Her fingers found a scar along his ribs. Raised, pale, old. “What’s this from?”
“Later.”
“You always say later.”
“And I always mean it.” He tugged at the hem of her shirt. “Right now I need…”
“Yes.”
They undressed each other with the kind of fumbling that happens when urgency outpaces coordination. His belt stuck. Her bra clasp defeated him entirely; he tried twice, swore once, and she reached back and unhooked it herself. He exhaled through his nose, a sound that was mostly exasperation and partly something much less composed.
“Don’t,” she said.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t be embarrassed. You just negotiated a sixty-page supplier contract from memory. You’re allowed to struggle with a clasp.”
He stared at her. Then his face changed. Not desire, though that was there. He looked younger suddenly. Less defended. Hepulled her flush against him, and the sensation of skin on skin knocked the air out of both of them.
His pleasure hit her through the bond. She felt how she felt against him: the specific softness of her, curves against his angles, warmth answering heat. And underneath it: wonder. Genuine, unguarded wonder that she was letting him touch her. That she was touching him back.
Her own want doubled back into his. She’d been thinking about this for days, every nervous flutter and restless ache now laid bare, impossible to hide. He made a low sound in his throat when he felt it.
“This is going to be intense,” he warned, walking her backward toward the bed. “The bond, when we’re like this, everything amplifies.”
“I know.” She pulled him down as her back hit the mattress. “I don’t care.”
He kissed her again. Slower this time. Learning the particular geography of her mouth: the place where her lower lip was slightly fuller, the spot just below her ear that made her fingers tighten in his hair. His hands mapped her with the focused attention of someone who intended to be thorough.
When his mouth found her breast, tongue circling her nipple, Marina arched into him and made a sound that wasn’t dignified. His satisfaction rolled through her, not smug, just deeply, viscerally glad. He liked making her react. He liked knowing he was the reason.
“Alessandro—”
“I know.” His hand slid lower, between her thighs, finding her wet. He paused. His breath left him in a rush. Through the bond she felt his response to touching her: shock, hunger, a want so sharp it bordered on pain.
“You’re thinking again,” she said. “I can feel you thinking.”
“I’m cataloging.”
“Oh my god.”
“In my defense, you’re…” He stroked her, slow and deliberate, and her hips jerked. “Extremely worth cataloging.”
She pulled him into a kiss to stop him from saying anything else, because she could feel exactly what he meant and it was too much.
When he slid one finger inside her, they both groaned. The bond doubled the sensation; she felt herself around him while simultaneously feeling the tight heat from his perspective. Overwhelming and disorienting and she wanted more of it.
“More,” she gasped.
He added another finger, setting a rhythm that had her climbing fast. His thumb found her clit, circling with steady pressure.
“Not yet,” Alessandro said roughly. “Not without me.”
“That’s presumptuous.”
“That’s a request.”
She looked at him. His composure was fraying at the edges: breathing ragged, tendons standing out in his neck, his fingers pressing too hard against her hip. He was holding himself together through sheer force of will, and the effort was costing him.
