Page 93 of When She Tempts (The Fallen)
I ignore it, undo the knot, and pull the belt out of its loops.
My body thrums with anticipation, heat, and desire, the trio fueling my bravery like a potent mix of gasoline. Darkness consumes his gaze as I slip the robe down my arms and let it pool at my feet.
His gaze drags over me, slow and sensual. He’s older, obviously experienced, but the awe that slips into his expression as he takes me in makes me feel special.
Like I’m the first woman he’s ever seen like this.
A vein in his neck pulses as he allows himself to linger on my breasts. The longer he stays silent, the more my rosé-fueled confidence starts to waver, but then his eyes climb back to mine, and I know I’ve won.
“Fuck,” he rasps.
And then he’s on me.
Moving as fast as a panther, be pushes his hand into my hair and tugs my face to his. Our lips crash together. The kiss escalates so quickly, it weakens my knees, but he slips his other arm around my waist and keeps me steady against his chest.
He untangles his fingers from my hair, drags a burning hot palm to cup my ass, and works the flesh for a few moments. We’re so damn close to each other, you couldn’t slip a sheet of paper between us, but it’s not enough. Reading my mind, he lifts me, and growls into my ear, “Wrap your legs around me.”
He walks us backward into the credenza, and the poor thing creaks loudly as my butt lands on its edge. Something drops, rolls loudly along a surface, then shatters.
“Shit,” I breathe. “What was that?”
“I don’t care,” he mutters against my lips before moving down and pressing his mouth to my throat.
I suspect that even if every piece of china in this house broke right now, he wouldn’t step away from me.
I tilt my head, giving him better access to my neck. He inhales deeply. “You smell like forbidden fruit. Too fucking sweet to be real.” The gravel in his voice sends goosebumps spreading over my skin. His palms tighten on my thighs, and his hips roll against mine.
“Take a bite.” I pant.
He lets out a chuckle and presses his teeth into my sensitive flesh. I moan. My body is a live wire beneath his touch. Digging my heels into the backs of his thighs, I tangle my fingers into his hair, lust carving a path through my lungs.
“I’m going to devour you,” he growls as he pulls me away from the credenza and starts walking us toward the stairs. “You started this, Martina. Remember that when your body is tired and sore from me. Remember that when I insist on taking more.”
Shivers erupt over my skin. He rounds the staircase, carrying me with complete ease, and just as he takes the first step, a flash of movement down the hallway catches my eye.
I squint through the near darkness of the house.
There’s nothing. It must be just my eyes playing tricks on me.
Giorgio reaches the second-floor landing and pauses to press my bare back against the same window he watched me from yesterday.
The surface cools my hot, achy body down for a brief moment, but then he kisses me again, his mouth intent on eating me alive, and flames consume me once more.
I move my hips, my naked flesh rubbing against the fine fabric of his clothes. He moves one of his hands lower and brushes his fingers lightly against my center. “Are you wet for me already,piccolina?”
I’m pretty sure I’m leaving a big wet spot on his crotch. “Yes,” I breathe as his fingers delve deeper. “I spent all day thinking about you. About this.”
He makes an approving sound at the back of his throat and pulls me away from the window. “That’s my girl.”
He carries me inside his room, something primal flashing in his gaze, like he’s a hunter and he just brought home a big prize. Closing the door behind him, he tosses me onto the bed. My back flattens against the soft duvet.
He begins to strip.
His jacket goes first, tossed carelessly onto the floor. Without breaking eye contact, he removes his platinum cufflinks, his tie, his belt. The buckle clanks against the floor in protest before it’s swallowed up by his dress shirt and his pants.
Every molecule of air leaves my lungs as I take in his body. I’ve revisited the memory of him wrapped in a towel often, but it’s true what people say. Memories are unreliable.
The real thing is so much more intense.
