“Do you know,” he says slowly, the words spoken with deliberation, “that I didn’t sleep at all last night?”
His hand goes to my waist, settling against the curve. He holds it there for a moment.
I’m almost too afraid to speak, like if I do, some magic will dissolve. “No?” I remember him going to his studio, right after he kissed my palm. “Too busy working?”
He shakes his head, eyes following his hand as it goes up my side. “Working? No. I didn’t go into the studio to work. I went into the studio to take my mind off of you. But I could not.” He wets his lips again, his hand now at my breast.
I instinctively hold my breath, my heart thundering in my head. Woosh woosh woosh.
His eyes skirt up to my mouth.
“I could not sleep because all I could think about were these lips. I wondered when I’d get the chance to taste them again. I wondered, perhaps, if I’d ever know what they’d feel like wrapped around my cock.”
Holy.
He didn’t.
My eyes go so wide that they hurt.
“My boldness makes you nervous?” he says, his thumb now brushing over my nipple, causing me to bite my lip, holding back a groan. My body betrays me, squirming, as my legs try to quell the building pressure.
“No,” I say breathlessly.
“Does it turn you on?” he asks, his thumb circling, causing my nipple to tighten through the fabric, an arc of pleasure that radiates down the rest of my body.
I can barely swallow, barely talk. “Yes,” I hiss.
“Just checking,” he says, a hint of a wicked smile on his lips.
His fingers wrap around the neckline of my dress. With one fluid motion, he yanks it down, my breasts bobbing free.
He stands back, staring at me, at my chest, bare and flushed, nipples in tiny pink peaks, his gaze alternating between inspired and desire. Perhaps there’s never been that much of a difference between the two.
“So fucking perfect,” he says, holding out his hands as if to frame me, while I sit there, breathing hard.
I swear to god, if he tries to go back to sculpting…
But instead he bends down, placing his mouth over my nipple, and I almost fall off the stool. He sucks on one while he plays with the other, the other hand at the small of my back to keep me in place. It’s like a jolt straight between my legs, making me buzz with electricity, causing my thighs to part.
Then his mouth comes up to mine, stealing the breath from me. He tastes like my skin, mixed with a hint of salty clay, and his lips engulf mine with the kind of passion that makes me ache. It’s a wet, rough kiss, a little unrestrained, a little messy. The fevered intensity starts to rise inside me, intermingling with butterflies in my chest.
I want this man like I’ve never wanted anything before.
His hands disappear into my hair, holding me firmly at the back of my head, while I submit myself to him, to this kiss, to wherever this man is going to take me.
He pulls back, placing hot, wet kisses beside my lips. “La mia musa,” he whispers hoarsely. “You are better than art.”
Then he crouches down, throwing up the hem of my dress and ducking his head under it. So when I said I’d submit to wherever this man takes me, I didn’t think he’d immediately put his head between my legs.
But I’m not complaining.
I gasp, his hands running up the insides of my thighs, spreading them with a firm grasp. He pauses, his stubble tickling my sensitive skin, inches away from where I’m bare and most certainly wet.
Next thing I know, his hands are gathering the hem and pushing it up and around my waist. Now I’m really exposed.
I grip the edge of the stool with one hand, shocked by the intimacy, the sight of his dark hair between my legs. Rarely did my boyfriends go down on me in the past, mainly because they never seemed into it, and I was always self-conscious of myself.
Looking at Claudio now, I’m in a state of shock, but it’s a state that dissolves into want. It’s like I never even knew what I wanted until I had it.
And I have it.
His fingers dig into the tender flesh of my hips, while his thumbs keep my legs open for him. I’m breathless in anticipation, the waiting turning into yearning, turning into dying for his contact.
When it comes, all the air leaves my lungs.
His mouth is soft and wet over my clit, tentative, taking his time. My back arches, pushing myself into his mouth, like I have no control over my body anymore. The only thing I can do is grip the edge of the stool with my own hand until my knuckles turn white.
Then…
Fuck.
He takes me into his mouth and sucks me gently and I’m crying out, “Oh my god,” and I drop the roses. I absently watch as they tumble over his head and spill onto the floor, and then I’m gripping the edge of my seat with my other hand, like I’m afraid I might float right up to the ceiling.
He pulls back enough, his eyes piercing as they meet mine. “Does that feel okay?”
There isn’t even a hint of irony in his voice.
Does it feel okay?
I can’t talk. I just nod.
Then the sly grin appears on his lips. “Just checking.”
His grip gets tighter, and this time he sucks me harder, causing me to moan. Loud. My hands go to his hair, holding him tight.
“Is this to go harder? Slower?” he murmurs against me, the vibrations spreading through me.
“Just … keep going,” I whisper harshly, my neck going back, my eyes falling closed.
Dear. God.
He alternates between kisses and licks, his tongue swirling until the pressure is at capacity and I can’t hold back anymore.
“Oh god, yes,” I cry out, my words sounding feverish and foreign, like someone else is speaking through me. I’ve never been someone who vocalizes during sex, and now, from him going down on me, I want to tell him all the dirty things I want done to me.
But my mind can’t even form sentences. Not when his licking intensifies, when he starts sucking me harder, and harder and then … then…
I’m coming.
The orgasm tears through me, making my limbs shake, my body on the verge of completely letting go and falling onto the floor. It’s all too much, my thoughts and feelings are scrambled, and every physical part of me feels like it’s been shot into space and back.
“You taste like sin,” Claudio says to me as he gets up. He leans in, putting his hand at the back of my neck and kisses me, until I taste myself too, the salty and sweet. “Except I know your sin is heaven sent.”
He steps back, and I sit there, trying to catch my breath, half off the stool, the roses at my feet.
He starts to unbutton his shirt, eyes locked on mine, brimming with raw lust. His shirt sticks to him with sweat, and he pulls it off, throwing it on the ground. He then unzips the fly of his jeans, slowly. Too slowly. And even though my body still feels raw from the orgasm, I’m getting turned on all over again, like the desire inside me is a switch that’s never fully off.
“Are you on the pill?” he asks, voice low and husky.
I swallow. Nod. “Yes.”
I’m actually on it for my skin, mostly, though I figured it would never hurt if I got involved with someone. Of course that opportunity never came. Until now.
“Good,” he says.
Slides his jeans down until he’s in his briefs.