Ricardo
Chapter Ten
The moment Marisa leaves, the house changes.
The storm fills the silence she leaves behind. Rain lashes the windows. Thunder rolls over the roof, deep enough to feel in the floor. The fire in the sitting room throws heat across the rug and turns the lamplight softer, lower.
Much more dangerous.
Julia sits on the edge of my sofa with my blanket wrapped around her shoulders and my coffee cup in her hands.
She looks like she belongs here.
There is a perfectly good chair across from the sofa. Sensible. Polite. Safer for both of us. I ignore the perfectly good chair across from the sofa and sit next to Julia.
The space between us is alive with electricity.
Her fingers tighten around the cup. Her gaze drops to my shirt, then jerks away. My shirt is still damp at the shoulders, the fabric pulling against my chest every time I move.
She notices.
I notice her noticing.
The storm cracks hard outside, and she flinches before she can hide it.
I reach for her cup. “Give me that before you spill it.”
She lets me take it. Our fingers brush, and her breath catches.
I set both cups on the table.
Now there is nothing in her hands.
She seems to realize that at the same time I do.
“Ricardo,” she says.
“Yes?”
Her throat moves. “This is a bad idea.”
“Yes.”
The fire snaps softly in the hearth.
She looks away, then back again, as if she cannot decide whether looking at me is better or worse.
“We work together.”
“Yes.”
“You’re Dante’s father.”
“Yes.”
“My boss’s brother.”
“Yes.”
“Are you going to keep saying yes?”
“Everything you've said is correct.”
Her mouth parts, and for one second, I think she may laugh.
She does not.
Her gaze drops to my mouth instead.
The want in me tightens so sharply I have to close my hand against my thigh.
“Julia.”
Her name comes out rougher than I intend.
She hears it. Her lashes lower, and the blanket slips down one shoulder, exposing the damp black fabric of her dress beneath. I could fix it. I could reach over and draw the blanket back into place.
I do not.
I am not that good a man.
“You should tell me to sit in the chair,” I say. “If that's where you want me.”
She looks at the chair across from us.
Then back at me.
“I don’t want you in the chair.”
The rain hits the windows harder, a steady violent sound that makes the room feel cut off from the rest of the world. There is only firelight, storm, and Julia looking at me as if all sensibility has finally flown out the window.
“Come here,” I say softly.
Her eyes widen.
I hold out my hand between us, palm up.
Nothing more.
For a second, she only looks at it.
Then she puts her hand in mine.
Her fingers are cool. Mine close around them slowly, giving her time to change her mind. She does not. She shifts closer instead, the blanket falling farther, her knee brushing mine.
The contact is small.
It feels enormous.
I lift my other hand and touch her face. Just the tip of my thumb along her jaw. She inhales, and her eyes close for half a second.
When they open again, there is no confusion in them.
Only nerves.
Only want.
“I haven’t done this since…” she trails off.
“Shh,” I say. “This is not the place for him.”
“I’m scared,” she whispers, wide-eyed.
The words slice me like a blade.
I lean closer but stop before my mouth reaches hers.
“Then we go slowly.”
She shakes her head once. “I don’t want slow. I’m tired of slow.”
My control frays.
“Careful,” I warn.
Her hand tightens in mine. “I thought you liked me less careful.”
“I want you to be sure.”
“I am.”
For one heartbeat, I do not move.
Then I kiss her.
The first touch is softer than the need behind it. It has to be. She is trembling, and I need to know whether it is fear or desire before I let myself want more, take more, give more.
Then her free hand comes to my shirt, fingers curling into damp cotton, and she kisses me back.
There is nothing uncertain about it.
A sound leaves her, low and needy, and whatever restraint I have left shatters.
I tilt my head, deepen the kiss, and her mouth opens under mine. She tastes like coffee and a faint trace of saltiness from her fries, warm and alive and everything I have not allowed myself to imagine.
Years of careful control, of building a life around order and protection and distance, all of it dissolves in the rain and firelight.
The blanket pools around her waist as she leans into me, her other hand sliding up my arm to my shoulder. Her touch is light, then firm, testing. My own hand moves from her jaw into her hair, damp and cool from the rain, and I angle her head just so, needing more.
Her fingers curl into my shirt, pulling me closer still. She shifts, her body pressing against mine from hip to shoulder, and the heat of her through the thin, damp fabric is staggering.
I have imagined this.
Not just the kiss, but the feel of her, the way she would move, the small sounds she would make. None of my imagination did this justice.
Her lips are soft, her kiss is hungry, and she is giving as good as she gets.
I shift, turning her until she is tucked against the back of the sofa, my body leaning over hers. Her hands slide up into my hair, and she makes another small, breathless sound that sends fire through my veins.
My mouth moves from hers to the line of her jaw, down the sensitive skin of her throat. She tilts her head back, exposing herself, and I taste the rapid pulse beating against my lips.
