Chapter Ten Alexandra
His mouth finds mine before my back hits the mattress.
The kiss is different from the first time.
That was a collision. Desperate, frantic, two people crashing into each other because the alternative was combustion.
This is slower. Hungrier. He kisses me like he's memorizing the shape of my mouth, his tongue sliding against mine in long, deliberate strokes that make my toes curl into the sheets.
His weight settles over me, and the sheer size of him steals my breath. Chest to chest, hip to hip, his thigh pressing between mine. I can feel him, hard and thick against my stomach through the fabric of his pants, and the pressure sends a jolt of heat straight through my core.
I reach for his shirt. He catches my wrists, pins them above my head with one hand, and pulls back to look at me.
"I said I'm taking my time." His voice is gravel. Low and rough and vibrating through me like a bass note. "That means you don't get to rush."
"I'm not rushing. I'm helping."
"You're impatient." His free hand finds the hem of the shirt I'm wearing, his shirt, and pushes it up slowly.
Inch by inch. His knuckles graze my stomach and my muscles clench.
Higher. Over my ribs, each one a ridge beneath his fingers.
Higher. Until the fabric bunches above my breasts and cool air hits my skin and his eyes go dark.
"Fuuuuuck," he breathes. The word drops out of him like it was dragged against his will.
He releases my wrists long enough to pull the shirt over my head, and then his hands are on me.
Both of them. Wide palms and rough fingers spreading across my ribcage, thumbs brushing the underside of my breasts.
Not touching where I want him to touch. Not yet.
mapping the terrain, tracing the shape of me like a blind man reading something sacred.
"Leone." His name comes out strained.
"Patience."
"I don't have any."
"Then learn."
His mouth drops to my collarbone. Open, hot, his tongue tracing a slow line from shoulder to throat.
I arch into him, my fingers twisting in the sheets, but he holds me down with his body, pinning my hips to the mattress so I can't move.
Can't grind against him. Can't do anything except lie there and feel.
He takes his time with my neck. Kissing, licking, biting softly at the tendons, sucking at the spot below my ear until I'm panting. His stubble scrapes against my skin, rough enough to sting, and the contrast between that and the wet heat of his mouth makes me whimper.
Then his mouth moves lower.
He kisses between my breasts, his breath hot against my sternum.
His hand slides up and cups me, thumb circling my nipple in slow, maddening loops.
Once. Twice. Three times before he finally closes his mouth over it, tongue flicking, teeth grazing, and the sound I make is embarrassing. Loud and broken and desperate.
He doesn't stop. He works one breast with his mouth and the other with his hand, switching, alternating, until both nipples are stiff and aching and every nerve in my body is wired to the two points where he's touching me.
My hips buck against his thigh and he lets me, this once, lets me grind against the hard muscle of his leg while his mouth does devastating things to my chest.
"Please," I gasp. "Leone, please."
"Please what?"
"Touch me."
"I am touching you."
"Lower."
He lifts his head. His eyes are black, pupils swallowing the iris, and his lips are swollen and slick. He looks wrecked. He looks like he wants to devour me whole and is exercising every ounce of control he has to do it slowly.
"Ask me properly," he says.
The command sends a pulse of heat between my legs so strong I nearly come from the sound of his voice alone. I swallow hard. "Please touch me. Lower. I need..."
"Need what?"
"I need your hands on me. I need you inside me. I need you to stop teasing me before I lose my fucking mind."
There’s a shift in his expression. The control wavers. His eyes narrow, and I see the exact moment he decides to stop being patient.
His hand slides down my stomach, over the black cotton of my underwear, and presses flat between my legs.
The heel of his palm grinds against me through the fabric, and my entire body jolts.
He feels how wet I am. I know he does because his breath catches, short and sharp, and his fingers press harder, rubbing slow circles through cotton that's already soaked.
"Christ," he mutters against my hip. "You're drenched."
I can't respond. My brain has left the building.
His fingers hook into the waistband and pull, sliding the underwear down my legs with excruciating slowness, his mouth following the trail, pressing kisses along my hip, my inner thigh, the sensitive crease where leg meets body.
Every kiss is an inch closer to where I'm throbbing, aching, dying for contact.
He settles between my thighs. Shoulders pushing my legs apart. His breath hits me, hot and close, and I fist the sheets so hard my knuckles crack.
