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Lorenzo smiles at me, barely giving the plants a glance. He’s judging me, that’s for sure, but he seems to think my habit of naming all my plants is cute rather than weird as fuck.
“Abigail,” he starts, his voice low and rumbly in a way that makes my belly flip and my core clench.
“Yeah?” I drawl out.
“I need you to tell me what we’re doing here. You told me where to take you, and I did, but I’m about to take you over that couch and let all of your plants watch. If that’s not what you want, tell me now because it’s been too long since . . .”
I don’t let him finish, knowing exactly what he’s saying. We left Aruba, left that massage room, almost a week ago. A week that I have spent feeling empty without him—mentally, emotionally, and physically.
And I’m done with that.
I slowly pull my shirt over my head to not disturb my sore ribs and watch his eyes dilate at my bare chest, my bra an impossibility after the impromptu tattoo. He stomps my way, and I let him have three steps before I turn and take off down the hallway toward my bedroom.
“What?” he mutters, and then he realizes it's game time and gives chase.
Fuck, I love the sound of him running down the hall after me, the feel of his heat getting closer, the focus of his attention on me, not whatever surroundings we’re in.
Through the door first, I spin to sit on my ass on my fluffy peach comforter-covered bed. I expect him to stop at the bed’s edge, either between my knees or straddling them with his own.
He doesn’t. He keeps coming, forcing me back on the bed. I writhe beneath him, careful to not stretch the sensitive, tattooed skin.
“Don’t move, mia rosa. Do not hurt yourself. Let me,” he groans. “Fuck, let me.” He drops to his knees, his hands undoing my jeans and yanking them down and off, taking my shoes with them. He gives my panties the same treatment and then shoves my knees apart.
There’s something so obscenely sexy about being nude and vulnerable when he’s fully dressed and looming over my most sensitive part. His eyes trace over my core, his thumbs teasing at my lips to open me even wider.
He leans in, nudging my center with his nose, and I hear him inhale. “Nectar of the gods. You smell so good and taste even better.” I feel the heat of his breath a moment before I feel the flat of his tongue lick a long line over my entire pussy as if he wants to claim every inch as his own.
“Fuck, Lorenzo. Yes,” I moan.
“That’s it. Let me hear how much you’ve missed me, how much you’ve needed me, and know that I will never leave you again, even if you want me to. Even if you beg me to.” He switches to soft kisses and lapping licks, from one thigh, across my middle, to the other thigh. “Sweet, wild Abigail . . . I’m afraid you’re stuck with me . . . forever.”
I’m already on edge embarrassingly easily with his words that pierce directly into my romantic heart and his tongue that’s hitting my needy clit.
I reach down with my hand, twining it into his hair and holding him to me, demanding what I want. What I deserve.
“Please . . . fuck.” The plea is for more—more of his tongue, more of his poetry, more of something I can’t even name as I’m swirling higher and higher under his power.
But he knows. I don’t know how, but he does. “You’re mine.” The soft claim is paired with a fierce suck on my clit, and together, they send me flying into the abyss. My eyes flutter closed and I see white sparkles against the black of my eyelids. He grunts against me, demanding more until I’m wrung out from the bliss.
Slowly, I come back to the moment and to my body, unsure where I disappeared to but knowing I went on a journey to somewhere magical. Lorenzo is slowly circling my clit with his thumb, patiently waiting on my vision to clear, and when I look down between my legs, it’s to see him with a lazy smile of awe on his face.
“Bellissima, mia rosa.”
I wiggle and he lets me move. I scoot up the bed, waving him closer with one hand. His eyes narrow, asking carefully, “Are you hurting?” He nods his head toward the tattoo.
I bite my lip, not willing to admit that it’s sore and moving around isn’t helping because I want to keep going, especially when I see the hard ridge in his jeans. “Not too much. I might just have to be a starfish this time.”
His brows knit together. “Starfish?”
I lay my arms and legs out wide and lax, telling him dramatically, “Do with me what you will.”
