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“Move. Don't torture me.”

“Ask nicely,” he says, with a light pinch at my hip.

I press my lips together. I like this game. He likes it too. He kisses my ribs, the good ones. He knows exactly where the bruised ones are and gives them a careful, deliberate berth.

“Please,” I say. “Finish what you started. Per l'amor di Dio,” I say under my breath because I've run out of English.

He laughs against my skin. “Say it in a language I speak.”

“Please,” I say again. “Sir. Please.”

He takes his time anyway.

When his mouth finally finds me, I pull the tie so hard the headboard shifts, and he pins my hips flat with one forearm. He doesn't stop, not for the sound I make, not for the way my thighs lock around him, not for anything. His tongue works slow at the exact right spot.

“Torin.”

“Again,” he says against me.

“I can't.”

“You can, and you will.”

He doesn't ask. He licks me again, slowly and gently at first, as I come down from the first orgasm. Too sensitive. My hips jerk.

“Shh,” he says, breathing against my thigh. “Christ, you taste so goddamn good.” He gives me another long, slow, lazy lick, just taking his time. He groans like a starving man eating his first meal.

His left hand comes up to my breast, and his fingers find my nipple, his tongue moving against my clit at the same time. The second climax is harder and sweeter.

I’m still sighing, still panting, when he meets my eyes.

“Say what you want, Valentina.” He comes up, his large body hovering over me, his heated gaze meeting mine. “Say it plainly.”

I look at him. “You, Torin,” I say at last. “I want you.”

He doesn't make me ask twice, just unzips his pants and slides his cock out. I hold my breath when he's at my entrance.

“You're nice and wet. It'll help,” he whispers.

He holds himself back at first with iron control, and I push against it, my hips rolling. He makes a sound through his teeth and gives. “Christ, woman.”

He presses in. Slow. Slower than I want.

There's a stretch, then a burn, then a bright, sharp line of pain that makes me go rigid beneath him.

“Breathe,” he says. His voice is wrecked. His forehead comes down against mine, and he stays there, holding himself still while I get my lungs working again. “That's it. Breathe for me.”

I do. The burn dulls to something I can hold.

“More,” I tell him.

He moves again, no deeper than an inch, and waits. Then another. He works his way into me in increments, giving me time between each one. I feel every part of it—the fullness of him, the ache of accommodating something my body wasn't built to take.

Then he's all the way in, and he holds there, and neither of us moves.

“Look at me.” I open my eyes. He's braced above me, arms shaking from the effort of not moving, his jaw locked tight.

“Alright?”