Page 10 of Carnival Fever

“It is the way,” Alessio murmurs back. “I told you Nadur would be madness. And after tonight, there will be no sausages until Easter.”

It’s barbaric, and primal, and very, very simple in my heart.

I do not want to leave this place. I do not want to leave this man.

I put my face next to his and kiss him, and then I whisper in his ear. “I want you. I want to take all your clothes off. I want to take you into my mouth, and I want to feel your fingers between my thighs, and I want you.”

“You want me, hmm?” he whispers back, and I can hear both amusement and lust in his voice.

“I want to fuck you, Alessio.”

His hands tighten on me, and then he’s drawing me away from the edge of the street, back toward one of the taverns with chairs on their patio areas. He buys us another refill of wine, and sits in one of the few available seats, pulling me onto his lap. He moves the cloak so that it covers my front; covers the way that he slips his hand between my knees and up my thigh, past my stocking, up to my loose satin undies, under them, over my drenched folds. He mutters something in Maltese, his other hand holding me tighter, and then he nips at my neck with lips, then teeth. Gently, but enough to make me gasp. Then one finger thrusts into me, not gently, and I gasp louder.

“Shh,” he says into my ear. “We may get away with this, but not if you make a fuss.” His finger begins to slide in and out of me, and another joins it, and I nearly die.

I am being finger-fucked in public, I think. And I love it.

He settles me more firmly on his lap, and I can feel the bulge of his own arousal against my ass. I didn’t think it was possible to be more turned on, but holy shit, I am already close to coming. His thumb moves across my clit, and I catch my breath, hearing his tiny chuckle against my ear.

“You like that.” His voice is low, darkly triumphant.

“I do,” I whisper.

His thumb rubs my little button, and his two fingers thrust slowly inside me, and there are gorgeous colors and frightening walking skeletons on the street, and people laughing nearby, and the taste of wine in my own mouth, and I lock my jaw on the groan of pleasure that wants to burst out of my mouth.

“So close,” he says, and drags his thumb firmly but slowly, and I fall apart. I turn my head to him for a kiss, and our tongues touch as my inner walls clutch and flutter around his fingers.

I rest my fact against his neck while I come down; he leaves his hand where it is until I shift. “It’s not enough,” I whisper to him. “I need you.”

“Come,” he says, and moves his hand down my leg, caressing, until I can stand. He never stops touching me, but he pulls me down a side street and then another one, the illumination from the town square fading as we go into an area that seems deserted. “Here,” he says.

I look into his eyes. There is enough light that I can see them glitter. “Here,” I echo.

“Are you sure?” he asks, his voice low and rough.

“I might die if we don’t,” I confess.

He is not gentle when he kisses me; his mouth is hungry and I can feel a fine tremor in his chest pressed against mine. His hands are possessive on my ass, pulling me hard against him.

“Please,” I say.

For answer, he spins me around to face the stone wall of the building, and lifts my skirt from behind. I hear his zipper lowered. The openings of my tap pants are wide enough that he can pull the crotch to the side, and he says something else in Maltese, all dark and needy and arousing, and then he’s on me. In me, filling me, fast and hungry, and he feels so good.

“I love you, Maren.”

I can’t stop saying his name, feeling my own excitement rising to fever heat. “I love you, Alessio.” I’m close to climax again, and then his teeth are nipping at my neck again, still dark and needy, and I am so close.

“Stay,” he says against my ear. “Stay, Maren. Please. Stay.”

I fall apart again, my body milking his as he fills me with spurts of wet heat. Tears are in my eyes. I rest my hot face against the cold stone and try not to think about leaving.

“Stay,” he says one more time. Kisses my cheek, my neck, my temple, before withdrawing and tugging my dress down and adjusting his own clothes. I stay leaning against the cool wall. He folds his arms around me, and I can feel his heart beating hard.

“I can’t,” I whisper.

He doesn’t say anything, but his chest moves—like I’ve hit him.

“I can come back after the semester ends,” I say, and my voice sounds like I’m pleading. Or does it sound like I’m making excuses because I’m scared?

Because I am absolutely terrified.

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