Rafaelle grips my neck as we continue our little dance, the movement possessive enough to leave my nerves tingling. He tastes so fucking good, better than the strawberry milkshake I had earlier. Damn, and that was a really good milkshake. I’m practically shaking with need, burning up with each press of his lips.
“Feels good, right?” he asks gruffly against my lips, his fingers tightening around my neck.
I moan in reply, needing something, anything to alleviate the pressure between my legs. Rafaelle walks up backward until my back is against the wall, the door? I don’t really care. I just need him to keep kissing me. His hands move down to back of my thighs and suddenly I’m being lifted. My legs encircle him almost instinctively.
The angle of the kiss changes with my newfound elevation. It’s much deeper this way.
“Much better,” he murmurs. “You’re very short, little siren.”
“You’re very tall,” I whisper back, my breaths coming out in short gasps.
I’m 5’5, which is not short. But I have no interest in starting an argument about height, especially not when he bites my bottom lip before sucking it into his mouth in the next breath, dulling the sting. My vision goes a little hazy.
Wow, he’s so good at this. And he’s so hard. I can feel him against the opening in my thigh, pressing on my core. He squeezes the bare flesh of my thighs possessively, making an angry sound in his throat when his hand slides up to meet the material of my dress.
“Off,” he mutters into the space between our lips.
“Do it yourself,” I say, too busy kissing his jaw and sliding my lips down to his neck.
He shifts backward and we drift apart for a second but only so he could pull my dress over my head. The soft sound of fabric hitting the floor slows the urgency of our movements for a second. He makes use of that second to look at me, really take me in.
I’ve always been pretty self-confident but the way he looks at me in my lacy black bra and thong with nothing else in between, raises my confidence sky high. He eyes me like I’m the only thing in the world. I didn’t know a person could feel so much power with one look.
“Sei perfetta,” he murmurs and I recognize the language almost immediately.
It’s Italian and he just called me perfect. Yeah, I’m definitely soaring.
He grips my hips, palms sliding up to the curve of my ass with a grunt. It’s a surprising, gentle caress that wraps around my heart.
What am I doing here? What is going on? Why does it feel like this?
The questions ring inside my head. But he quiets them by kissing me again, liquefying all my nerves. His lips travel down my throat to the tops of my breasts and he nips at the skin before sliding a rough hand beneath my bra to squeeze.
“Fuck,” I groan against his neck, holding on tight to him.
He reaches for my back, unclipping my bra and pulling it off. My breasts feel heavy as the cool air brushes them. Rafaelle runs a thumb across my nipple, almost reverently, his eyes dark and filled with so much lust.
He leans down to take one erect bud in his mouth, sucking it deeply.
My head drops back, hitting the wall, the impact jolting through the haze of lust for a second. I groan, both from pain and pleasure.
“Sorry,” Rafaelle mumbles around my nipple.
I can almost feel his smile.
“Keep going,” I breathe.
He shifts his ministrations from one breast to another, sucking, biting, taking his time, driving me wild. I grind against him, seeking more friction. Needing more.
I run my hand over his body, realizing for the first time that he’s still fully clothed. That won’t do at all.
With shaky fingers, I reach for the buttons of his shirt. Rafaelle offers no help as I start to undo them one by one, while he continues playing with my breasts.
He pauses only when I finish with the buttons, helping me slide the shirt off his back. My eyes widen at the sight of all of his bare, exposed skin. Tattoos line his arms, various ones jumping out, some in different languages, some seem symbolic, others not so much. My eyes follow their path all the way up to his neck where the dragon lies. But when I look down at his chest, there’s only a lion and nothing else. Unlike the rest of his extreme tattoos, each one connects with the next.
And I’m suddenly curious if there’s any tattoos on his back.
“Rafaelle,” I say softly. “Let me down.”
