The Italian's Token Wife

Did she give a little moan? She did not know, could not tell. Could only tell that now his forefinger was moving slowly, tantalisingly along the dark band of her panty waist, back and forth, while the throb between her legs intensified and the aching, yearning feeling became yet more and more insistent.

He cupped the mound at her vee, and the sudden pressure of the heel of his hand made her gasp, head rolling. He pressed again, and then his other hand was at her throat, spanning upwards to her jaw, holding her still while his body moved over hers.

As his mouth came down she opened to him eagerly, and the weight of his body seemed glorious and possessive. For a long, endless moment he kissed her passionately, his tongue forging deep within her, mating with hers, and she responded, excitement flaring within her like a hot crimson flame. Then, just as suddenly, he withdrew from her.

‘Ah, Magda mia.’ His voice was rueful. ‘I betray my own promise and become greedy for you myself.’

As of itself, her mouth reached up for his. ‘I don’t mind,’ she said huskily, and tried to catch his lips as her hands curled around his shoulders to draw him down to her again.

But he lifted his head further back and smiled crookedly. ‘No. This first time is a dish to savour slowly—afterwards—ah, well…’ his voice rasped ‘…then we shall see…’ A deep, shuddering breath went through him as he steadied himself, and for the first time Magda registered that part of the hard, masculine weight resting on her was very, very masculine…

Her eyes widened in recognition of the fact, and as if he could read her thoughts that crooked, rueful smile came again. ‘I must be gentle with you, cara, and feast upon you…slowly.’

His voice dropped on the last word and sent a shiver of anticipation through her. His smile became sensual, his eyes speaking.

‘There are pleasures, my sweet one, in making love in many ways. As I will show you…’

As he spoke his hand, which had been holding her hip, gentled, and began to slide down her thigh. As it encountered the embroidered top of her stockings he gave a mock frown.

‘What is this?’ he demanded softly.

He did not wait for an answer. Instead he started to slide the silky fabric downwards, his fingers, as he did so, grazing deliciously along the tender flesh of her inner thigh. It was like having warm honey poured over her, she thought, and her mind dissolved into bliss. She felt her body relax into the bedclothes, lose the urgent tension of the past few moments, when it had been consumed by a need she could not name.

Now she needed nothing, nothing in all the world, except this most exquisite sensation of Rafaello’s hands sliding her stocking down her leg. When he reached the end, and flicked it aside, he returned to pay attention to her other stocking. His fingers played with the embroidered top, and as they grazed along her inner thigh she felt her legs part a little, falling open slightly. The delicious, exquisite sensation of his taking the stocking off her came again, pouring warm honey over every millimetre of skin. She sank back into the deep, soft bedclothes, her eyes fluttering shut, giving herself to the sensation.

And then, as the second stocking was flicked aside, she felt his hands drifting back up her leg again. But this time when he reached the top of her leg his fingers went on, grazing along the tender flesh of her inner thigh, relaxed and open now, as she lay abandoned to him, and began to brush with tiny, insidious strokes closer and closer to the satin edge of her panties.

The sensation was exquisite—if she had thought his touch on her thighs exquisite she had known nothing, nothing! A soft little moan came from her throat as his forefinger came to rest on the plumped satin cupping the curling nest beneath. Warm honey melted through her again, and as his finger began its minute circling movements she realised that it was not just the sensation of melting honey that was flooding through her—her own body was responding to his intimate touch. She seemed liquid, molten, and as the sensation became almost unbearable he intensified it almost beyond endurance. His head lowered to her breast again, his tongue laving softly at the aureole, until her whole body felt like a warm, liquid flame.

Then his fingers were picking at the skimpy waistline of her panties, shushing them down over her hips, sliding them down her parted legs and casting them aside with her stockings.

And then they returned to where she ached for them to be.

It was bliss, bliss beyond imagining, beyond dreams. Her body moved beneath his hand, his mouth, and she felt that warmth flooding through her more sweetly yet, more yearningly still, until every fibre, every nerve ached with wanting.