"Look at me," he says.
I force my eyes open. He's watching me from between my legs, dark eyes burning, his mouth inches from where I need him most. The visual alone nearly undoes me.
He holds my gaze and lowers his mouth to me.
The first stroke of his tongue is slow. Flat and broad, dragging through my center from bottom to top, and the sound that tears out of me is feral. My hands fly to his hair, gripping, pulling, and he growls against me. The vibration shoots through my core like lightning.
He eats me like he's starving. Long, slow licks that turn short and focused, his tongue circling my clit with relentless precision. He slides two fingers inside me, curving them upward, finding the spot that makes my vision blur, and works me with his mouth and his hand in tandem.
I'm shaking. My thighs tremble against his shoulders. My stomach clenches and releases in waves. He doesn't let up. Doesn't slow down. keeps that punishing rhythm, tongue and fingers moving in concert, building me higher and higher until the pressure in my belly is unbearable.
"Leone, I'm going to..."
He sucks my clit into his mouth, hard, and crooks his fingers, and I shatter.
The orgasm rips through me like a current. My back bows off the bed, my hands clench in his hair, and I cry out, his name and profanity and sounds that aren't words at all. He keeps going. Licking me through it, drawing it out, his fingers still moving inside me while my body convulses around him.
When the aftershocks finally fade, I collapse into the sheets, boneless, gasping. He kisses the inside of my thigh, soft, almost tender, then rises over me, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
"We're not done," he says.
"I know." My voice sounds like it belongs to someone else. Wrecked. Ruined.
He strips off his shirt. I've seen his body before, but it hits differently now. In the low light, every scar and ridge is cast in shadow. The thick muscles of his chest and shoulders. The hard planes of his stomach. The V of his hips disappearing into his waistband. My mouth waters.
He unbuckles his belt, watching me watch him. Sheds the pants, the boxer briefs. And then he's naked above me, and I have a moment to appreciate the full reality of him before coherent thought becomes a luxury I can no longer afford.
He's big. Proportional to the rest of him, which means intimidating.
Thick, hard, already slick at the tip. I reach for him.
He lets me this time, and when my fingers wrap around him, his head drops, chin to chest, and he exhales through his teeth.
A harsh, ragged sound. The sound of control fraying.
I stroke him once. Twice. He grabs my wrist and pins it back to the mattress.
"If you keep doing that, this ends before it starts."
I grin up at him. "That fragile?"
"That hungry. Ready?"
I nod.
He lines himself up against me, the tip pressing at my entrance, and pauses. One hand braced beside my head. The other gripping my hip, tilting me upward.
"Look at me," he says again.
I meet his eyes.
He pushes in. Slow. So slow I can feel every inch, the stretch and the fullness and the deep, aching pressure of him filling me completely. My lips part. My nails dig into his shoulders. When he's fully seated, both of us breathing hard, he holds still.
"You okay?" he asks, and his voice is barely recognizable. Rough and cracked and shaking.
"Yes." I roll my hips, pulling him deeper, and we both groan. "Move."
He moves.
Not fast. Long, deep strokes that drag out and push back in, each one hitting a place inside me that sends sparks across my vision.
His hips roll against mine in a rhythm that feels practiced, measured, each thrust deliberate.
He's watching my face, reading every reaction, ading his angle until he finds the one that makes my eyes roll back.
"There," I gasp. "Right there. Harder."
He braces both hands beside my head and drives into me harder.
The sound of skin against skin fills the room, wet and obscene.
My legs wrap around his waist, ankles locking at the small of his back, and the new angle forces him deeper.
I moan and he swallows the sound with his mouth, kissing me while he fucks me, his tongue matching the rhythm of his hips.
The pressure builds again. Faster this time, layered on top of the first orgasm, my body already sensitized and greedy. He feels it, feels me tightening around him, and his rhythm falters.
"Not yet," he grits out. "Not yet, I'm not done with you."
He pulls out and flips me onto my stomach before I can protest. His hand fists in my hair, pulling my head back, and his mouth finds my ear.
"On your knees."
I comply. Shaking, dripping, already gone. I rise onto my hands and knees and feel him behind me, his chest against my back, his cock pressing against me. He pushes in again, and from this angle he's impossibly deep. I bury my face in the pillow and scream.