Page 83 of Casanova LLC

We entered the bedroom and she said, matter-of-factly, “No. I’m very good. Very.”

The second very gave me a twinge. “How did that…happen?” It made zero sense.

She stopped, right in front of the bed platform, and turned to me. “It kept men where I wanted them. At a safe distance. It delayed the demand for sex. Who’s gonna turn down a blow job, right?”

The fallout from her college days. Was it truly behind her? I went to her. Took her hand. “Has anyone ever gone down on you?”

“No.”

“I would be happy to do that instead.”

She looked as if a fuse blew and the marquee went out. “No! I want this. Not because I’m good at it, or like doing it—which I do, by the way—but because I want it to be something new. With you. For me.” Without waiting for my acquiescence, she pointed at the bed. “Sit.”

It was so sexy. I was so fucked.

I did. Feet solid on the platform. Hands folded on my lap. Awaiting further instruction.

“Rules. You control nothing. Whatever you feel—or don’t feel—I want it.” She wagged a finger at me. “No Casanova-ing.”

Had there ever been a time I’d let myself go? I think I was fifteen. That girl who broke into the vacant house with me when—no, I was fourteen when that happened. Whatever. I nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

She took a step toward me. Her robe fluttered open a bit more, still covering her breasts, but exposing her soft mound. I was never going to be able to see anyone else in this robe. I was going to have to retire it.

She reached for my belt. “May I?”

“Sure.”

She untied it. Took her time opening the plackets.

I couldn’t take my eyes off her face. I didn’t know the number of women who had seen my dick, and I didn’t care. It had never mattered.

Watching her see it mattered.

The expression on her face made me begin to swell. Something had taken hold of me. Something other than me. “It’s not fair,” I observed.

“What?”

“That you’re…you.”

More swelling. I wanted her touch. Those pianist fingers on me.

But to my disappointment, she stepped back. Should I tell her I didn’t want her to?

“Now. What do you want?” she asked, making it easy on me.

My mind had a hundred Casanova ways to turn the question back around on her. But I refused all of them. I wanted to say what I wanted. To express my desire. For the first time. “Drop the robe.”

She did. “And?”

“I just want to look at you for a moment.” And I did, burning every inch of her into my memory. Her eyes dropped to my hardening shaft and I lifted my hands. “I’m not doing anything, I promise.” We grinned at each other.

“I’m loving this. Are you loving this, because I’m loving this?”

I wanted to grab her. “Feeling powerful?”

“A little,” she admitted with a laugh. “But I haven’t really done anything yet.”

“Tell that to the breadstick.” My grin faded. “You still want to know what I want?”

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