Page 69 of The Wrong Move

Christ.

Her lips suck, and her tongue swirls as she tastes me all the way to the base.

Fuck.

I grip her hair, rolling a handful around my hands. I’m unable to keep my thrusts in sync with her mouth. This woman is everything to me, and my body knows it, emotion and passion ripping through every inch of my body.

“I’m going to come,” I murmur through the delicious haze clouding my thoughts. Her mouth pumps my dick at a speed where I’m struggling to focus on anything except the pleasure. “Giana…” I breathe out hard, then inhale deeply, and she takes me deeper into her throat, faster, with more pressure from those perfect lips.

Eyes shut, I imagine her standing naked before me, touching her rounded breasts, fingers spread, her hand gliding down her stomach toward her pussy.

“Yes,” I murmur. In my vision, her fingers slide inside, and I lose every coherent thought as I find my release. The orgasm rips through my core, overtaking every thought as I empty into her pretty mouth. She releases my dick, which is still hard, and wipes her mouth. Her brown eyes look sexier than ever.

“Thank you for coming, Byron.”

Best fucking pun I’ve ever heard.

I fall to my knees, resting my forehead against hers. “My pleasure.” The words come out hoarse as I catch my breath. I soon find the energy to stand and carry her to the bed, as I initially intended when we entered the room.

I kiss her mouth. My hand finds her breast, and I trail my lips down her perfect neck.

“Byron,” she whispers. “As much as I want to stay here with you, I have a hair and makeup appointment.” I caress her nipple with my tongue. “I was on my way when I received the message from reception,” she says, sounding breathless.

“Cancel it. You’re already perfect.”

She giggles. “We can finish this later.” She takes my face in her hands and guides my lips to hers. “I’m so glad you came.”

I grin at the pun.

“So am I.”

Two hourslater and no sign of Giana. After showering, I sit on the balcony and watch the streets come to life. Church bells sound in the distance, and the tangy, sweet scent of basil, tomatoes, cheese, and pizza cooking in wood-fired ovens fills the air.

As I wait, I listen to an Italian app to give myself more than the basics of the language, kicking myself for only studyingFrench, German, and Spanish in college. Closing the ivory and pink curtains of the balcony, I plop onto the lounge opposite the bed. The room is ivory, dusky pink, and jade, with splashes of red. The framed painting behind the bed spans wall-to-wall, a tropical setting where a river enters the sea, emphasizing the green rainforest. The huts and the boats on the river highlight the softer tones in the room. I feel like I’m inside one of Giana’s paintings. A blue-green ocean and the green foliage complement the jade throw over white bedsheets and the carpet. The carpet is enough to send one crossed-eyed—ivory diamonds with pink and red centers and a jade background. The couch has stripes of ivory, jade, and pink. My eyes go back to the painting, to the people with bare bums waving to the boats on the lagoon from grass huts. The uplifting color draws you into a beautiful landscape with the simplicity of life.

I dream of it yet cannot imagine it.

My knee bounces.

It’s been over twenty-four hours since I sweated in a gym.Since I touched a ball.

What was I thinking, coming to a foreign country where I can get high just sitting in the hotel room staring at the décor, with barely enough room to do pushups?

I’m out of my comfort zone. My thoughts shift to Giana’s boss declining a plus-one to the ball, and I’ll be damned if her sleazy ex gets a chance to touch her again.

I need a drink.

I head out of Giana’s room to the elevator and hit the button. A man and woman come to stand with me. After a few words, I hear Giana’s name and do my best not to turn around. The doors open, and we enter the elevator. I go to the back while they stand in the front.

Fuck me.

It’s Isabella and her dickwad nephew, Dante.

My hands ball into a fist.

Words are spoken fast, and while I don’t understand most of it, I hear Giana’s name, and it pisses me off. He has curly, dark hair and my height. His trousers, shoes, and crisp pale-pink shirt scream designer. Isabella’s hair is styled to perfection, not one strand out of place. I recognize her floral dress—it’s one of Giana’s designs, and her shoes and handbag match. Between her eau de parfum and his aftershave, I’m doing my best not to inhale his fucking scent, but it’s one I will remember, and I’ll never wear the same.

The elevator stops at level two.

---