Page 57 of Where Wild Hearts Dance
I remember the other breast and continue to massage the right as I transfer my mouth to the left. Her moans sail into the trees, getting louder and more frustrated. Her soft skin feels like butter, melting beneath my fingers and lips.
“Please Bernadi…” she whispers. “I need?—”
I smile around her nipple. “What do you need, Contessa?”
“I need to come.”
“You want me toletyou come?”
“Yes,” she whimpers. “Please...”
“You come. I win,” I growl, gently.
“I don’t care,” she pants. “Just please finish me.”
“Do you still hate me?”
She bends her neck to glare at me. “With every fiber of my being.”
“Good.” I smile and dip my face back between her legs, then I hold her down and fuck her pussy until she can’t convulse anymore.
Contessa
I come around to the heat of the sun on the side of my face and the feel of someone’s fingers teasing my hair behind my ear. I open my eyes and see Benito Bernadi hovering over me with a look of concern on his face.
“Still alive then.” His furrowed brow doesn’t ease up.
“I’m sure you can do many things Bernadi, but don’t add ‘death by orgasm’ to your repertoire just yet.” I push myself up to my elbows and note that at least he had the decency to close my legs.
“Damn.” His lips break a smile and he holds out my two-piece and skirt.
I slowly sit up and slide off the hood of the car. Bernadi turns away while I dress, which seems a little counterintuitive now I have no modestyleft to protect.
“Done,” I say in a slightly shy voice. I avert my gaze as he turns back around. Setting eyes on him, even after what we just did, makes me feel weak.
Though I’m not looking directly at him, I know his feet are braced on the sand but his stance is relaxed. I know his jacket was discarded long ago and his sleeves rolled up before he opened my legs. I know his hair is mussed up from where I grabbed at it.
“You ready to go home now?”
And I know his voice has never sounded so soft.
I nod because I don’t feel confident enough to open my mouth.
He tips his head toward my car. “Let’s go.”
I buckle myself into the passenger seat and lift the towel-wrapped jewelry box onto my lap, then fix my gaze straight ahead as we drive back along the freeway. Every now and then, I can’t help my gaze from drifting to the side. The muscles beneath his forearm dance each time he turns the wheel and his thumb taps against it to a beat I can’t hear. On anyone else it would look like a nervous tic, but I’m pretty certain Benito Bernadi doesn’t do nerves.
My gaze slides upward and I get a glimpse of inked chest through the button holes of his shirt. Up some more and I take in his jawline. It’s so angled and precise, jutting occasionally as his thumb taps the wheel. I can’t see his scar from this side but the rest of his face is untouched and frighteningly beautiful. His eyes glisten bronze beneath unreasonably perfect, thicklashes and his dark hair cut close to the nape, longer on top, gives him a tense, controlling edge.
“What is that?” His voice makes me startle.
I follow his brief glance to the bundle on my knees and I carefully unwrap the towel. Once free, I lift up the box and inspect it from every angle, hoping it didn’t acquire any bumps when I hit the brakes earlier.
“It’s a jewelry box.”
“It looks special,” he says, glancing at it again before focusing his gaze back on the road.
“It is. It belonged to my mother. I always wanted it, but I never told her and she gave it to Trilby.”
