Page 90 of Mario
But the look on his face tells me everything.
He reaches out, but he does not touch my breasts.
His fingers trace the lace strap where it rests on my shoulder.
Then he follows it down, over the curve of my breast, until he reaches the small satin bow nestled between them.
His thumb brushes my nipple through the lace, and I gasp as a sharp, electric jolt of pleasure shoots straight to my core.
“Sensitive,” he rumbles.
I am.
I am so sensitive I feel like I am on fire.
“Mario,” I whisper.
He does not stop.
His thumb circles my nipple again, slower this time, a deliberate torture. I bite my lip to stop the sounds from escaping, but it is useless. A small whimper breaks free.
He likes it.
I can see it in the way his own breathing has changed, in the way he shifts his weight.
Then he stops.
He steps back, and the loss is immediate, a hollow ache.
His gaze meets mine again. It is intense, focused, a predator who has just found my weak spot.
“The pants,” he orders.
My fingers are clumsy on the button of my pants. My hands are shaking so badly that it takes me two tries to get it undone, but he does nothing to help. He just watches the movement of my hands with his dark, unreadable eyes.
I slide them down my legs and step out of them, kicking them aside.
I am standing in front of him in a scrap of lace and matching panties that are just as impractical as the bra.
His gaze sweeps over me.
A slow, thorough inspection that makes me feel more naked than I ever have in my life. He is not looking at me with appreciation or with kindness.
He is looking at me like I am his.
And he is deciding what to do with me.
“Turn around,” he says.
My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic, trapped bird.
But I turn.
My back is to him now. I am facing the full-length mirror propped against the wall. I see myself in the dim light of my bedroom—flushed skin, wide eyes, hair a mess around my shoulders.
And then I see him.
He moves behind me, a tall, powerful shadow.
