Page 88 of Mario
Her gasp is swallowed by my lips crashing down on hers.
Her arms wrap around my neck, her fingers tangling in my hair, pulling me closer. She meets my aggression with her own, her tongue dueling with mine, her body arching against mine.
I rip my lips from hers and move to her ear, my breath hot against her skin.
“You want me to fuck you, Victoria?” I growl. “Is that what you’ve been dreaming of?”
“Yes,” she whimpers. “God, yes.”
She lets out a cry of surprise as I throw her over my shoulder in a single, fluid motion. She is light in my arms, her soft curves pressing against my back.
I carry her up the narrow stairs, my steps quick and sure.
I am done waiting.
I am done talking.
I am done being noble. Fuck being noble.
She wants this.
She wants me.
And I am going to give her exactly what we've both been dreaming of.
Chapter Nine
Victoria
I let out a very undignified shriek as Mario throws me over his shoulder. For a second, all the blood rushes to my head. I get an up-close view of the fine wool of his trousers and the way they stretch over his perfect ass as he takes the stairs two at a time.
My hair swings forward, damp strands falling around my face. I should be indignant. I am indignant. I am also staring at the way his back moves beneath his shirt, at the hard line of his shoulders, at the strength in the arm locked over the backs of my thighs.
This man is carrying me up the stairs.
After kissing me like that.
After hearing me confess the most humiliating, obscene thing I have ever said out loud in my entire life.
I should move out of the state.
Possibly the country.
Instead, I am trying not to press my face into his back and breathe him in like a lunatic.
He reaches the top of the stairs and turns toward my bedroom without asking which door.
I am no longer surprised that he knows. He probably knows which floorboard creaks and which window leaks when it rains.
The world is a dizzying blur of motion, then I'm being lowered slowly to the ground. My breasts drag against his chest. My hips brush his. My feet touch the rug, but he does not let me go.
For one second, we stand there, chest to chest, breathing hard.
His hands are on my waist.
Mine are gripping his shirt.
Neither of us moves.
