Ricardo
Chapter Twelve
That one word is all I need. For now anyway.
I lean in and kiss her.
This kiss is different from the others. This is not just a kiss now. It's an eraser.
I am trying to erase the memory of any other mouth on hers. Any other hands on her skin. I am trying to erase the memory of that bastard completely.
On the outside, I keep my hands gentle, my lips soft.
Inside, something vicious is pacing.
Every word she said is echoing in my head.
Ashamed for wanting. Less for having such base emotions.
I want to find him.
The thought is so quick and violent it startles even me. I am a man who believes in control, in strategy, in waiting for the right moment. But the thought of putting my hands on the man who made her feel ashamed of her own desire... there is no control in that thought.
There is only a primal, possessive rage.
A possessiveness that, for the first time in my life, I do not try to deny.
My tongue slides against hers, and she meets me thrust for thrust. She sighs softly and moves against me.
That another man put those thoughts inside her and left them there to fester and grow makes my blood run hot and dark.
I am not a particularly good man. I know that better than anyone. I have done things with these hands that would make decent people step away from me. I have hurt men. Threatened them. Broken them when breaking was required.
But this?
This slow dismantling of a woman until she cannot feel desire without shame? Until she apologizes for wanting, flinches from kindness, and hears his voice in her head at the moment another man touches her?
That is a cruelty that was done deliberately. There is no mistaking that.
It takes patience to do that to someone. Repetition. Attention. A thousand small corrections carefully placed so she doesn’t see the cage being built until the door is already locked.
Harrison did not simply lose his temper and wound her once.
He trained her to wound herself repeatedly.
I want him in front of me.
I want ten minutes alone with Harrison Winthrop the fucking third.
Five. I wouldn’t need ten.
I want to hear him explain himself with my hand around his throat and see how his base desires come out when he’s begging for his life.
But none of that belongs here.
None of it belongs on my face.
None of it belongs in my hands.
So I kiss her like she is something he never had the sense to value. Like every desire he taught her to doubt deserves exploring. Like her wanting is not a flaw to be managed, but a gift placed directly into my hands.
I cup her face as if she is precious, because she is, and I pour every ugly thing I want to do to him into the tenderness I give to her instead.
My hands drift down her throat, my thumbs tracing her pulse points. I feel how fast her heart is beating. The life in her is such a beautiful, vibrant thing.
My hands continue down, over her collarbones, and then lower still. Still, she clutches her dress protectively over her, an armor
I take my hands away from her.
But I don't let up on the kiss. I deepen it. I pour more desire into it. Enough for both of us for a moment if that's what she needs. Until I feel her relax just a little.
Until her fingers loosen and fall away from the material and wrap around my neck.
Still, I don't pull the dress from her. I slide my hands around her waist, pulling her closer until her body is flush with mine, and I kiss her like I could spend hours doing just this.
I let my tongue explore her mouth. I let my hands drift up and down her back, tracing circles on her skin with the tip of my finger. Soft, lazy circles. And it's the laziness that is making her tremble. The casual, unhurried way I am touching her, as if I have all the time in the world.
I let her get used to the feeling of being touched by someone with no ulterior motive.
Someone with no agenda other than her pleasure.
Eventually, one of her hands leaves my neck and drifts down my chest, her fingers splaying wide over my heart as if to feel it beating against her palm.
It’s a trusting gesture.
It is the one I have been waiting for.
I take my lips from hers. She makes a soft, mewling protest that I answer with a low murmur of my own as I kiss my way down her jaw to her earlobe, which I take gently between my teeth and suck.
She arches against me, a soft moan escaping her lips.
"You are exquisite," I murmur, my lips now trailing along her jaw.
A full-body shudder goes through her. I can feel it from her thighs all the way to her breasts, which are now pressed firmly against my chest.
"Every single inch of you."
I am making love to her with my words as much as my hands, and she is responding to both with a raw, honest passion that is undoing me.
"Tell me," I breathe, my lips now on the sensitive skin of her throat, right over her pulse point. "Tell me what you're thinking."
"I-I'm not..." she stammers.
"Good," I say, and then I bite her gently.
She cries out, her nails digging into my shoulders.
"I want you to feel," I say, my tongue soothing the bite. "Just feel.”
Her hands move from my shoulders, sliding down my chest, her fingers tracing the lines of my abdomen. My muscles jump and clench under her touch.
