Chapter 9 Savannah #2
“Do you?” He steps closer. “Or are you just scared? You've been running from this since the moment we met. And I've been patient. I've given you space. I've respected your boundaries. But Savannah—" His voice drops. "I need to know. Is it because you don't want this? Or because you do?"
The lights go out.
The sudden darkness is absolute and disorienting. I can't see anything except the occasional flash of lightning through the distant windows. "Romeo—"
"I'm here." His voice is close, so close. "I'm right here."
I can hear him moving, sense him in the darkness. And then his hand finds mine, the warmth of it sending a tingling sensation over my skin.
"Tell me to leave," he says quietly. "Tell me you don't want this, and I'll walk away. I'll give you space. I'll stop—" He breaks off, as if he knows what he’s saying isn’t the truth, and he can’t keep spinning promises that we both know he’s going to break.
"I can't." My voice cracks. "I can't tell you that because it would be a lie."
"Then what do you want?"
Everything. I want everything. I want his hands on me, his mouth on mine, his body pressed against me in the darkness.
I want to stop thinking about duty and expectations and what I'm supposed to do.
I want to feel something real, something true, something that's mine and not dictated by my father or Thad or anyone else.
I want him.
I want to know what it feels like to have someone I chose touch me. To feel what I’ll never get another chance to experience in my life, after this.
I came to New York to live my life for two years. And this feels like living. It feels like what life is supposed to be about.
Like I’m going to die when I leave here, and I should take advantage of this while I have the chance.
"Savannah." His hand tightens on mine. "Tell me what you want."
"You," I whisper. "I want you."
The words are barely out of my mouth before his hand drops to my hip, spinning me so that my back is against one of the stacks, and he’s kissing me.
It's nothing like kissing Thad. Nothing like the demanding, possessive kisses I've endured for the past year.
This is heat and hunger and desperate need.
Romeo kisses me like he's been starving for it, like he's been holding back for weeks and can't anymore.
His hands are in my hair, tilting my head back, and I arch against him, my fingers clutching at his shirt.
The darkness makes everything more intense—I can't see him, can only feel him, taste him, hear the rough sound of his breathing.
"God," he breathes against my mouth. "I've wanted this for so long."
“Me too,” I gasp. His tongue sweeps over my lower lip, and I let out a soft whimpering sound that I don’t recognize as coming from me. “Romeo—”
“Shh.” He presses his mouth to mine again, quieting me as he presses me harder against the bookshelf. I can feel how much he wants me. The evidence of his desire is hard against my hip, and instead of being frightened, I'm thrilled. Empowered. Desperate for more.
And okay… maybe a little frightened too, because he feels so big. But that doesn’t matter. I’m not going to let it get that far…
His mouth moves to my neck, and I gasp, my head falling back against the books. No one has ever kissed me like this. No one has ever made me feel like this—like I'm burning alive, like I need more, like I might die if he stops.
"Tell me to stop," he murmurs against my skin. "Tell me this is too much, too fast—"
"Don't stop." My hands are in his hair now, holding him to me. "Please don't stop."
It feels too good. I want his mouth on mine again, and at the same time, I want him to keep it on my throat, sliding up and down, his teeth nipping at my skin, at my earlobe, dropping to my collarbone to lick a hot line against my skin.
It’s as if he wants to devour me, as if he can’t get enough of me.
I feel like I’m dying and coming to life at the same time.
His hand slides down my side, over my hip, and then he's gathering my skirt, pulling it up slowly, giving me time to object.
But I don't. I can't. I'm too far gone, too desperate for his touch.
When his hand slides between my thighs, I make a sound I've never made before—something between a gasp and a moan. He freezes.
"Is this okay?" His voice is rough, strained. I’ve never heard a man make a sound like that before… certainly not because of me. "Tell me if this is okay."
"Yes." I can feel myself trembling, my whole body alive with sensation. "Yes, it's okay."
It’s not. Nothing about this should be okay.
I’m not his, and I never can be… but here in the dark, with the lightning lighting us up every few minutes the way he’s lighting me up inside, the silence all around us that’s only broken by breath and moans, it feels like I could be.
Like I’m not really me, and he’s not really him, and we can be someone else, just for a little while.
