Page 58 of Casanova LLC

I gave him my left hand and he pulled me up off my elbow. My right, I belatedly pulled out of my underwear. I stood.

He picked up his cape and led me out of the bedroom, into the salon, my stockinged feet whisper-quiet on the marble floor, only the sound of my skirts shushing behind me.

When we got to the window seat, he dropped my hand, took his cape off his forearm, shook it out, and laid it over the cushion. Then he climbed onto the seat, pulling a sheer curtain against the window closed. He nestled his back against the wall, his right shoulder against the window frame, his legs stretched out wide. He patted the space between them. “Climb up and sit, facing away from me.”

I did as instructed. Gladly. Once I was settled, my hips cradled by his strong thighs, my back to his chest, I looked at the wall in front of us. There was a full-length antique mirror built into it. Alessandro was gathering my hair and sweeping it over my left shoulder. He murmured in my ear, “Open your legs. Bend your knees.”

I did. I was living for his instructions. They weren’t demands, they were statements.

He lifted my skirt again.

His eyes met mine in the mirror. “The problem isn’t that you don’t feel anything. It’s that you feel too much. Did you know the clitoris has probably the highest density of nerve endings in all of human anatomy? About eleven thousand.”

A biology lesson. Now? Yet somehow I found it fascinating. And arousing.

“With all those nerve endings, you would think you’d come just sitting here. But there’s irony for you. Too much activity, too much overstimulation, and you can desensitize. It’s completely normal. You just need to figure out what works for you.”

How did I not know this? Why didn’t women talk about this with each other? All the women’s magazines—did those still exist?—made sure you knew how to give a great blow job. Ten tricks to drive him wild in bed! Where were all the masturbation listicles?

Kissing my temple, he lifted my hand, and put it over my mound. Just settled it there. Then he pressed it down, cupping me. “All of this,” he rumbled in my ear, “is a pleasure center. The little nub—the glans—is just the tip of the iceberg.” As he continued speaking, to illustrate, his hand rocked side to side. “The iceberg being the much larger clitoral organ, which goes down both sides here like a wishbone.” His hand moved up and down. Then in rolling circles. “Learn yourself.” My back arched and he seized the opportunity: “When your back arches, what are you asking for? What does your body want?”

My eyes moved from the reflection of our hands in the mirror, up to his face. His masked gaze was waiting for me. “More. It wants… I want more.”

“Where?”

It was a good question. I did not have a good answer. “Everywhere.”

“Lovely. Give me your other hand.” I did and he floated it up to my neck. “Your whole body is the ocean surrounding the iceberg.” He swept my hand down, across my shoulder, then over to the other one. Then lower to my chest. The tops of my breasts. Sometimes I’d feel my fingers and sometimes his and at a certain point I couldn’t tell which were which.

At the same time, he kneaded my right fingers into my core, like waves caressing a boat.

“Play with pressure.” He lifted his left hand away from mine and brushed the backs of his fingers against my clavicle. “Light?” He brought his fingers around my throat and squeezed slightly. “Hard?”

I was beginning to unravel.

It was then I realized I couldn’t draw full breaths. But not because of the hand at my throat. “Hang on, I have to?—”

He didn’t skip a beat. “I’ve got it.” His fingers went to the corset strings. He kissed my neck, my shoulder, as he untied it. He slipped a finger between the laces and loosened, then stuck his whole fist down the front of the corset and spread his fingers wide. I drew a ragged breath. “There you go.” He slid his hand upward, not missing the opportunity to feather my cleavage.“And down here.” He patted the top of my kneading hand. “Same thing. Light?” He stroked my fingers lightly back and forth over my panties. “Hard?” And he pushed our hands downward.

“God.” I sounded like I had just sprinted a hundred-yard dash. Or I imagined it was like that, having never actually sprinted. What was I even saying? “I like it all. The mix is…nice.” Nice? “Good.” Good? I gave up trying to speak.

“A little bit of everything. Just like great sex. Use your hand the way you’d want a man to use his body.”

I whimpered. I actually whimpered.

“In fact…” He placed my hand on his leg. Then he moved his hand back, alone, over my panties, resting it there. “I’m going to stay just like this. Still. And I’d like you to move against it, however you want.”

“If you insist,” I tried to joke, but it came out too garbled to understand. There was an electric pulse between me and his hand. I slid down slightly. Back up. My flesh sought the particular column of one of his fingers. I moved along it. My breathing went from uneven to erratic just as he said, “Remember to breathe,” and I swear I heard a slight strain in his voice. “That’s beautiful, Claire. Beautiful. Do you have more? That’s it, give me more.”

And as I gave more, I felt more. His left hand toyed with the lace edge of my stockings, and I clenched his right thigh as my hips bucked. My breath found another rhythm altogether, transporting me to some long-forgotten place.

And I was there. Wherever there was, I was instantly, irrefutably there. “Oh my God!”

He lifted his hand. Up. Immediately. Reflexively. “Not yet.” His tone of voice nearly triggered precisely what he was trying to prevent. I made a sound that was close to a growl. He kissed my neck. “There you are, Cara. How simple, no? How easy?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to continue?”

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