Hold You Against Me (Stripped 4)

He means his erection, but I know how easy those are to be found. I felt them on my father, who had no right feeling that way about me. I press my lips together, forcing the truth back.

Giovanni moves from the bed, and I flinch. He lowers to his knees in front of me, holding my hips in both hands. Even with my hands tied behind me, I feel like a goddess standing in front of him. The way he looks at me, I feel worshipped.

“I have dreamed about you every night,” he says, his voice hoarse. “Now that you’re here, it almost hurts to look at you. You’re so bright and beautiful and good.”

My breasts rise and fall between us. “You mean it,” I say, with some wonder.

“I would have gone to my grave never knowing a woman if I hadn’t taken you.”

I blink slowly, the words percolating through my brain like a hot summer rain in parched earth. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that you’re everything, the end and the beginning. I’ve never touched another woman, never wanted to. It was always going to be you or nothing at all.”

It feels impossible. “You’ve never had sex?”

His thumbs brush gently at my hips, slipping beneath the lace. “You don’t have to worry that I’ll hurt you. I’ll be so careful with you. I’ll learn your body until you come apart.”

I already know he’ll make me feel good. “Then that night? In the conservatory?”

He moves his hands to frame the triangle between my legs. “You taste so good, bella. One night and I’m already addicted. I want to feel your sex tremble against my tongue. I want to lick you until you scream my name.”

A shiver runs through my body, quivering at my core. “God, please.”

That was his first time tasting a woman, and he tore down all my defenses, ripped them apart and put me back together again. What would he do with practice? I won’t survive it.

He kisses my mound over the small scrap of lace, then opens his mouth and bites gently against my skin. I shiver, unable to push him away, unable to pull him close. He nibbles his way down to my clit, teasing me through the fabric—which suddenly feels as sharp as a briar patch. My gasp sounds loud in the secret of the room, my breathing giving away more than words.

I wait impatiently for him to pull down my panties, but he doesn’t. Instead he moves up my stomach, sucking pale skin, leaving red marks with the shadow of his jaw. He stands and pulls me flush against him, supporting my back with his arm, bending me so that he can nip at the exposed flesh of my breasts.

“Beautiful,” he groans, tracing the lacy curve with two fingers.

With the severe facets of his face, the tone almost like gratitude, I can’t deny the truth of it. And there’s something sweetly vulnerable about being almost naked, with my hands at my back, while he is fully clothed. He could do anything like this—hurt me, take me. Instead he touches me as if that is the end goal, as if he cannot get enough.

My hips rock against him in silent plea.

I expect him to smile, maybe tease me about my impatience. It’s what he would have done years ago, I think. But when he looks up at me, there isn’t a hint of mirth in his expression. Only stark need, and I realize how much control it’s taking for him to hold himself back.

“It’s okay,” I murmur. “You can do it.”

Then he does smile, though it’s strained. “Always rushing me. First in your room and now here. You aren’t in control here, bella.”

The sigh that escapes me is both resignation and relief.

He cups the back of my head, and I let myself fall into his embrace. His lips meet mine in a slow, inexorable claiming, every light touch of his tongue infused with possession, every subtle scrape of his teeth marking me as his. I’m not allowed to control this, can’t fight it any longer.

I let myself sink into the space he made and find it to be shaped like me. Only enough space to feel, to breathe, to moan as his hand slides between my legs. Maddeningly, he remains over the lace, using it to gently abrade the sensitive skin, dragging it over my damp flesh like a sandpaper tongue.

“Please,” I whimper. “Undress me.”

“I could have looked at you like this all night,” he says, one finger trailing over the curve of my butt. “I can’t deny you, though. Not when you’re so wet for me.”

He hooks two fingers into my panties and tugs them down around my thighs. They’re actually more restrictive this way, biting into my skin when

I try to spread my legs. I can’t help it when he pushes two fingers around my clit on either side. I fight the bonds at my wrists, at my legs. Even the bra feels like bonds, restraining me.

Giovanni gently pinches my clit between his fingers, and I squirm, still supported by the iron band of his arm from behind. He dips his head to nip at my collarbone. I gasp, moving against him in a rhythm I know his body understands. He’s hard and burning hot even through the fabric of his slacks. I press my tummy against him, wishing I could feel him somewhere else.

“Christ,” he mutters, hands tightening.