Page 45 of Sacred Hearts

“What are you saying?”

“I want everything with you, Matteo. I’m just… inexperienced.”

His smile is gentle. “Then let me guide you.”

He leads me toward the bedroom, and any lingering doubts I might have had dissolve in the certainty that this—us—is blessed rather than forbidden.

His hands are gentle as they help me out of my clothes, each button undone with careful reverence. When my cassock finally falls away, I feel momentarily vulnerable under his gaze—no one has seen me this way before. His eyes travel slowly over my exposed skin, appreciation warming his expression.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers, and I feel a flush spread from my chest to my face.

My own fingers tremble as I reach for his shirt buttons, clumsy withinexperience. He covers my hands with his own, guiding me through each movement. The fabric parts to reveal tanned skin and the defined muscles of his chest, dusted with dark hair. I hesitate before touching him, overcome by the reality of this moment.

“It’s okay,” he encourages softly. “You can touch me. I want to feel you on my skin.”

When my palm finally meets the warm skin of his chest, I feel his heartbeat racing beneath my fingers—as rapid as my own. I explore him with tentative touches, marvelling at the differences between us—the breadth of his shoulders, the firmness of his abdomen, the trail of dark hair that disappears temptingly beneath his waistband.

He helps me with the rest of his clothes, and I gasp involuntarily when his underwear slides down his muscular thighs. His body is magnificent—lean and powerful, his arousal evident and intimidating to my inexperienced eyes. He notices my stare and smiles, not with arrogance but with gentle reassurance.

“You can touch me,” he whispers.

My hand reaches out, hesitant at first, then wraps around him. He’s velvet-smooth and hard as marble, pulsing with heat beneath my fingers. A groan escapes him as I explore this new territory, his eyes fluttering closed momentarily before he draws me toward the bed.

The first contact of our fully naked bodies is electric—his hot skin pressing against mine from chest to thigh. He lowers me onto the mattress, his weight settling partially on me, one thigh sliding between mine. The pressure against my own arousal makes me cry out, my body responding with an urgency that surprises us both.

“Easy,” he murmurs, kissing my neck. “We have time.”

His body is a revelation above me—broad shoulders tapering to narrow hips, muscles shifting visibly beneath olive skin as he moves. The dark trail of hair that runs down his abdomen tickles against my stomach, and lower still, his hardness presses insistently against mythigh, leaving a slick trace of moisture on my skin.

I run my palms over his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heart, the coarse hair there tickling my palms. When my fingers brush accidentally across his nipple, he makes a sound deep in his throat that emboldens me to do it again, deliberately this time.

“God, Marco,” he groans, dropping his forehead against mine.

His mouth claims mine in a kiss that’s deeper, hungrier than before. His tongue explores me thoroughly, tasting of mint and desire. I match his intensity, surprised by my own boldness as I arch up against him, seeking more friction where our bodies press together most intimately.

He shifts to kiss my neck, finding a spot just below my ear that sends sparks shooting down my spine. I gasp his name as he works his way lower, his lips and tongue mapping my collarbone, my chest, pausing to lavish attention on my nipples until I’m writhing beneath him.

“I want to taste all of you,” he murmurs against my ribs, and continues his downward journey.

My breath catches as his mouth moves over my stomach, his hands gripping my hips firmly. When he reaches the juncture of my thighs, he looks up, seeking permission. I can only nod, beyond words now.

The first touch of his mouth on me is so intense I nearly come off the bed. My fingers clutch at the sheets, then at his hair as he takes me fully into the wet heat of his mouth. The sight of him between my legs, his dark head moving rhythmically as he pleasures me, is almost as overwhelming as the physical sensation.

“Matteo—I can’t—” I gasp, feeling something building inside me, a pressure so exquisite it borders on pain.

He pulls back, replacing his mouth with his hand, stroking me firmly as he reaches for something in his discarded clothes. It’s a small bottle of lubricant, I realize, as he warms the clear liquid between his fingers.

“This might feel strange at first,” he warns, positioning himselfbetween my spread thighs. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”

The first press of his slick finger against me is foreign, intrusive. I tense involuntarily, but his other hand continues its rhythmic stroking, distracting me from the discomfort. Gradually, my body yields to him. When he crooks his finger slightly, he touches something inside me that sends a jolt of pleasure so intense I cry out his name.

“There,” he murmurs, satisfied, and adds a second finger, stretching me carefully.

By the time he’s worked three fingers into me, I’m pushing back against his hand, desperate for more. Sweat gleams on both our bodies, my chest heaving with each laboured breath.

“Please,” I beg, beyond pride or hesitation now. “I need you.”

He withdraws his fingers and positions himself above me, his arms braced on either side of my head. I feel him pressing against me, much larger than his fingers were.

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