Page 115 of Lorenzo

“Lorenzo me all you like,” he says, his voice a stern warning that sends a thrill racing through me. “I can do what I like with my property. And you are my property.”

I should slap his face for the possessive words. Yet every time he says these words, I feel titillation.

Lorenzo reaches behind me and roughly unhooks my bra, freeing my breasts.

He covers them with his large hands, teasing my nipples into stiff peaks with expert fingers.

Next to come off are my white Capri pants.

I had never worn them before this trip, but when Antoine was shopping for my Capri wardrobe, he insisted.

“If you don’t wear them there, where will you wear them, my dear?” he had said.

It was a good point.

Lorenzo’s powerful hand sweeps off my silk panties, the ones held together by delicate bows on each hip.

“And now,” he growls, “I am going to ravish you.”

“Can I at least take a shower first?” I ask, trying to squirm out from under his muscular frame.

“I like my women like my martinis strong and dirty,” he replies, licking my sweaty neck as if to prove the point.

Lorenzo takes it one step further by licking my underarms. I giggle because it tickles, but it also feels so good and wonderfully naughty. I have never had my underarm licked before, not even by him.

This must be the magic of Capri working on us.

“You know what goes good with sweaty armpits?” he asks with a mischievous grin.

I am almost afraid to know.

“Tequila.”

He gets up, walks to the illuminated bar in the suite’s living room stocked with top-line liquors, and returns with a striking blue square bottle and a tiny shot glass.

“And now I am going to taste test you to see if you are the right recipe.”

I begin to say his name again, but he looks at me sternly.

“I said, ‘don’t Lorenzo me.’ You must remain silent.”

I press my lips together, wondering what wicked plan he has in mind.

He pours a shot glass of tequila onto my belly and slowly, sensually licks and nibbles it from my skin.

“Right,” he says appreciatively.

“Keep pouring and licking like that and you’ll get drunk,” I say.

“Bring it on,” he says, pouring himself another shot.

When he returns, he drizzles it down my bare, glistening sex.

“I like this recipe,” he murmurs, rubbing in the alcohol. “I’ll have the barman name it the Capri Ricci.”

Lorenzo laughs, a deep, growling sound I love.

The tequila stings. But Lorenzo’s first licks sooth that sensation so I only feel pleasure as his talented tongue works its magic.