Our Secret Summer(73)

I’m about to turn around to see what he’s doing, but then he touches the back of my thigh with the tip of his finger. The heat of it makes me jump, and he takes his time trailing his finger higher up my leg, skipping across to my other thigh and back down to my other knee.

I feel like I’m being tortured in the best way.

I want to slip my hand between my legs myself. I’m more than happy to find satisfaction by any means necessary. But then he bends down onto his knees behind me, putting himself eye level with a part of me that spikes my blood. Surely he’s—

My breath arrests when he gathers the sides of my boxers and starts to draw them down. There’s nothing to do, no way to shield myself. He’s unwrapping me like a gift. My underwear gathers in a pool of silk at my feet. I don’t step out of them. I don’t move at all.

His teeth sink into my thigh and he bites. My head drops between my biceps as I inhale sharply. As soon as the pain subsides, he kisses me there, soothing the ache. No, not soothing it—stoking it.

I’m so unprepared for his mouth to press between my thighs, right over the center of me, that I cry out. It sounds like agony, but it’s bliss, having him lick slowly, as if savoring the taste of me. He spreads me apart and holds me in place as his face presses between my legs. Again, his tongue slowly laps over me. Over… and over until my elbows threaten to give out, but I lock them and hold still, wanting this more than I can bear.

I feel his warm breath skim across me, hear his heavy sigh of approval. Then he presses his middle finger into me deeply in tandem with his mouth.

“Cristiano.”

His name is ripped out of me as I arch up and lose myself to the overwhelming pleasure. He’s there until the last spark, continuing until my breathing slows and I collapse forward, face-planting onto the bed in a tangle of tired limbs. He rises and moves over me, kissing my shoulder blade, running his hand up my spine before gently turning me over to look at him.

God.

What a sight.

He looks me over, studying me as the shadows in the room sharpen his cheekbones. I look at his lips, see the evidence of what he just did, and flush.

He notices my reaction even in the dim lighting. His gaze roves over my neck and chest before he stands and grabs the condom, holding my attention as he rips it open. “You do something to me, Isabel. You make it so fucking hard to resist. Mírame. Look at me.”

My eyes flutter open; I hadn’t realized I’d even let them close. It’s just all so overwhelming. My heart hammers, and I feel so exposed lying beneath him. Exposed and wanting.

There’s dangerous intent in his gaze as his hand slips back between my legs so he can stroke me again. Just one touch and already I’m arching up, as responsive and needy as ever. I know he loves what he does to me; he’s momentarily forgotten about the condom.

“This one time won’t be enough.”

I can do nothing but nod in confirmation.

I know. I know.

“In the middle of the night when I reach for you again, you’ll let me have you, won’t you?”

As he asks, he dips two fingers inside me, and I only barely succeed in swallowing my cry. It’s like he’s cast a spell over me. His words intoxicate me to the point that my limbs are languid and useless. My skin is feverish and tingly. His fingers pump inside me and already I’m anxious for him to bring me back to the edge, to shatter me all over again.

I’m reaching for him, trying to bring his face closer to mine. With two hands positioned under my arms, he hoists me higher up on the bed so I’m nestled in the middle rather than hanging off the side. Then his knee spreads my thighs, and he settles himself over me.

My desire feels so heavy and hot radiating through me.

I wet my bottom lip as I watch him roll on the condom. It’s silly that I feel suddenly nervous, that now I tremble, when just a moment ago his face was pressed between my legs. I try to stop myself from overthinking, but there’s no denying that this time, with Cristiano, feels different for a million reasons, and there’s no way to get ahead of it. I’m already drowning in him as he rolls his hips so that his hardness rubs against me.

He does it again, and the sensation drags me down to even headier depths. The slightest pinprick could undo me.

And then, he finally starts to thrust into me. The muscles in his shoulders bunch as he holds himself back, going achingly slow, pausing when I tense, soothing the ache with a kiss to my hair. Eventually, when he’s all the way in, I realize I’m holding my breath, and I let out a long, shaky exhale.

He goes still, enraptured by his claim over me. He pulls out halfway, then seats himself again, agonizingly slowly. He could be focused solely on his own pleasure, but he remains entirely focused on me as his hand returns between my legs, sending small jolts rippling through me.

I start to adjust to his size, my hips relaxing, my jaw unclenching. I rub my hands over the half-moon marks my nails left on his biceps, trying to give a silent apology. I doubt he can even feel them. Not now that his hips are starting to rock in steady, shallow thrusts. Not as he swallows my moan with a frenzied kiss.

Instead of pinning me down, he holds himself up, working his hips in an excruciating rhythm. No man has ever undone me in this way. It’s like he’s peeling back skin and bone and sinew and reaching inside me.

God, his body. The way he uses it like a weapon and a salve. He hits that deep spot within me when our hips join together. He knows it’s something special because he holds there, testing me, his attention on my face as his hand strokes me again.