Page 87 of Dangerous King
I take him up on it because, at this moment, no matter how hard my heart is pounding, how badly my knees are shaking, wrapped in his arms, I finally belong to myself, too.
The elevator doors never closed, like they're used to guests staying inside for longer than it takes to get out. Or they're motion-activated—I wouldn't disregard that notion. The hallway we enter is dim, the lighting soft and golden, as if it were designed to quiet the world outside. At the end of the corridor, a single door is waiting for us.
He slides a keycard through the lock and opens it for me. I wonder when he got it from the staff, or if this was part of his plan the whole time. Either way, it doesn't matter; I'm here.
The suite is breathtaking, with floor-to-ceiling windows revealing a glowing city skyline, flickering candles already lit on the low table near the fireplace, and a massive bed in the center, draped in dark linens that look impossibly soft. But none of that holds my attention. Only him.
He closes the door behind us, then turns slowly, his jacket already sliding from his broad, muscular shoulders. His frame is a testament to strength; every inch of him is taut and defined, a stark contrast to my own delicate form. The tension in the room coils tighter. My heart thrums so loudly I swear he must hear it.
Enrico watches me like I'm the most fragile and precious thing in the world. "You don't even know what you're giving me, Piccolina. But I'll take it, and I swear I'll treat it like the treasure it is."
I take a step forward, reaching for him. "It's yours."
That's all it takes. In a breath, he's in front of me. His hands, strong and chiseled, cup my face, then slide down my sides, slow and reverent, like he's committing every inch to memory. His lips find mine again, but this time his kiss is slower, much deeper. The way he kisses me makes me feel like a goddess.
The straps of my dress slip from my shoulders, and a tremor moves through me from the look in his eyes when the fabric pools at my feet. His gaze, intense and smoldering, traces over every curve. I should feel self-conscious, the way I'm standing in nothing but my underwear in front of him, but all I feel is his hot gaze taking me in, burning my skin.
"Beautiful," he murmurs. Slowly, his hand moves to the fastenings of my bra, and my breath hitches when the side of his hand moves over the swell of my breast. He hesitates, then pulls his hand back, tracing his long, strong fingers languidly over the top of my bra, where my flesh spills over.
"So soft," he rasps, sending more shivers of electricity down my spine.
He leans around me. The snap of the fastener is loud in the silence of the room. The only other noise comes from both our deep breaths. He glides the bra off me, stands back, and looks at me with so much passion in his black eyes, I worry I'm going to melt under his gaze.
"You are fucking perfect," his voice is deep, nearly guttural, as if he can hardly believe his eyes.
I pull my lower lip between my teeth while I fidget on my feet.
"No," he demands, "stand still, let me take you in."
My heart is pounding inside my chest, Dio mio, why is this room so hot? And what is this wetness gathering between my legs? It only takes me a second to realize that the liquid building in me is arousal, my body's response to him. This is what it means when the books sayher juices flowed. I've read those words so many times, without ever realizing what they really meant, how, in addition to getting soaked, it means an ache is forming so deep in my core that my toes curl.
Both of his hands move up to cup my breasts, and my breath gets stuck in my throat. His touch is the most incredible feeling I've ever experienced. His fingers rub over one of my nipples, and the stuck breath moves out, accompanied by a deep moan.
He chuckles, "I love how responsive you are."
He leans forward, his mouth only inches from the skin on my throat, while his hands continue to knead my breasts, only stopping to toy with my stiff nipples. One hand lets go, moves down my flank, around the curve of my hip, and then between my legs, pushing them unapologetically apart.
My knees nearly buckle the moment his hand makes contact with my pussy. Memories of the lake come back, and my insides begin to hum with anticipation.
"Are you this wet for me?"
Again, I should be mortified by what he's doing and saying, but I'm not. "Yes," I answer hoarsely.
"Good girl," he praises, and those words rush through me like heated currents, setting all my nerve endings on edge.
The fingers of the hand on my breast gently squeeze my nipple, and in response, more fluid drenches me. He lowers himself down, shimmying my panties down my legs, lifting first one still high-heeled foot, then the other. He kneels there, staring up at me, bringing my panties to his nose. I should be dying, instead, the moment he inhales my scent, his expression changes like he just inhaled the world's most precious fragrance. I stretch out a hand to steady myself on his shoulder and watch him put my panties into his pocket.
He doesn't just rise; he swoops me up like I weigh nothing and carries me to the waiting bed. There he deposits me on the comforter, going back down on his knees and freeing first one foot, then the other, from my heels. His hands move up my calves.
"Fuck, they're soft and shaped like something from a masterpiece. No artist could ever do them justice," he mumbles.
His voice, the feel of his hands on my flesh, his hot breath caressing me, all of it makes my eyes flutter. I lean back on the duvet on my elbows, unable to keep in a sitting position. He moves between my legs.
"I'll make you scream my name," he promises. A promise I wholeheartedly believe. Already, I feel like screaming his name.
Then his lips are on the inside of my thighs, moving up, and the ache inside me grows, demanding something I have no name for. Not yet.
"Enrico," I plead, not having the faintest idea what I'm pleading for.
