Nicolo: The Powerful Sicilian

He had no condoms! How could he been so stupid? The thought of stopping now…

“Nicolo?”

“Yes.” Nick framed her face in his hands. “Sweetheart. Alessia. I forgot…” Silently, he cursed himself for being such a fool. This wouldn’t be the most romantic of questions but it had to be asked. He could only pray she had the right answer. “Are you on—”

“The pill.” She blushed. That she could blush as she lay naked in his arms only heightened his arousal. “Sì. There is no need to worry. I am—”

His kiss was deep and drugging. Her response was wild and he gave up any final attempt at rational thought, came down to her and gathered her in his arms. She clasped the back of his head, dragged his mouth to hers and kissed him, drew the tip of his tongue into her mouth. He rolled her beneath him, brought his lips to her breast, drew a budded nipple between his teeth, and her cry shattered the night.

She said something in Italian. The words were soft and hot and desperate. They needed no translation.

Nick reared back. Tore off his clothes and Alessia reached for him, wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her body to his.

He shuddered.

There was so much he wanted to show her. To teach her. But she was sobbing his name, arching like a bow against him and he tried, God, he tried, entering her slowly, as slowly as he could, and when she screamed in ecstasy, he was lost.

He drew back, then drove deep again and again and again until she was wild beneath him, until he could feel the contractions of her womb….

Nick threw back his head and followed his princess into the starry night.

He slept.

She did, too, curled in his arms, her head on his shoulder, her hair silky against his lips.

The night grew chilly. He awoke just long enough to pull the duvet over them both.

“Mmm,” she sighed, and he gathered her closer, told himself he wouldn’t wake her, that he would only hold her, like this. Stroke his hand down the length of her spine, like this. Repeat the caress until she made that soft little sound

again and now he would rise over her, just a little, bring his mouth to hers, kiss her softly, lightly, gently…

She sighed again, and he rolled her gently on her back. Absolutely, he would let her sleep. She had to be exhausted after the last couple of days. All he would do was kiss her a little more.

Her closed eyes. Her temples.

Her mouth. Her delectable mouth.

“Nicolo?”

Her lashes fluttered. Her eyes opened. “Nicolo,” she whispered. Her arms went around him. “Nicolo,” she sighed, her mouth warm and sweet against his, clinging to his, and then, somehow, his lips were on her throat. Her shoulder. Her breasts.

Her nipples, delicately beaded, their taste like honey against his tongue.

His kisses drifted lower. And lower. He heard her breath catch.

“Nicolo? What are you…?”

“Nothing,” he said, his lips at her navel. “Nothing at all.”

“Oh. Oh, Nicolo! You can’t—you shouldn’t…” She gave a soft cry as he parted the delicate petals of her labia. Inhaled her essence. Sought out the delicate bud that awaited him.

Her cry rose into the night.

He kissed her there again. And again. Stroked her. Caressed her. And when finally he entered her, this time he did as he had hoped to do the first time, entered her slowly, slowly enough to bring them both to the edge of eternity, to that moment that is part death, part paradise.

And when it was over, Nicolo gathered his princess in his arms, against his heart, and knew that whatever it was he had found in the last forty-eight hours was more than he had ever anticipated….

And more than some men found in a lifetime.