Page 129 of Ricardo

“Don't look so proud of yourself,” I tell him.

“Then how should I look?” he says, unbothered.

“Chastened.”

“Never going to happen.”

I narrow my eyes at him, but it is playful. The truth is he looks more than proud of himself. He looks damn good. His hair is a dark mess over his forehead, and the stubble on his jaw is heavier than usual. His eyes are still sleep-heavy, and there is a relaxed ease to him that is different from the edgy power he usually carries.

It is unfair, really, that a man can look like this first thing in the morning.

“Don't look at me like that,” he says.

“Like what?”

“Like I’m something you want to eat.”

My cheeks flush.

A slow, knowing smile spreads across his face.

“Unless,” he says huskily, “you intend to finish what you’re starting.”

His gaze drops to my mouth, and I know what he is thinking about. Or at least, I know what I am thinking about.

I lean in and kiss him. There is no hesitation now. There is no second-guessing. There is only the simple, undeniable want.

He kisses me back, and it is the kiss of a man who is still hungry even after a feast.

His hand slides from my stomach to my hip, and he pulls me closer.

My body, traitor that it is, is more than ready for a repeat. A deep, liquid heat pools in my stomach, my nipples tighten against the hot skin of his chest, and a soft sound escapes my throat.

His fingers trace the line of my jaw, his thumb brushing over my lips. “I want you again.”

““You’re insatiable,” I say, my lips twitching.

“Only for you.”

The words are so direct, so sincere, that they make my breath catch.

He shifts, rolling me onto my back, settling himself between my legs. He is already hard against me, and my body responds instantly, a rush of desire that makes me ache with need.

He lowers his head to my throat. “Tell me you want me too,” he murmurs against my skin.

I wrap my arms around his neck, my fingers tangling in his hair.

“I want you too,” I whisper.

He groans. And then he’s kissing me again, and I am lost to the feel of him, the taste of him, the sheer, overwhelming presence of him.

He doesn't rush. He takes his time, as if he has all the time in the world. His hands explore my body, relearning every curve, every dip, every hollow.

It's a while later before we're sated again, tangled in the sheets, our bodies damp with sweat.

Ricardo is on his back, one arm thrown over his eyes, a satisfied smile on his lips. I am lying on my stomach, my head turned toward him, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest.

"I should get up," I say, though I have no intention of moving. "I have to go to work."