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“Or you can stay sitting and I’ll get on my knees and do it with my mouth.”
“Stop,” I hiss. He’s speaking so low that I can barely hear him, so the chances of anyone else hearing is nonexistent. But the thrill of being in public still winds through me, slow and forbidden. “People might see us.”
“They’re watching the show. Nobody cares what we’re doing.” He takes my hand and I slip over to his seat, settling my backside into his lap as if I’m asking Santa for some naughty wish. The hard ridge of his erection digs into me. How is he already hard?
He’s been thinking about this. Planning this.
The thought makes me shiver. We may want different things out of our lives, but when it comes to sex we’rehighlycompatible.
“This is why you told me to wear this dress,” I say, my lips brushing his ear. His hand tracks up my inner thigh, fingers walking along my warm flesh. “Easy access.”
In the near darkness, his smile is so deliciously wolfish, I feel myself growing wet. His fingertips brush against my sex and the silky underwear that cost me a pretty penny when I went shopping yesterday.
“You’re already damp.” He slides his finger along the length of my seam, feeling me through my underwear. “I bet you’d let me slide right in if I wanted to fuck you right now.”
My breath stutters. I can act as in-charge and girl-power as I want, but the fact is this man has me panting for him. Desperate for him. Wanton and willing and ready for him.
“I would.” I let the words whisper out, my lips trailing over his neck, and I feel him grow even harder beneath me. “I’d let you bend me over and fuck right into me without any resistance at all.”
Daniel makes a rumbling sound that sends goose bumps skittering over my arms and legs. “Temptress.”
“Brute.” I press my mouth to his just as he breaches my underwear, pressing his finger between my lips and seeking out my entrance. “Arrogant, entitled, bossy brute.”
He chuckles darkly. “You love that about me.”
I know he doesn’t mean love as in the capitalLkind. I can’t love him, I barely know him. But Idolove how he makes me feel. I do love how he touches me.
He slides a finger inside me and I gasp. “Watch the show, Ava.”
How can I possibly concentrate? I tremble as he slides his finger in and out, curling it to hit the spot that makes me want to shatter. His lips are at my neck, his other hand palming my breast, taking his fill of me. I wish we were back at the villa, with privacy. And space. I want to take him inside me—and not just his fingers.
“I can feel those thighs shaking. You’re squeezing me so tight.”
I shift in his lap, trying to give him better access, but instead he turns me ninety degrees to face the front of the balcony. I see the show and the audience, and my dress is hiked up around my hips. His hand snakes over my leg, slipping down the front of my underwear this time, and when he circles my clit I almost explode.
“You like that better.” He’s telling, not asking. “You’re so wet, Ava. I can tell how much you want it.”
I do. I want it so bad I could scream.
He teases me, circling the sensitive bundle of nerves, over and over in sweeping, lazy strokes. It’s enough to have me writhing but he pulls back the second I get too close. Bastard. He loves being in control, loves pleasuring me until I bend to him. Loves making me wait.
“Tonight,” he whispers into my ear, warm breath drifting over the back of my bare neck. “This is just a taste of what’s to come. I’m going to make you mine.”
The way he assumes I’ll say yes gets under my skin. Or at least, it should. It should bother me that he feels so comfortable making assumptions about what I want. What I need.
But he knows me better and more intimately than any other man before. It’s like we’ve had years instead of days exploring one another.
“Get ready, Ava.”
At that very second, as though he timed it perfectly, the opera swells, and perfect clear voices ring like bells through the theatre. So loud they consume my cries and the sound of my pleasure is lost in the fray. I quake against Daniel’s hand, release rippling through me like waves, and when I melt back against him, sated and yet desperate for more, I feel the curve of his smile against the back of my neck.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Daniel
FORTHERESTof the opera, Ava is riveted. When Don Giovanni kills the commendatore, she gasps and reaches for my thigh. I managed to resist the temptation to draw her hand up higher, because that is for later. I want tonight to be about her enjoyment, of both the carnal and cultural variety. So I hold her hand until intermission, and when we head to the bar area for a glass of champagne, I listen to her talk at length about what a horrible character Don Giovanni is.
When we make our way back to the balcony, her copper-flecked eyes are dark and tempting. The second we’re inside and the lights dim, she leans over and kisses me with such force that I seriously consider pushing her to the floor and taking her right then and there.