"Like that," I say, my voice hoarse. "Just like that."
Slowly, I move my hands to the front of her dress. I don't pull it away. I simply let my fingers rest against the fabric, right above her navel.
Her breath catches.
"Is this okay?" I ask, my lips still against her throat.
She nods, a quick, jerky motion.
"Words, cuore mio," I murmur. "I want you to use your words."
"Yes," she breathes. "Yes, it's okay."
Only then do I gently peel the fabric away from her body, revealing inch by agonizing inch of her creamy soft skin. She is trembling, but this time, it's not from fear. Not entirely anyway. This is the shudder of a body coming alive under a lover's hands.
I stop when the dress is bunched around her hips.
And then I just look.
The firelight flickers across her skin, illuminating those freckles scattered across her stomach and hips. It’s a road map I intend to explore later, every single one, but not now. Now, I have a different destination in mind.
“Così bella," I say, my voice low and rough. "Così perfetta. Tutta mia.”
So beautiful. So perfect. And all mine.
She flushes, a delicate pink spreading across her chest and cheeks. And I know that this is new for her, being looked at like this. Being seen.
And I am not just looking at her.
I am seeing her. Every last inch of her. And I see everything she is, and everything she could be, and I want it all.
My gaze drops to the black lace peeking above the dress still stretched over her hips, and I can't help but grin.
"Of course," I say, my thumb tracing the edge of the lace. "They match."
Her blush deepens, but she doesn't look away from me.
"I had a feeling," I say, my voice dropping. "A hope."
And then, with aching slowness, I let my fingers drift back up to her chest, my knuckles grazing her soft skin. I trace her collarbones, then down the valley between her breasts.
She shudders against me, and her breathing hitches.
I wait until I feel her relax again. I wait until I feel her lean into my touch this time. And that's when I know she is ready.
I take her nipples between my thumbs and forefingers, rolling them gently, watching her face.
She bites her lower lip, her eyes fluttering closed.
I pinch a little harder.
Her back arches, a soft cry escaping her lips.
"That's it," I murmur, my thumbs stroking the now-hard peaks. "That feels good, doesn't it?"
She doesn't answer, but I don't need her to.
Her body is answering for her.
Her back is arched, pressing her breasts deeper into my hands, and she is making these soft, breathless little sounds that are driving me insane. Her hips are moving in a slow, restless rhythm against me, a silent plea for something more.
And who am I to deny her what she so clearly wants?
I lean down and take one delicious nipple into my mouth.
She cries out, her hands flying to my hair, her fingers tangling in the strands as she holds me to her.
I lavish her with attention, my tongue swirling around the peak, my teeth grazing her skin. I want to devour her, to consume her, to lose myself in her taste and her scent and the feel of her body writhing beneath mine.
I move to the other breast, giving it the same, loving attention.
I want to slide my hand down her stomach and into her panties. I want to feel just how wet she is. And I will soon.
But not yet because this is not for me. This is not about getting her off. Well, it is. But right now, it's about showing her that her body can be a source of pleasure, not just shame.
That her desires are something to be celebrated, not hidden.
That her wanting is not a weakness, but a strength.
I want all thought of that prick, of the way he made her feel, to be burned away, leaving nothing but the memory of me.
And the way I make her feel.
I lift my head and look down at her.
Her eyes are closed, her lips parted, her breasts heaving with each ragged breath she takes. She looks wild and untamed, and she is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.
"Open your eyes, Julia."
Her lashes flutter, and slowly, she does.
Her eyes are dazed with passion, unfocused and hazy, but they are clear of the shame I saw in them earlier.
They are clear of him.
My chest tightens with a fierce, possessive triumph.
I smile at her, a slow, lazy, satisfied smile.
"Good girl," I murmur.
All at once, I stand up.
She blinks up at me, a confused, almost wounded look on her face.
"Ricardo...?"
"Un momento," I say and grab the blanket she had been wrapped up in earlier. I take that and go to the cabinet to grab pillows and another blanket.
I spread the blanket on the thick, plush rug, right in front of the roaring fire, and place the pillows on top of it.
I walk back to her, where she's now sitting up on the couch, watching me, and hold out a hand.
"Come here, cuore mio," I say, my voice low and gravelly. "Let's make this more comfortable."
She looks from my outstretched hand to the little pile of pillows and blankets I made in front of the fire, and then back to my face, and hesitantly takes my hand.
