Chapter 44
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Luca
Gemma lies back against the pillows with her legs spread, naked, her blonde hair loose on the white sheets, and she watches me stand at the foot of the bed like she has all night.
She does. That's the point of the room. One night, no Nina down the hall, no monitor, no small feet at six in the morning. Susan has her until Sunday.
I've got my shirt off and my belt open. My cock in my hand, and I stroke it slow while I look at her. Her nipples are hard. There's a flush spreading down her chest, and her knees fall a little wider when she catches me watching.
"Tell me what you want," I say.
"Your tongue," she says. "Then your fingers. Then your dick inside my pussy."
The sound that comes out of me isn't a word. It's low and my hand tightens around my cock before I make myself let go.
"Cristo." I put a knee on the mattress. "You say it like that and expect me to go slow."
"I didn't say slow." She lifts her chin. "I said in order."
I laugh. It still surprises me, that I do that now. Then I take her ankle in my hand and kiss the inside of it. I work my way up her calf, the back of her knee, the soft skin of her inner thigh, and by the time my mouth is close enough to feel her heat, she's got a fist in the sheets.
"We ate dinner," I say against her thigh. "Now I get my fucking dessert."
"That's a terrible line."
"Complain in five minutes."
Then my mouth is on her and she stops talking.
She's already wet. I taste her, salt and heat, and I go slow at first. Flat tongue, long strokes, nothing direct yet. Her hips lift. I put my forearm across them holding her down.
"Luca."
"I know." I circle her clit once, light, and her whole body jerks. "Patience, amore."
"I've been patient since the appetizers."
That's true. She spent the whole dinner with her foot against my cock under the table, eating her steak like nothing was happening, and I sat there half hard through three courses. She knows exactly what she did.
I stop teasing.
I seal my mouth over her clit and slide two fingers into her at the same time.
The moan that comes out of her fills the room.
She's tight and hot around my fingers and I curl them up, find the spot that makes her thighs shake, and I work her there while my tongue keeps a steady rhythm on her clit.
Her hand comes down and grips my hair, hard, pulling, and the sting of it goes straight down my spine.
"There," she breathes. "Right there, don't—don't stop—"
I don't stop. I wouldn't stop if the building came down.
Her heel digs into my back. Her breathing goes ragged, then broken, and I feel her start to tighten around my fingers.
That flutter I know, the one that means ten seconds, maybe less.
I add pressure with my tongue, fingers driving steady, and I look up the length of her body because I need to see it.
Her head thrown back. Her throat working.
My chest goes tight at the sight of her whole and mine in a hotel bed with my name on her.
"Come for me," I say into her, and the vibration of it does the rest.
She breaks.
Her back arches off the mattress and she comes hard, loud, her pussy clamping down on my fingers in waves, her thighs locked around my head, my name coming out of her twice, three times, wrecked.
I work her through it, softer now, drawing it out until she's shaking, until her hand in my hair goes from pulling to holding.
Then she goes loose all at once, breathing like she ran here from the lobby.
I kiss her thigh. Her hip. The curve of her stomach, and I stop there a second longer than I mean to, my mouth against the place where our kid is the size of nothing, and the gap that opens in me isn't fear. Not tonight.
"Okay," Gemma says to the ceiling, still catching her breath. "That was—yeah. Okay."
"Okay." I climb up her body, my cock heavy and aching against her thigh. I brace over her so we're eye to eye. "Two down. You said in order, no?"
Her hands slide up my chest, over the scar on my shoulder, and her pale eyes hold mine, dark now, still hazy.
"Third thing," she says. "Now."
"Say it again." My voice comes out rough. "The whole thing. I want to fucking hear it."
She pulls me down until her mouth is at my ear, and what she whispers there makes my hands shake against the sheets.
I line myself up.
Gemma
He pushes inside me slow, and my whole body pulls tight around him. For a second neither of us breathes.
"Fuck," he says against my mouth. "You feel like—" He doesn't finish the sentence. His forehead drops to mine instead, and his hips press flush. I feel every inch of him seated deep.
He's above me. The black ink climbing his throat, the thin line down the side of it. He's lean everywhere, built out of long muscle and hard edges. His stomach tightens in ridges every time he moves.
He is, objectively, the best-looking man I have ever been under. I'm allowed to think that now.
He's my husband.
"Look at me," he says.
I look. His eyes are fixed on my face, and he pulls out and drives back in and watches what it does to me. My mouth opens. No sound comes out.
"There it is," he says, low. "That fucking face. That one's mine."
He sets a rhythm that isn't gentle. Deep, steady. The headboard tapping the wall on every stroke. I get my hands on him. The small of his back where the muscle moves, his ribs, the scarred thigh that's holding half his weight. His skin is hot. He runs hot everywhere.
"Harder," I say.
"You're pregnant."
"Five weeks. It's the size of a lentil. Harder."
Something shifts in his face and then his hand slides under my hips and tilts me up. He stops holding back.
The angle changes everything. He hits a place inside me that makes my vision blur at the edges, and he hits it again, and again. The room narrows down to the slap of skin, the wet sound of him moving in me, his breath rough at my ear. I turn my face into his neck and taste salt.
"Gemma." My name comes out of him ragged. "Cazzo—the way you take me—"
I clench around him on purpose and he groans, a sound pulled up from somewhere deep in his chest. His rhythm stutters and then comes back meaner.
"Do that again and I won't fucking last," he says.
I do it again.
He shifts his weight to one arm and gets his other hand between us, thumb on my clit, rough and exact. The pressure builds fast. My heels dig into the mattress. My thighs start shaking and I can't stop them.
"Luca—"
"I've got you. Come on my cock, amore. Let me feel it."
I break.
It rolls through me in waves, and white spots burst behind my eyes. Actual stars, actual light, my vision going pale at the edges while my whole body locks around him. I hear myself cry out. He works me through it, slower now, drawing it out until I'm gasping.
"Madonna," he breathes, looking down at me. "You're so fucking beautiful like this."
Then his jaw goes tight, his rhythm breaks apart and he pulls out fast, fist around himself. He comes across my belly in hot stripes.
He stays braced above me, chest heaving, tattoos shifting with every breath. Sweat runs down the line of his throat.
He reaches for his shirt off the floor and cleans my stomach with it, slow, careful, wiping every trace away like the job matters. Then he flattens his palm there, over the skin, and holds it. His hand covers me hip to hip.
"Okay?" he asks.
"Okay," I say, and mean it as a whole sentence.
He leans down and kisses me, unhurried. When he pulls back, his eyes have that look that lets me know what's on the other side of it.
"Good," he says. His thumb drags along my hip. "Because I'm not fucking done with you."
"We have the room until noon."
"I know what time we have the room until." He kisses my jaw, my throat, the spot below my ear that makes me shiver. His voice drops. "So. You ready for round two, or do you need a goddamn minute?"
My legs are still trembling. My heart hasn't slowed down. I look at this man. Scarred, inked, forty years old and hard again already, watching me like I'm the only thing in the building worth guarding. I pull him down by the back of the neck.
"Ask me again in thirty seconds," I say.
He smiles.