warm skin of her belly.
After a moment’s pause, I continue my exploration, my fingers tracing a path up her ribcage to the soft swell of her breast. She moans, her head falling back, exposing the long, elegant line of her throat.
I kiss my way down, my lips, my tongue, my teeth, until I reach the delicate hollow where her neck meets her shoulder.
I bite down, not hard, just enough to leave a mark. A claim.
She cries out, a sharp, beautiful sound. Her body buckles, her knees going weak. I catch her, lifting her onto the island, her thighs parting to make room for me.
The sweater, that damn sweater that’s been teasing me all afternoon, is rucked up around her waist. I smooth it down, my hands lingering on the curve of her hips. She looks down at me, her eyes dark, her lips parted.
“You’re wearing too many clothes,” she says, her voice husky.
I grin. “So are you.”
She reaches for the hem of her sweater, pulling it over her head in one smooth motion. She’s wearing a simple white lace bra, and the sight of her, all pale skin and dark hair and the faint, freckled dusting across her shoulders, takes my breath away.
I reach out, my fingers tracing the delicate lace, the swell of her breast. Her nipple pebbles under my touch. I lean in, my mouth closing over it through the thin fabric.
She gasps, her hands fisting in my hair again. I suck, hard, my tongue swirling, until she’s writhing beneath me, her hips rocking against mine.
“Giovanni,” she breathes, a plea.
I answer her plea with a kiss, a deep, possessive one, my hands roaming, memorizing every curve, every hollow, every soft, secret place. I’m a man dying of thirst, and she is the cool, clear water I’ve been searching for.
I reach behind her, my fingers fumbling with the clasp of her bra. It gives way, and I slide it down her arms, baring her to my gaze. She is perfect, more perfect than I could have ever imagined.
I lower my head, my mouth finding her other breast, my tongue tasting, my teeth teasing. She arches into me, a soft, needy sound escaping her lips. My hands roam her body, my fingers tracing a path down her stomach, to the waistband of her jeans.
I pause, looking up at her. Her eyes are dark, her cheeks flushed. She’s breathing heavily, her chest rising and falling with each ragged breath.
“I’m going to show you exactly how a Conti takes what he wants,” I tell her.
She nods, her lips finding mine in a hungry, desperate kiss. “Yes,” she whispers against my mouth.
I undo the button, the zipper, sliding the denim down her hips. She lifts her hips to help me, and I pull the jeans off, tossing them aside. She’s wearing simple white lace panties, and I can see the damp patch at the center, the evidence of her desire.
I kneel before her, my hands on her thighs, my thumbs stroking the soft skin there. I look up at her, my eyes locking with hers.
“I’ve wanted to take you since I met you,” I say, my voice low, rough.
"I had a—" She swallows and licks her lips.
"Had what?" I whisper, pressing a teasing kiss to her inner thigh.
She drops her head back and breathes out.
"I had a dream about this, about you." Her thighs fall wider. Her head is still thrown back, exposing the long, vulnerable line of her throat. She can't see my face, so I let my smile turn feral.
I lean in, my mouth hovering just above her, so close I can feel the heat of her, smell her arousal. I blow gently, a soft, warm breath, and she shivers, a full-body tremor.
"Tell me your dream, la mia piccola tentazione," I whisper.
My little temptation.
She whimpers, her hands clenching into fists on the cool surface of the island. "You. Here. Like this."
I give her what she wants, my tongue tracing a slow, deliberate path over the wet lace. She cries out, her hips bucking, seeking more.
I tease her, my tongue circling, never quite touching where she needs me most. She’s writhing now, a string of incoherent pleas falling from her lips.
I hook my fingers in the waistband of her panties, pulling them down her legs, and toss them aside. And then she’s bare, open, and so beautiful it hurts.
I lean in, my breath warm against her most sensitive flesh. I look up at her, her head still thrown back, her eyes squeezed shut.
“Look at me, Bianca.”
She does, her eyes dark, dazed with desire.
"Tell me more." I lick my lips, and her eyes follow the gesture hungrily. "Your dream. Tell me more." I kiss the soft skin of her inner thigh, higher than before.
"We're in your kitchen in New Jersey," she says on a breathy gasp as my other hand traces a path up her other thigh. I like the direction this is going. I nip her skin, and she jolts.
"And?" I press.
"You—you kiss me. Like you did before. And then you lift me onto the counter."
"What do I do?" I ask, my thumb brushing against the juncture of her thigh, but still not touching her where she needs it the most.
