“Gio?”
“Let me,” he says darkly. “Don’t fight me now, bella. Not about this.”
And it seems he understands about tonight, about this gift I’m giving him, giving myself. It’s a white flag, a temporary truce. We might take up the fight again tomorrow, but for now I won’t fight.
It’s a good thing, because I’m not sure I have the strength to fight this. Not when I’ve wondered for so long. When I’ve wanted for so long. Desire has made my limbs heavy. I let the wall hold me up as he lifts the hem of my skirt. His hands stroke my ankles, my calves. He caresses me everywhere, appreciation in every brush of calloused palms. There’s no time to feel self-conscious, not when every inch of skin seems to entrance him.
“Hold this.” His soft voice is laced with command as he presses the beaded fabric into my hands.
I clench my fingers tight, so tight, until the beads dig into my palm.
And then wait, while he runs his hands up the outsides of my legs. Then down over the fronts, his thumbs brushing the insides. My knees are weak, legs shaking. I must waver, because he holds my hips with a firmer grip, looking up. His eyes hold mine as he drags my panties down to the ground.
“Tell me you want this.” His voice wraps around me like stone and dirt and ivy, textured with need, a command and a plea.
“Tonight,” I whisper.
He nods, once.
Then he shrugs off his jacket and tosses it to the side. It lands in a dark heap on the stone path. “My dress,” I say faintly. “It’ll get stained.”
“I don’t care.”
He presses a kiss to the top of my mound, almost chaste. I shiver from that soft touch, anticipation like a light inside me, blinding even in the dark space.
Rough hands push my legs farther apart, my feet pressing farther into the dirt.
Then his mouth is on me there, his lips slick with my moisture, his tongue sliding into the secret space between. A sharp cry escapes me, shock and want and denial all at once. I’ve never had this done before, but I’ve imagined it. And every time it’s been him.
I could never have imagined the way he would eat at me, the ferocious intensity of it, the sharp almost pain of it. The desperation makes him clumsy, exploring one part of me, moving to the next, and then back again. It’s like he wants to devour all of me at once. My body can’t distinguish between the sensations, aching and overloaded. I gasp, trembling, holding on to the crush of my dress.
The first swipe of his tongue against my clit makes me sob. “Gio!”
His growl is pure triumph. He does it again and again, relentless in the way he gives it to me, merciless with the pressure and the pleasure of it. It’s too much, and I arch away, but his hands hold my hips in place. It’s cruel, the way he forces me to accept this, to feel this.
Climax slams into me, hard and sudden. I make a choked sound as pleasure rockets through me. Every muscle in my body clenches hard. Even then he doesn’t release me, doesn’t give me a break from his wicked tongue on my slit. He drinks up all the wetness he can find, lapping at me while I rock over his face.
“Stop,” I say, breathless. “Stop. Stop.”
His voice is unforgiving. “You gave me tonight.”
That’s the only thing he says before pressing his face into my sex again. I push up on my toes, trying to escape the aching brush of his tongue on my oversensitive flesh, but I just sink deeper into the earth. He mouths at my clit while his fingers play with my folds, teasing the entrance with maddening patience. I think I liked him better out-of-control and clumsy, almost careless. But that first orgasm seems to have taken the edge off, even though it was mine. He’s more leisurely now, taking his time. I’m the one who’s worked up beyond understanding, the climax doing nothing to sate me.
The second orgasm rises up like a wave. I can see it coming, but I can do nothing to stop it, nothing but hold my breath as it crashes over me. He licks me through my climax, using his hands and mouth to make it last even longer. At the end of it, I’m panting and begging.
“It’s too much,” I tell him.
In answer he lifts one of my legs over his shoulder, opening me to him. I’m wet enough that two fingers can slip inside me with ease. He curls them until I whimper.
“Please,” I say, tears leaking from the corners of my eyes.
“Please what?” he says, voice dark and knowing. “Do you want me to stop?”
I do want him to stop, because then I could breathe again. Then I could go back to thinking of him as my enemy. My body overrules logic, overrides thought. All I can think about is the way his tongue feels. It’s my hips that answer him, rocking forward in silent plea.
He laughs softly. “I thought so.”
The arrogance should be frustrating, but I don’t feel anything but pleasure when he teases my clit. Don’t feel anything but desire when he uses his fingers in that timeless rhythm. I want more of him, all of him, and the words are on the tip of my tongue. His naked body against mine. Something other than his tongue and fingers inside me.