Chapter 20 #5
"Fuck, Nova."
"Language," I murmur, and he laughs—a real laugh, startled out of him, and I feel the sound in my chest.
"You're standing here like this and you're worried about my language?"
"I'm just saying. There are children asleep down the hall."
His grin fades into something deeper. "They're asleep because we made sure of that. Because we did what we needed to do today, and now—" His hands cup my breasts, his thumbs brushing my nipples, and my back arches off the wall. "Now I get to have this."
His thumbs circle—slow, deliberate, maddening. I watch his face as he touches me, watch the concentration in his expression, the way his eyes track every reaction. When my breath hitches, he does it again.
When I bite my lip, he increases the pressure. He's learning me, reading me, mapping every signal my body gives him like he's studying for a test he intends to pass.
"Romeo." His name comes out breathier than I intended. "Can we—can we move to the bedroom?"
He pulls back slightly, his hands still on me, and meets my eyes. "You sure?"
"I'm sure."
He steps back, giving me room to move, and I walk past him on unsteady legs. The bedroom swallows us in amber light, and I hear him follow—the soft rustle of his clothes, the pad of his feet on the hardwood.
I stop at the foot of the bed, turning to face him, and he's already pulling his t-shirt over his head. The lamplight catches the lean lines of his chest, the subtle definition of muscle, the trail of dark hair disappearing below his waistband.
He tosses the shirt somewhere behind him and reaches for his pants, pushing them down with the kind of casual grace that makes my mouth go dry.
He stands in front of me in boxers, and I reach for him. My small hands press against his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin, the steady thud of his heart beneath my palm.
He lets me touch him—lets my fingers trace the lines of his ribs, the flat plane of his stomach, the sharp cut of his hip bones. When I hook my fingers into his waistband, he catches my wrist.
"Not yet." He guides my hands back to my sides. "Tonight is about you."
"Romeo—"
"I mean it." His voice is firm, but his eyes are soft. "Let me take care of you. Just this once."
I want to argue. I want to tell him that I don't need taking care of, that I've been handling things on my own since I was fifteen, that accepting help feels like swallowing glass.
But the words die in my throat when he reaches behind me and unclasps my bra. The lace falls away, and his palms cover my breasts, warm and steady, and my eyes close on a shudder.
"Look at me," he says.
I open my eyes. He's watching my face, reading every micro-expression, and when his thumbs brush my nipples again, I can't hold back the sound that escapes me—a soft, breathy moan that seems to hang in the jasmine-scented air between us.
"There," he murmurs. "Right there."
He backs me toward the bed, step by step, his hands never leaving my skin. When my knees hit the mattress, I sit down abruptly, and he follows me down, pressing me into the sheets. The bed is cool against my bare back, a relief against the heat building under my skin.
Romeo settles over me, one knee between my thighs, his hands planted on either side of my head. He looks down at me—really looks—and I feel seen in a way that terrifies me.
"You're so beautiful," he says, and the words don't sound like a line. They sound like fact. Simple, indisputable, spoken like someone stating the sky is blue.
"Romeo—"
"I mean it." He lowers himself until his chest brushes mine, until I can feel his heartbeat against my breasts. His mouth finds my ear. "I'm going to make you feel so good tonight. I'm going to take my time.
I'm going to learn every sound you make, every place that makes you shake. And when you come, I want you to say my name." His words send a shiver through me. "You're very bossy tonight."
"Deal with it." His teeth graze my earlobe, and I gasp. "Now tell me what you want."
I don't know how to answer that. Not because I don't know, but because I've never been asked. Not like this. Not by someone who actually cares about the answer.
I've had sex plenty of times—quick, functional encounters that scratched an itch or served a purpose—but no one has ever looked at me the way Romeo is looking at me now and asked what I want.
"Everything," I whisper. "I want everything."
He smiles—slow, satisfied—and his mouth finds my throat.
He kisses a path down my neck, across my collarbone, between my breasts.
His tongue traces the curve of one, then the other, circling closer and closer to my nipple without quite touching it.
My hands fist in the sheets, my hips shifting restlessly beneath him.
"Tell me," he says against my skin. "Use your words."
"I want—" I swallow hard. "Your mouth. On me."
"Where?"
"Romeo—"
"Tell me." His breath is hot against my breast. "Say it."
