Page 42 of Bad Men's Good Girl

I pull her down onto the stone bench tucked into the terrace corner, half-buried under a curtain of ivy and wild jasmine. The moment her back meets the damp stone, I’m already pressing into her, mouth claiming hers with a hunger that surprises even me. She makes a sound low in her throat—part gasp, partsurrender—and grips the front of my shirt, knuckles brushing my collarbones.

The taste of her is salt and espresso from the café earlier, from the long day, from Italy itself. My hands frame her face, thumbs tracing her cheeks, and then one slides down her throat, feeling the racing pulse beneath her skin.

"This wasn't part of the itinerary," she murmurs against my lips, but her fingers are already working the buttons of my shirt, impatient.

"The itinerary was a lie,” I growl, kissing her again, deeper this time.

A laugh shivers through her as my mouth finds the delicate spot beneath her ear. "That sounds like a headline.Travel Journalist Admits to Fabricating Plans?—"

I cut her off with another kiss. "You're ruining the mood with your professionalism."

Her hands slide under my open shirt, nails dragging lightly over my ribs. "I don’t think anything’s ruined." She arches into me as my lips trail lower, skimming her collarbones, the freckled dip between them. The sweet scent of her hair—sun-warm linen and coastal wind—fills my lungs like oxygen.

The ancient bench seems to groan beneath us, moss crumbling under my fingers where they dig into the stone for balance. I should slow down. Be careful. But her breath is uneven, her hips pressing against mine with intent, and I’ve spent too much time watching her from behind a lens, pretending I wasn’t starving for this.

Her fingers fist in my hair as I kiss the hollow of her throat. "Atticus—" my name fractures on her lips, half warning, half plea.

The night hums around us—waves against rock, cicadas in the vines—but all I hear is her.

Her skirt—some thin, flowy thing that’s been teasing me all evening—rides up over her thighs as I drag her onto my lap, the delicate fabric crumpling in my fists like tissue paper. The warm weight of her settles against me, andChrist, the heat of her even through our clothes is maddening. She’s already shifting, restless, her breath coming in shallow little gasps against my neck. I can feel how wet she is, the dampness seeping through her underwear as she arches into my touch with this needy little roll of her hips—like she’s been waiting for this all night, maybe longer. My fingers skim higher, tracing the lace edge of her panties, and she whimpers before I’ve even properly touched her.

“Jesus—” The word shudders out of her, half-strangled, as I slide two fingers deep inside her, curling them just right against that sweet spot that makes her back arch. She’s so tight, so impossibly slick, her body clenching around me with every shallow thrust of my hand. The heel of my palm presses firm against her clit, circling in slow, deliberate strokes, and her hips jerk up desperately, chasing the friction like she’s starving for it.

“Almost there, aren’t you?” My voice is rough, barely more than a growl against the shell of her ear, my teeth grazing the sensitive lobe just to feel the way she trembles. She shudders, thighs clamping around my wrist like a vise, her breath coming in ragged little gasps. I can feel it—the way her body tenses, muscles tightening, her pulse fluttering wildly beneath my touch. She’s right there, teetering on the edge, and for a second, I let her hover there, suspended in that breathless moment before release.

Then, just to watch her unravel, I slow my fingers, easing back just enough to deny her.

The sound she makes—a broken, frustrated whimper—sends a sharp thrill through me. Her nails dig into my shoulders, her entire body trembling with the effort of holding back.

“You’reevil—” she gasps, voice wrecked, and I can’t help but grin against her skin, drunk on the way she falls apart for me.

The sound of my laughter starts deep in my chest, gritty and raw, but it dies the second her fingers find my belt—clumsy, impatient—her touch scorching through the fabric. My breath catches when the buckle finally releases, the metallic click loud between us, followed by the rough glide of the zipper. Then there's only her, only this—her warm palm curving around me, fingers tightening experimentally, her thumb dragging across the sensitive head just to feel the way my cock jerks in response.

"Fuck, Leigh—" My voice is wrecked already, strained with the effort of keeping control when every stroke of her hand sends fire licking up my spine.

She smirks against my lips, close enough that I taste her breath when she murmurs, "Good," like shewantsme unraveled.

Her grip shifts, firmer now, her strokes turning ruthless, almost too much—every pull threatening to push me over the edge. I groan, fingers digging into the soft earth beneath me, when suddenly she moves, thighs bracketing my hips, her body lifting just enough that the head of my cock catches against her heat. AndChrist, the slide is torturous, maddening—so close to being inside her that I nearly beg. My hands clamp down hard on her waist, possessive, desperate, knowing I’ll leave bruises in the shape of my fingertips and not caring. Not when she gasps likethat, like she feels it too. Like she wants me to.

“Baleigh—”

She sinks down onto me in one slow, torturous slide, her body opening inch by excruciating inch until I'm buried deep inside her. The breath stutters out of her in sharp little gasps—half-pleasure, half-shock—as she adjusts to the stretch, her nails biting into my shoulders for balance. The warm velvet clutch of her around me is almost too much, the heat of heralmost unbearable, and my head falls back hard against the sun-warmed stone behind us. The rough ivy scratches at my bare neck, but I barely feel it—nothing exists beyond the perfect way she surrounds me, beyond the tiny shudders running through her as she finally settles fully against my hips.

"God, you feel?—"

She doesn't let me finish. Already she's moving, rolling her hips in a slow, testing grind that makes my vision blur. Her blonde hair catches the light as she tips her head back, lips parted around a breathy moan, fingers flexing against my skin. The deliberate way she rides me is devastating—like she's memorizing every angle, every point of contact, savoring the way our bodies fit together before giving in to hunger.

Then her rhythm changes.

She braces her hands against my chest and lifts herself, only to drop back down harder, faster, her thighs flexing with the effort. The soft sounds she made earlier sharpen into breathless cries, each one echoing off the ancient stone around us. I thrust up to meet her, our bodies finding an unspoken sync, hands roving desperately—her waist, the full weight of her breasts, the delicate curve of her throat where I press my mouth.

When my teeth graze her pulse point, she arches into me with a broken moan, her fingers tangling roughly in my hair. She pulls just hard enough to draw a hiss from me, nails scraping against my scalp. Through half-lidded eyes, I watch the way her lips part around each gasped breath, the flush creeping down her chest.

"That's it," I growl, my voice rough and shredded from restraint, hands tightening possessively on the curve of her hips to guide her movements. The way she responds—immediately, instinctively—sends a fresh wave of heat through me. Her rhythm turns desperate, her body moving against mine with ahunger that matches my own. "Just like that, Leigh. Don't hold back."

I canfeelhow close she is—the way her breath hitches against my lips, the way her thighs tremble with effort, the way she clenches around me with every roll of her hips. My fingers slide between us, finding her slick and swollen, and when I circle her clit with just the right pressure, sheshudders, her rhythm stuttering as pleasure rips through her.

"Atticus—fuck—" Her voice breaks on my name, her fingers digging into my shoulders hard enough to leave marks.