16. Chapter Sixteen #2
He chuckles, a low sound that sends shivers down my spine.
"Patience, dolcezza," he whispers, his hands stroking my sides.
I wrap one leg around him, pulling him close.
He kisses me again, and I lose myself in him. His hands slide behind me, cupping my ass through my leggings.
I gasp into his mouth as his fingers move between my legs.
He traces me through the fabric, and I buck against him, my body demanding more.
"Are you wet for me, cara?" he murmurs against my mouth.
"Why don't you find out for yourself?" I say, breathless.
"Hmm," he says against my skin, making goosebumps run across my body.
But all he does is press his fingers harder between my legs, the cursed fabric still there.
It is a sweet torture.
"Lorenzo," I pant.
"Yes, dolcezza?" he murmurs, nipping my earlobe.
"Don't be an ass," I manage.
He lets out a laugh, but he finally pulls down my leggings.
He groans when he finds that I'm not wearing any underwear either.
But now I'm naked, and he's still fully dressed.
There's something oddly sexy about it, something that makes me feel even more exposed, vulnerable.
I don't often feel vulnerable.
My former employment made it necessary for me to get pretty physically fit, so vulnerability hasn't been in the cards for me for a long time. I like being in control. Of myself, of my body, of the situation.
Right now, all of that is gone. He has stripped it all away, leaving nothing but raw desire, and I have to be honest, I don't hate it.
I love it.
His gaze roams over me, hot and intense.
"You're magnificent," he says, and I preen under the praise.
He cups my breast and rubs my nipple slowly, torturously, with his thumb, never taking his eyes off mine. It's mesmerizing, like I've been hypnotized, and I can't look away.
His other hand slides lower.
This time, there's no fabric to stop him.
I gasp when I feel his fingers move against my sensitive skin.
"Definitely wet," he murmurs.
The calloused pad of his fingers finds my clit, and I’m lost. I moan, my head falling back.
My hips rock against his hand, seeking more of the pleasure he's giving me.
"Please," I beg, not caring how desperate I sound.
I hear a whine, but it's not from him.
I blink my eyes open.
Mocha is sitting up on his bed, glaring at Lorenzo.
"Mocha, go lie down," I manage to say.
Lorenzo chuckles. "He's protective."
"He can be protective somewhere else."
Mocha gives a huff of displeasure but gets up and pads out of the kitchen.
I'm vaguely aware of him leaving, but my attention is on Lorenzo and the delicious things he's doing with his fingers.
He's toying with me, swirling his fingers around my clit without giving me the friction I need.
"Lorenzo," I groan.
"Tell me what you want, Donatella," he commands.
"No one calls me that," I say breathlessly.
"Why not? It's beautiful," he murmurs, sliding one long finger inside me.
My fingers dig into his shoulders.
"Because..."
I can't think. I can't speak.
I can only feel.
"Because?" he prompts, adding a second finger.
"Because I don't like it," I gasp, rocking against him. "I've never liked it."
Although I can't think why right at the moment. In fact, it sounds pretty damn good coming out of his mouth. His lips. His tongue.
"Do you want me to stop?" he asks softly.
I drop my head back. "God, no. Don't stop," I moan.
"Don't stop calling you Donatella, or don't stop fucking you with my fingers? Because I'd really rather continue both."
I'm going to die. Right here in my fucking kitchen. I'm simply going to die.
"Both. Neither. Both," I pant, because I've lost the ability to form a coherent sentence.
He chuckles, the vibrations against my throat arrowing straight to my clit.
"Your wish is my command, Donatella."
His thumb finds my clit again, and he circles it in a perfect rhythm while he continues to pump his fingers in and out of me.
It's too much. Not enough.
I'm hovering on the edge, but he's not letting me fall.
My hands slide up his chest and into his hair, holding him to me.
"Lorenzo," I sob.
"I've got you, dolcezza," he murmurs against my skin.
He shifts the angle of his fingers, pressing against the sensitive bundle of nerves inside me while his thumb presses harder against my clit.
My entire body bows, balancing on the edge.
"Let go, Donatella. I've got you." His words, both a command and a reassurance, are what do me in.
His words, the deep, gravelly tone of his voice, the way he says my name—that name I've always hated but now never want to stop hearing.
The orgasm that tears through me is so intense I'm blinded by it. I'm vaguely aware of my nails scratching down his back as I come.
Lorenzo's arm banded around my waist is the only thing holding me up as the waves of pleasure continue to wash over me.
His fingers continue working me, never stopping, carrying me through until I'm completely spent, my body sagging against his.
He eases me back against the counter, and I realize my head is resting on his chest. I can feel the steady, reassuring beat of his heart beneath my ear.
I can also feel his erection pressing against my stomach.
It's a testament to how much I trusted him, to how safe I felt with him, that I could let go like that. Completely and without reservation.
I don't let go like that.
Ever.
Something almost like horror creeps up on me.
I straighten up quickly, wobbly on my feet.
His arm remains around me, tightening when I sway.
"I'm fine," I say, my voice hoarse.
I'm not fine.
I'm a fucking mess.
I'm naked in my kitchen, with a virtual stranger who is most definitely a client.
A client, whose son was, until a few hours ago, a murder suspect.
And I came so hard I think I might have actually blacked out for a second.
This is not what I do.
This is not who I am.
I push away from him, but I'm still too weak to put any strength behind it.
He doesn't move an inch.
Lorenzo's dark eyes search my face.
"Say what you're thinking."
I shake my head, looking away from him. Apparently, that's all I can manage right now.
"No."
He catches my chin, forcing me to look at him.
"Donatella."
"Don't call me that," I spit out.
His voice is firm. "Don't shut me out now," he warns.
"This was a mistake," I say, shaking my head to dislodge his hand.
"Why?" he asks, his thumb stroking my jaw, apparently undeterred.
"This is unprofessional."
He laughs. "Yes. This is the definition of unprofessional. Then again, you are no longer on my payroll, remember? Also, aren't you self-employed?"
"Yes," I say, and this time, I have the strength to push him back an inch or two. Although I suspect he let me do so. "And my own rules state that I do not sleep with clients."
"It seems to me we have two problems with your logic," he says, stepping back to watch me look for my sweater, which has apparently disappeared completely. "First, as I've already pointed out, you're not working for me anymore. And second, we haven't slept together."
I finally spot my sweater on top of the fridge. God...
I stalk towards it, feeling him watching my every move.
"Yet," he adds.
I whirl around. "This was a one-time thing."
"I would say it was only half. We didn't actually do much."
"Technicalities," I say and turn back to the fridge when his eyes drop to my breasts again.
Damn him. I'm wet again. Very wet. And he definitely knows it, if that smug look on his face is anything to go by.