“Ricardo,” she breathes.
“Still with me?” I ask.
"God, yes." Her fingers tighten in my hair, a silent command that says more.
I return to her mouth, harder this time, and this time she is the one who pulls me closer. She shifts, wrapping one leg around my hip, pulling me down until I am flush against her.
The friction of our bodies, the heat and the pressure, makes me groan into her mouth.
Her dress is black and damp, and I find the zipper at the back. It slides down easily under my fingers. She arches her back slightly, giving me access, her hands still fisted in my hair as I kiss her again and again.
Then my knuckles brush the bare skin of her back.
She shudders, pressing harder into me.
My control is gone.
I slip my hand beneath the fabric, onto the smooth, warm curve of her lower back. She moans into my mouth, a raw sound that sends a bolt of pure desire straight through me.
The firelight flickers over her skin, catching in the deep red of her hair where it spills against the sofa cushions.
Her head is thrown back against the sofa cushions, her lips swollen from my kisses, her eyes closed.
I watch her for a half-second, committing this to memory, before my gaze falls to the pale cream of her collarbones with those delectable freckles dotted across them.
I lower my head and press my lips to her skin, tracing the line of one collarbone with my tongue. Her hands clutch at my shoulders, her breathing coming in ragged, shallow gasps.
“Ricardo,” she says again.
It is the plea in her tone that undoes me completely.
But first...
I pull back because I need air and sanity, though I am not sure either one is possible at the moment.
“Julia.”
Her eyes open slowly. The emerald green of them, usually so sure and clear, is now blurred and dark with desire.
“If we keep going, I will want more.”
Her fingers tighten in my hair. “I know.”
“I need you to understand what I’m saying.” I force myself to be clear. "I want it all. I want to fuck you until you can't think straight. I want to hear you scream my name."
Her breath catches on a moan. I feel it all the way down to my cock. "Okay," she says.
That startles a laugh out of me.
"That's all you have to say? Okay?"
"Yeah," she says. "And: what the hell are you waiting for?"
Oh my God. She is glorious. Absolutely, without a doubt, glorious.
And I am lost.
There is no more room in my head for caution. No more room for Mario. No more room for Dante or her age or anything else I've been using to convince myself to stay away.
There is only this woman, this fire, this storm.
There is only Julia.
I take her mouth in a dirty, possessive kiss as my other hand finds the straps of her dress and yanks them down.
I break our kiss and look down.
Black lace.
She chose black lace for work today.
The image that flashes through my mind—Julia, in her bedroom, choosing this particular bra, having no idea where this day would lead—nearly makes me come undone right here.
I wonder if her panties match.
I lower my head and take one nipple in my mouth, right through the lace.
She cries out, her back arching, her hands fisting in my hair as I lick and suck and tease the already hardened peak. I use my teeth and her whole body shudders against me.
I move to the other breast, giving it the same attention, as I reach behind her to unhook her bra. It comes away with a quiet snap, and I toss it aside.
Her breasts are perfect.
Pale and full, tipped with tight, rosy nipples that pucker in the firelight.
Just like the rest of her, they're dotted with freckles. A light dusting of them across her chest. I want to taste every single one.
I lower my head slowly, eyes holding hers.
And then I do exactly what I want.
I start in the valley between her breasts, tracing the path of freckles with the tip of my tongue. Her breathing hitches. Her hands move from my hair to my shoulders, her nails digging in just enough to send a fresh jolt of desire through me.
I take my time, mapping the delectable dots all over, like that number game, but with my tongue.
I am thorough.
I am methodical.
She is writhing beneath me, making soft, desperate little sounds that go straight to my head.
I follow a trail up the curve of one breast to the nipple, and take it in my mouth again, this time, completely bare. Her body bows, a silent, perfect arch of offering. I suckle, hard, then gentle, then hard again, until she is gasping my name.
"Ricardo...please..."
I lift my head, my own breath coming harsh.
“Cosa vuoi, Julia?”
She blinks up at me, her eyes glazed, her lips swollen.
I know what she wants.
But I want to hear her say it.
“I want…” she starts, but her voice trails off into a moan as I rub my thumb over her other nipple. “I want you.”
“You have me,” I murmur, my mouth trailing down her stomach. “But what do you want from me?”
“I want...everything.”
That's not specific enough.
I tsk softly.
"Try again." I press a hot, open-mouthed kiss to her belly button.
She shudders.
"I want...I want your mouth on me," she whispers, her cheeks flushing a deeper red. "There."
I lift my head and look at her.
There is no mistaking what she means.
But it's not quite right yet.
I lift my head and bring my lips to hers, giving her a soft, deep kiss. She responds with a hungry desperation that tells me everything I need to know about how close she is.
I pull back, my forehead resting against hers. "Where?"