"Undress me," she pants. "Then kiss me."
I press my mouth against her, a soft, open-mouthed kiss. She moans, her hips lifting, seeking more.
"Like this?" I murmur.
I hold her gaze as I lean in, my tongue tracing a slow, deliberate path through her folds. She gasps, her body arching, a sharp, beautiful sound tearing from her throat.
I take my time, tasting, exploring, learning every secret part of her.
I’m a man possessed, driven by a hunger so intense it borders on madness. She's sweet, salty, and utterly intoxicating.
I explore her slowly, leisurely, learning every curve, every sensitive spot. I find her clit, a small, hard nub, and I circle it with my tongue.
She cries out, her hands fisting in my hair, holding me close. I suck, gently at first, then harder, my tongue flicking, my teeth grazing. She’s writhing now, her hips bucking, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
I pull back, and an aching groan comes out of her.
"Well?" I ask.
I wait until her blurry eyes focus back on me, a question in them.
"Is that how I kissed you?"
She shakes her head, unable to speak.
"No?" I ask softly.
"No," she breathes out on a moan, lifting her hips.
"You— We—" Her face flushes even more as the words stutter to a halt.
I lean forward, tracing the shape of her with my tongue, deliberately light, a tease.
"What did we do, Bibi?" I murmur against her sensitive skin.
Her hips jump. Her entire body clenches. My name falls from her lips as a strangled sob.
"You were inside me."
I pause, my lips hovering over her, my breath warm against her slick skin. My gaze falls to her hands, which are braced on the island, her knuckles white.
"Like this?" I ask, and I slide a finger inside her.
She’s so wet, so tight, a perfect, clenching heat that makes my own arousal spike. I move my finger, a slow, steady rhythm, my thumb finding her clit, circling, pressing.
"No," she gasps. "Not your fingers."
I add a second finger, stretching her, filling her. She moans, her head falling back, her body arching, a perfect, beautiful bow. I watch her face, the way her eyes flutter shut, the way her lips part, the way the muscles in her neck strain. She’s close, so close.
I increase the pressure, the pace, my fingers moving faster, harder, my thumb circling her clit in a relentless, rhythmic dance. Her body tenses, her breath catching in her throat.
"Then what?" I say patiently, slowing my rhythm down.
A sound of frustration escapes her lips, a low, needy growl.
"Your cock!" she snaps out.
I grin. I can't help it. She's usually so reserved, even shy. I love this feral, desperate version of her. My girl with the claws. I slow my fingers down to a near stop, a cruel, maddening tease.
She gasps, her eyes flying open, glaring at me.
"Please, Giovanni."
I love it when she begs. My name, a prayer on her lips. My fingers resume their relentless rhythm, plunging deep to find that spot inside her, the one that makes her cry out, the one that makes her whole body tremble.
I lower my mouth to her aching pussy and taste her thoroughly, my tongue working her clit.
“Giovanni,” she gasps, her body tensing, her thighs trembling. “I'm going to come."
"Then come for me, mia."
Mine.
I increase the pressure, the pace, my fingers moving in a hard, fast rhythm, pumping deep into her. I close my lips over her clit and curl my fingers.
She comes with a cry, a sharp, beautiful sound that echoes in the quiet kitchen. Her body convulses, arching up off the counter, her inner muscles clenching around my fingers through a wave of pleasure so intense it steals her breath.
I ride out her orgasm, my fingers and my tongue slowing, easing her down from the peak, drawing out her pleasure, savoring every last shudder, every last gasp.
When she’s spent, when she’s limp, when she’s a beautiful, boneless puddle on my kitchen island, I pull away. I look up at her, her face flushed, her lips swollen, her eyes glazed with a sated, dazed pleasure.
I lick my lips, tasting her, a lingering, salty, sweet reminder of what we just shared. I stand up, my body aching with a need so intense it’s a physical pain.
I kiss my way up her body, my lips tracing a path over her stomach, her breasts, her throat. I capture her mouth, a deep, possessive kiss, letting her taste herself on my tongue.
She wraps her arms around my neck, her hands tangling in my hair, her body pressing against mine. I lift her, her legs wrapping around my waist, and carry her out of the kitchen, away from the ticking oven and the simmering beans, toward the stairs.
“Where are we going?” she asks, her voice a husky whisper.
“Where I can fuck you properly,” I answer, my lips finding hers again, a hungry, demanding kiss.