People who might not have different pasts or futures, but could have a different present, just for now.
His fingers find the edge of my underwear. They slip underneath, gliding over the soft surface of my outer folds, and I understand for the first time what all the fuss is about. What people mean when they talk about desire, about need, about pleasure.
I feel like I’ll die if he doesn’t stop, and like I’ll die if he does. My hips arch into his hand, and he lets out a ragged groan.
"You're so wet," he breathes, something that sounds almost like awe in his voice… for me. "So perfect."
I should be embarrassed. I should be ashamed. But I'm not. I'm just desperate for more. His fingertips dip between my folds, and I hear him let out a hiss of breath between his teeth as they glide over my sensitive, intimate flesh.
“Tell me no one has ever done this to you before,” he growls, his lips against my ear as his fingers move back and forth slowly, just shy of my clit. “Tell me I’m the first man to touch you like this.”
“You are.” My voice comes out weak, ineffectual, and I grip at his upper arm to hold myself steady.
He lets out another harsh breath. “You sound so pretty when you lie.”
“I’m not lying.” I gasp, my head falling back, and his mouth follows, trailing burning heat down my throat as his fingers move up, toward where I so desperately want them.
“I’ve… made myself come before. But I’ve never let anyone…
” I gasp as his fingers graze my clit, and I clench my teeth against a moan.
“And what do you think about when you come, uccellino?” His voice is a purr, the Italian dripping from his lips and making me whimper all over again.
“I…” I can barely think already. “Nothing. I just… feel. I don’t know what to think about… or… who. I just…”
He’s touching me more firmly now, more sure of himself, as if knowing that he’s the first has given him confidence. He finds a rhythm, his fingers moving in slow circles that make my knees weak. I clutch at his shoulders, trying to stay upright, trying to breathe through the overwhelming sensation.
"That's it," he murmurs. "Let go. Let me make you feel."
I've never felt anything like this. My own fingers, my own clumsy fumblings, can’t compare.
His mouth on my throat, my collarbone, his hand moving between my legs, it’s all building toward something that should be somewhat familiar, but instead feels far more than anything I’ve ever experienced before.
"Romeo—" I don't know what I'm asking for, but he seems to understand.
"I know. I've got you." His voice is breathless, as if he’s taking the same pleasure from touching me that he’s giving, and I can’t imagine how that could be.
I’m not touching him in any way except the clinging grip I have on his shoulders, but he sounds as if he’s on the verge of coming undone, too.
His fingers move faster, and there's pressure building inside me, intense and overwhelming and slightly frightening. I'm making sounds I've never made before, my head fallen back against the books, my hips arching rhythmically into his touch as I forget to be embarrassed, and chase only pleasure.
"Let go," he murmurs again, his voice a pleading groan in my ear. "I want to feel you come apart."
And then I do.
The orgasm hits me like the lightning outside, white-hot and all-consuming.
I cry out, and Romeo's mouth covers mine, swallowing the sound.
My whole body is shaking, waves of pleasure rolling through me, and he's holding me through it, his fingers still moving, drawing it out until I'm boneless and gasping.
When I finally come back to myself, I'm clinging to him, my face buried in his neck, my legs barely holding me up. I’m still shaking, his hand cupping me between my thighs, and I never want him to stop.
He pulls his hand slowly from beneath my skirt and lifts it to his lips. Lightning flashes again just in time for me to see his tongue flick out, licking away the glistening evidence of my arousal from his fingers, another low groan spilling from his mouth.
“God, you taste so good,” he groans. “I want… fuck… I want to taste you. Christ.”
His hand drops, and before I can move or think, it’s beneath my skirt again, his fingers working their way between my thighs once more. “Not yet,” he breathes. “But I need to make you come again. I need to feel it again… fuck, Savannah, you’re like a fucking drug…”
He's still hard against me, where he’s pressed against the side of my hip, and I realize with a shock that we could keep going. That he could—that we could—
The thought is both terrifying and thrilling in equal measure.
"I can't—it's too much—" I whisper, as his fingers glide over my clit again. “Romeo—” I nearly whine his name, and I hear him gasp, feel him shudder next to me as his fingers start to work faster.
"You can. Trust me. I need another one from you, uccellino. Please…”