I help her up and lead her to the makeshift bed.
I have made love to many women in my life. In luxurious penthouses, in five-star hotels, on yachts in the middle of the Mediterranean.
But none of them compare to this.
To her.
To the firelight flickering over her skin, the storm raging outside, and the soft, trusting way she follows me, without question, without hesitation.
We stand on the rug and face each other, her still half-wearing her dress, me still fully dressed.
My hands go to the zipper at her back, and I slowly, torturously, slide it down the rest of the way, until the dress is completely unfastened.
The black fabric pools at her feet, leaving her in nothing but her black lace panties.
I can't help it. I groan, a deep, guttural sound that comes from the very depths of me.
"Julia," I breathe. "Sei una dea."
A goddess.
Her cheeks flush, but she doesn't shy away from my gaze. She stands there, her body bathed in firelight, and lets me look my fill.
And I do.
I look at the soft swell of her breasts, the flat plane of her stomach, the gentle curve of her hips, and the long, lean lines of her legs.
I look at all those freckles scattered across her body, like a constellation of stars I want to spend a lifetime mapping with my tongue.
My gaze falls to her panties, to the damp spot that has bloomed on the black lace, and my cock, already hard and aching, twitches with a fresh wave of desire.
I want to drop to my knees and bury my face between her legs.
I want to taste her, to feel her writhe against me, to hear her scream my name as I make her come.
But I don't want to scare her.
Instead, I take her face in my hands, my thumbs tracing her cheekbones.
"You are so beautiful," I say, my voice hoarse with emotion. "Do you know that?"
She shakes her head, her eyes wide and vulnerable.
“Don’t doubt it again,” I say, and then I kiss her.
It's slow and deep, deliberately so.
I kiss her until she is clinging to me, her body soft and pliant against mine, her hips moving restlessly against my own aching cock.
This time, she pulls away but not too far. Just far enough that she can look at me, to see my face while she unbuttons my shirt.
Her movements are a little clumsy, her fingers trembling, but there is a new confidence in her that wasn't there before.
She finally gets the last button undone, and pushes the shirt off my shoulders.
It falls to the floor, forgotten.
Her hands drift to my chest, her fingers splaying wide over my heart. I know she can feel how fast it's beating, a frantic, erratic rhythm that matches her own.
"Your turn," she whispers, her gaze locked with mine.
A slow smile spreads across my face.
"Is that an order?"
A flicker of uncertainty crosses her face, and I immediately regret my teasing. I take her hands in mine, bringing them to my lips, and press a soft kiss to her palms.
"Tell me what you want, Julia," I say, my voice low and seductive. "Tell me, and it's yours."
She hesitates for a moment, then her gaze drops, her cheeks flushing a delicate pink.
"I want... I want to see you," she says, her voice barely a whisper.
"As you wish," I say, and then I release her hands and take a step back.
I slowly unbutton my trousers, my eyes never leaving hers. I watch as her breathing hitches, as her gaze darkens with desire.
I slide my trousers down my legs, taking my boxer briefs with them, and kick them aside, along with my socks.
In her state of vulnerability, I don't want to keep making her take the first move. I am not a shy man, and as much as I want to see her without her panties, I know that this is a new thing for her, this reclaiming of her own sexuality. I will be patient.
So, instead of pushing her, I stand before her, completely naked, completely exposed, my cock hard and heavy between my legs, jutting out toward her.
Her eyes widen, a soft gasp escaping her lips.
But she doesn't look away.
She looks her fill, her gaze roaming over my body, from my chest to my stomach, and then down to my cock, which twitches under her avid scrutiny.
Her tongue darts out, wetting her lips, and I have to clench my hands into fists at my sides to keep from grabbing her, from throwing her down on the rug and burying myself inside her.
I let her look her fill.
And when she finally looks back up at me, her eyes are dark with a hunger that matches my own.
"You are... beautiful," she says, her voice full of awe.
The word hangs in the air between us, a simple, profound truth that takes me by surprise. No one has ever called me beautiful before. Handsome, yes. Powerful, yes. Intimidating, certainly. But never beautiful.
Coming from her, in this moment, it feels like the highest compliment I have ever received.
I close the distance between us, my hands going to her hips.
“Se io sono bello,” I murmur, “allora tu cosa sei, tesoro mio?”