Page 106 of Mario
My breath catches in my throat.
He is looking down at me, his eyes dark and intense, searching mine.
There is no smugness in his expression now.
None of the arrogance I have come to expect.
There is only a raw, naked need that mirrors my own.
He grips my thigh and wraps it around his waist, opening me wider.
But he doesn't push inside. He just waits.
My body is screaming for him to move, to fill me, to end this sweet, terrible ache.
But I want to savor this moment.
This final, fragile second before the end of the world.
I look up at him.
His dark hair is falling over his forehead. His jaw is tight, the muscles in his throat working as he swallows. His eyes are fixed on mine, and in their depths, I see a hunger that is almost frightening.
I see myself reflected in them—flushed and wanton, my eyes dark with a matching desire.
My hands slide up his arms, over the hard muscles of his shoulders, and into the soft, thick hair at the nape of his neck.
I know what he wants, what he’s waiting for.
He told me himself. In Italian and English.
“Please,” I whisper.
It is not the desperate plea from before.
This is a choice. A willful surrender. A gift.
“Ancora,” he says with a low growl.
I don't need the translation.
I see it in his eyes.
Again.
“Please, Mario,” I say, my voice stronger now. “I need you.”
It's the truth.
I have never needed anyone.
I have never allowed myself to.
But with this man, I have no choice.
My body knows what it wants. What it needs.
My mind is finally catching up.
