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“Matteo,” she whispered, leaning forward so her breasts grazed his chest, even as her hand kept working. “I like this idea of you surrendering your famous control.”
He was trying not to. He was tryingso very hard.
“Of you going from zero to sixty so fast you don’t even know what hit you.” She let loose a noise that was half evil cackle, half delighted laugh.
Hold on, he urged himself.
“Don’t worry about it,” she soothed, dropping an absurdly tender kiss on his temple. “I’ll get mine later. You just let go.”
So he did, throwing his head back and shouting as he came inher hands like a school boy, but dear god, as his body heaved and shuddered, it felt like . . . relief. Like stepping into a hot pool in the cold winter air. Like that, but more.
When he opened his eyes, he half expected her to be gone. For this to have been a fever dream. But there she was, smirking at him as if she had defeated him, and he supposed in a way, she had.
But that wouldn’t stand. She would, as she’d said, get hers. He was going to see to it immediately.
He shuffled her off him and guided her to lie back on the sofa. She started talking, and he didn’t want that now, so he covered her mouth with his, even as he let his hand drift down her body.
He found her wet and, he thought, ready. So without wasting any time, he stopped kissing her—that kiss had achieved its aim in getting her to be quiet—and moved down and replaced his hand with his mouth.
“Oh my god!” she gasped in what sounded like a mixture of shock and pleasure. He would allow that kind of talking.
He threw one of her legs over his shoulder and started licking her, stopping just long enough to murmur, against her throbbing flesh, “I would like you to let go, too, Cara.”
To his great satisfaction, she did. She shouted, and her flesh started fluttering beneath his lips. He’d been content—delighted—to settle in for a while, and he hoped he would get such an opportunity later, but for now, he lifted his head, shot her a smirk, and said, “Well then.”
Afterward, he sat up, pulled Cara’s legs into his lap, and started running the fingers of his other hand up and down one of her calves.
She wanted him to stop.
Well, she didn’t. The featherlight touch was doing something to her as her breath returned to normal. It was creating a slow pooling of warmth inside her. It reminded her of the feeling she’d gotten after coming off the snow at the spa. She was suffused with relaxation and goodwill. Though to be fair, that was probably from the orgasm.
And holy hell, had that been an orgasm. She tried to tell herself that it had been so intense because it had been a while for her. Not Matteo’s five years, but at least that many months. But she was pretty sure the quality of that orgasm had been about the person delivering it.
With his mouth.
Which was another reason she shouldn’t be worked up about his stroking her leg now. This was nothing.
And yet...
Beyond the physical sensations his touch was stirring up, it was also... tender. She didn’t do tender. She couldn’t lie here and let someone touch her like that with affection and gentleness when there was nopointto it. And he wasn’t giving her a massage or doing anything else productive with that hand. There was noobjectivehere.
So, as good as it felt, she pretended she needed to stretch, extended her arms above her head, and righted herself so she was sitting next to him. The yawn that followed was real.
He stared at her and, after a moment, extended his arm and resumed stroking her, this time on her upper arm. It seemed almost mindless, like he wasn’t aware of it.
Maybe he wasn’t. Maybe all she’d been reading into it—tenderness and all that crap—wasn’t really there.
“Can you... not do that?” She nodded at his hand, which he immediately retracted.
“My apologies,” he said quickly, and something in his face shuttered.
“No problem,” she said, pierced with a sudden, sharp guilt that she’d insulted him, or rejected him, or... something. “I’m just ticklish,” she added, acutely aware that lying to spare a man’s feelings was not something she had ever done before.
“Should we... discuss this?” he asked, scooching a little farther away from her and grabbing his shirt—it seemed he had truly gotten the message, and she continued to feel an odd sort of regret, even though that was exactly what she’d wanted.
“You mean like, what the hell this is, and is it going to happen again?” She was about to go in search of her own shirt, but he tossed her a quilt he had folded over the back of the sofa, and she wrapped it around herself instead.
“Yes. Both those things.”
