Page 100 of Vicious Intentions
“Cazzo,” he curses. “Where should I start?”
“I don’t know. You’re the expert at kissing. Not me.”
“I’m no expert,” he says, but I refuse to believe that.
Sure, he admitted to sleeping with only eight people, but I’m positive there had to be plenty of kissing involved, right? A man doesn’t sleep with a woman and not kiss her. Right? God, I wish I knew for certain.
“Anna,” he calls softly, drawing me back when my silence stretches a little too long.
“Yes?”
“Take my hand.” An unexpected giggle leaves me at his command.
“How am I supposed to do that?”
“Close your eyes for me, sweetheart. Imagine I’m right in front of you, holding my hand out for you to take.”
I do as he says, and suddenly I can see his hands, the same ones I caught glimpses of when I played the piano for him. They’re large, veined, and warm, my own looking so small as I slip my hand into his. A shiver runs through me as my pulse quickens at how easily he envelops me, my hand disappearing in his completly.
“I’m going to pull you slowly against me, now. Close enough for our chests to touch,” he says, his voice dropping an octave. “Now I’m bringing your hand to my lips, just so I can press a kiss to the inside of your wrist. Do you feel it?”
“Yes,” I breathe, already starting to pant as I imagine his lips scorching that sensitive spot.
“Now I’m placing your open palm flat against my chest, so you can feel how erratic my heart is beating for you.”
I draw in a shaky breath, picturing my hand splayed over his chest, right above his racing heart. Every inch of me feels lit on fire, all from his words alone.
“I’m nervous,” I breathe out.
“You don’t have to be. You’re safe with me,cara mia. I’m going to take things slow, okay?”
I nod, even though he can’t see it.
“I’ve wanted this for so long, I don’t even know where to start,” he admits, his voice slightly unsteady. “But I need to feel you, okay? Feel how your skin burns at my touch.”
“How…” My breath falters. “How are you going to do that?”
“Can’t you feel me, sweetheart? How I’m gently tracing my fingertips over the length of your bare arm? How your skin breaks out into goosebumps with just the slightest touch?”
God… and now I do. It’s almost like he’s here. My skin pebbles at his words, a faint heat trailing up my arm as his other hand tightens around my wrist, my palm still pressed to his chest. He doesn’t wait for a reply as he continues, his voice the only brush he needs to paint this maddening image further.
“Yes,” I moan softly, my heart jackhammering in my chest. But for some reason, the face in front of me isn’t Raffaele’s. It’s a blurred figure I can’t quite make out. All I can do is feel him, the intensity in his gaze, the longing swimming there, all of it meant for me.
“Kiss me. Please… just kiss me,” I hear myself beg, having totally forgotten decorum, my mind fully invested in the fantasy he’s conjuring up.
“I’m leaning in, our mouths just a hair’s breadth from each other. Your sweet breath mingles with mine before I eat the distance between us and softly press my lips onto yours.”
“Hmm…” It’s all I can manage to utter, the sound slipping out between shallow breaths.
“You taste so sweet, Anna. So fucking sweet,” he groans, and I hear him shifting on his bed on the other end of the line. “Cazzo.”
He’s never cursed in Italian before. Not once in all our texts. And hearing him curse now, just from the image we’ve built between us, sends something sharp and electric through me.
But wait… Should I be saying something, too? He’s so open, so unfiltered about what he wants. Shouldn’t I be the same?
Before I can second-guess myself, I blurt out, “You taste good, too.”
“Fuck, baby. Yes, tell me how good I’m making you feel. Tell me what you want, what you desire. I want to hear it all,” he rasps, as if my words have unleashed something in him that was barely being held back. Like I’ve ignited something that was already burning out of control, ready to consume everything in its path.
