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“Whose boat is this?” I ask him.
“Just this old guy I help sometimes.”
Luca speaks to someone on the dock, and the uniformed man leads us to a glorious, sleek, brown and white yacht. He swings a sort-of walkway out, so we can board the yacht, and Luca leads me up to the bow. There’s a rounded door that clearly leads down in the hull. Luca punches in a passcode, and it swings open, revealing a door-shaped swatch of maritime opulence.
“Wowzers.”
He gives me a teasing smile. “Do you have a yacht, Ms. O’Hara?”
“Oh no. My dad isn’t into water. He learned to swim late…but shh, cause that’s a family secret.”
“I did too. Just took some summer lessons a few years ago. Did it with a buddy of mine.” He gives me a grin, and I think he’s kidding until I see the faint blush on his cheeks.
“That’s the coolest. What was it like? Was it hard to learn?”
“Nah. A little unnatural at first, but we took to it like a boot in water.” He mimes a drumroll.
I giggle, and I can’t stop. Maybe because he looks so cute, half bashful and half proud. I press my body against his, feeling his warm chest and hard hips, and he groans.
“La mia rosa.” He throws me over his shoulder and climbs down the stairs into the body of the yacht, then sets me on my feet in the low light.
“What?” I slide my hand under the collar of his dress shirt. “Does this displease you, Mr. Galante?”
I rub myself against the hardness of his thigh, and he makes a soft, tortured sound.
“It pleases me too much,” he whispers. His hand rubs up between my shoulder blades, until he’s holding my nape. “Everything about you pleases me, Ms. O’Hara.”
His head is tipped back, his eyelids half shut as his lips part and his face slackens. I’m still rubbing against him, just because I love that I can make him this way—drunk on me. It’s the most amazing rush. In the past few months, I’ve become addicted to it. To the way he groans and pants when my hands touch him in certain places.
I run my hand down his chest, tracing the buttons of his shirt then toying with his belt buckle. I grin as I give up—only for show, of course—and rub my hand downward, my pulse racing when I’m touching him there, and he’s groaning like it might do him in. I squeeze, and his knees nearly buckle.
He drags a huge breath into his lungs, and I move my hand lower, rubbing his shaft a few times before cupping his balls. He groans again and shudders. There’s a leather couch a few feet away. He sweeps me off my feet and lays me out atop it, pushing my dress up so he can run a hand up my thigh and over my silk underwear.
His eyes shut and his head hangs as he gets a deep breath.
“Holy fuck, you’re perfect.” He lowers himself gently atop me. I can tell he’s not resting his full weight on me—just enough so we can rub together as we so love doing.
He’s breathing heavy as he uses his hand to rub himself against me. Through his pants and through my gown, he has me moaning and arching beneath him.
“Get rid of your pants,” I whisper.
He sits back on his knees, rubbing himself as his lust-glazed eyes tilt and his lips pull into a grin. “Get rid of my pants?” He drapes his hand right where I want it, rubbing me gently with his thumb. “But rosa, this is someone else’s yacht.”
“Stolen boats are our thing,” I moan.
He plays me like an instrument and I respond in kind, singing with groans and sighs until he lifts his hand off me and starts unbuckling his belt.
“What do you think will happen if we lose the clothes, la mia rosa? Penso che non sarò in grado di trattenermi. Come ti piacerebbe?”
I reach for him as he folds his pants down. His erection springs up and my fingers trace it gently through the fabric of his boxer briefs. I wrap my hand around him, and he laughs as he leans back, out of my reach.
“Not yet.” His cheeks are flushed, his grin tender, and I can see his pulse thrum at the base of his throat. He’s revved up, but he wants to tend to me first. When he pushes my dress up more and looks into my eyes for permission, I lift my hips, and his fingers loop beneath my silk panties. He hooks the small piece of fabric aside and leans down.
And it’s all over for me. Conscious thought is over, all coherence gone. My body is a buffet and he’s hungry; he feasts as my hands twist in his hair. He groans and it vibrates my flesh. His tongue laves me again and he groans, “I love you.” And then his fingers press in.
