Page 40 of This Thing of Ours

“Best not to tempt me, streghetta. Though we’ve known each other a long time,we’restill new. My goal is to not fuck you anytime soon,” he said, tossing her bag on the foot of the bed.

Well, that was… blunt. And a little—okay, a lot—disappointing. How long was he going to make her wait? She felt as if she’d been waiting a lifetime already.

“I’m going to grab a quick shower. Make yourself at home. Unpack. Watch TV. If you can’t find the remote, it’s probably stuffed between the cushions of the couch. That’s where I usually find it, at least,” Marco said, sliding open a mirrored door revealing a closet and grabbing a fresh suit and shirt. He tossed everything on the bed next to her bag and headed for the attached bath, stripping off his shirt on the way. She caught sight of his arm before he’d fully closed the door, and she didn’t think twice about opening it and barging into the bathroom.

He was in the process of undoing his pants, and his head popped up when she entered. “What—”

She didn’t give him a chance to speak, just grabbed ahold of his wrist and said, “You didn’t tell me you were hurt.”

A large patch of his forearm was burned, the skin red and angry with a small scattering of blisters at its center.

He tried to pull his arm away. “It’s fine.”

She was really growing sick of that word. She also suspected they had vastly different definitions for it. “It’s not fine. I’m not a doctor, but this looks like a third-degree burn. I know I read somewhere if left untreated all sorts of bad things could happen.”

He turned to face her and brought the hand of his uninjured arm up to cup the side of her face. A small smile pulled at his lips. “Cara mia, I promise, it’s not a third-degree burn. It’s barely a second-degree one.”

“It looks bad.” And she hated seeing him hurt.

He shrugged. “It’ll heal, and I’ll be fine.”

So, his definition of “fine” meant he would live. Good to know for the future.

Worries eased, she realized how close he was and that she was eye level with his chest. His naked chest. Her eyes drifted over his rock-hard pecs, broad shoulders, and bulging biceps. He was more muscular than he appeared in his suits and every muscle was well defined.

Her eyes traveled lower, over the ridges of his abs to the open fly of his slacks. The waist rode low on his hips, and the open flaps showcased the outline of his manhood that strained against the tight cotton of his underwear. It twitched and grew larger before her eyes, the tip protruding from the elastic waistband.

“Streghetta.”

His thumb found the underside of her chin, applying pressure, and she reluctantly raised it. She was met by a heated gaze. She licked her lips.

“You don’t play fair.” His voice had an edge she’d never heard before.

“I didn’t know I was playing.”

His growl was the only warning she had of his impending impact. Taking a bracing step back, she tightened her hold on his wrist just as his lips crashed down on hers. With no prelude, his tongue invaded her mouth, and the hand cradling her face slid through her hair to the back of her head where he fisted it, tilting her head. Her hand found his back and his muscles flexed and rippled under skin that was smooth and warm to the touch.

His other hand grabbed her waist, and she let go of his wrist to clutch his shoulder, the width so wide, she could barely get her hand around it.

His hand didn’t stay planted on her waist long. It roamed up her ribcage stopping only when it landed on her breast, where it squeezed.

Her back hit the wall, her head protected from the same impact by his hand. He dipped his body lower, never losing contact with her mouth, his fingers playing with her nipple through the layers of fabric that made up her t-shirt and bra.

She moaned, and he swallowed the sound, replying with a groan that she readily consumed.

The smoky scent that clung to him ratcheted up her need to get closer, reminding her she was fortunate he was standing before her. Fear and desire mingled, creating a frenzy of emotions that had her clawing at his skin. She wrapped a leg around his waist, drawing him in closer.

She lost his mouth then as he surged against her, her cheek landing solidly on his chest. He ground himself into her, and she whimpered as her pleasure built.

“Fuck. You’re gonna make me come.” His words echoed through the bathroom.

She was close, too, and desperately gripped at his shoulder and back when she felt him try to pull away. Thrusting her pelvis forward, she rubbed herself along his length until, with an uncontrollable shudder, an orgasm rippled through her.

Barely able to breathe—and not caring one bit—she panted into his chest as Marco stilled against her, his hot breaths hitting the top of her head.

He kissed her temple, stepping back, and her leg fell to the floor but was totally useless in supporting her.

“Shit. I didn’t mean for that to happen.” He was out of breath, too.

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