"On my—" I can feel the heat rising in my cheeks. "On my nipples. Please."
He doesn't make me ask again. His mouth closes over one nipple, hot and wet, and my back arches off the bed. His tongue swirls, his teeth graze, and the sensation shoots straight between my legs. I moan—loud, unguarded—and he groans in response, the vibration adding another layer of sensation.
"Oh god—" My hands fly to his hair, my fingers tangling in the dark waves. "Yes, like that. Don't stop."
He switches to the other breast, giving it the same attention, the same worship. His hand replaces his mouth on the first, rolling and pinching the wet nipple between his fingers, and I'm writhing beneath him now.
The ache between my legs is becoming unbearable, and I can feel how wet I am—my panties are soaked, my thighs pressing together seeking friction.
"Romeo." His name is a plea. "Please. I need—"
"What do you need?" He lifts his head, his lips swollen and glistening, and looks at me with those dark, knowing eyes. "Tell me exactly what you need."
"I need you to touch me." The words tumble out before I can second-guess them. "I need your fingers. Your mouth. I need—god, I need you to make me come."
His smile is slow and predatory, but there's tenderness there too.
He presses a kiss to my sternum, then another to my ribs, then another lower still.
His mouth trails down my stomach, his tongue dipping into my navel, and I feel each kiss like a brand.
When he reaches the waistband of my panties, he pauses.
"These are in my way," he says, hooking his fingers under the lace.
"Then take them off."
He pulls them down slowly, inch by inch, pressing kisses to each new inch of skin he reveals. My hip bones. The crease of my thighs. The soft skin just above my mound. I lift my hips to help him, and he slides the panties down my legs and tosses them somewhere behind him.
He settles between my thighs, his shoulders pushing my legs wider, and I feel exposed in a way that goes beyond nakedness.
He's looking at me—the most intimate part of me—and his expression isn't hunger or lust. It's reverence.
It's worship. It's a man kneeling at an altar, and I'm the deity he's chosen to pray to.
"You're so fucking beautiful," he breathes, and his voice cracks on the last word. "Every inch of you."
I don't have time to respond before his mouth is on me.
His tongue parts my folds, licking a long, slow stripe from my entrance to my clit, and I cry out.
The sound echoes off the bathroom walls, too loud, too raw, but I can't bring myself to care.
His tongue circles my clit—once, twice—and then he sucks gently, and my vision blurs.
"Oh fuck—" My hands grip his hair tighter, my hips rolling against his face. "Your mouth is so—yes, right there, don't stop—"
He doesn't stop. His tongue works me with devastating precision, alternating between broad strokes and targeted flicks that have me shaking.
He reads my body like a book—adjusting pressure and speed based on every gasp and moan, every twitch of my thighs.
When he slides one finger inside me, I nearly come off the bed.
"You're so wet," he murmurs against me, and I feel the words as much as hear them. "So fucking wet for me."
"All for you," I breathe, and I mean it. "Only you."
He adds a second finger, curling them in a come-hither motion that presses against the spot inside me that makes stars burst behind my eyes. His mouth returns to my clit, and the dual sensation is overwhelming. I can feel the orgasm building—tight, coiled, ready to snap.
"Romeo—Romeo, I'm close—"
"I know." His fingers speed up, his tongue matching the rhythm. "Let go. I've got you."
And I do. The orgasm crashes through me like a wave, and I'm crying out his name, my thighs clamping around his head, my back arching off the bed. He works me through it, his fingers and mouth never stopping, drawing out every last tremor until I'm lying boneless and gasping on the sheets.
He presses one last kiss to my inner thigh and lifts his head. His chin is wet, his eyes are dark, and his smile is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. "Hi," he says softly.
I laugh—breathless, incredulous. "Hi yourself."
He crawls up my body, pressing kisses along the way, and settles beside me. His hand finds my face, his thumb brushing my cheekbone, and he looks at me with an expression that makes my chest ache.
"I want to be inside you," he says quietly. "But only if you want—"
"I want." I reach for him, my hand closing over the hard length of him through his boxers, and he hisses. "I want you. Now."
He shoves his boxers down and kicks them off, and then he's naked above me—lean and beautiful and hard. I reach for him again, wanting to touch, but he catches my hand and pins it above my head.
"Next time," he says. "Tonight is about you."
"You already—"