Page 92 of Falling for Mr. October

“Madonn’,” I say in ecstasy.

“Why do you swear in Italian?” she asks, as she leans in and kisses my bare chest, the shirt bunched up along my neckline.

“My nonno taught us. He said it was the only way Nonna wouldn’t mind if we got fresh with them.”

I feel her mouth curve as she smiles against me, and then she’s pushing the shirt further up, and I help her by tugging it off the rest of the way.

“And the sweet nothings?” she says, cocking her head, her hair spilling out of the messy bun.

I brush a lock of it aside and lean in to kiss her—a brush of the lips, a preview of what’s to come. “What do you think?”

Her expression is full of sweet mirth as she says, “I think you and your brothers taught them to yourselves so you could pick up women more easily.”

I shrug my shoulder. “That might be. Is it working for you, tesoro mia?”

She reaches for the band of my sweatpants, then pushes them down, freeing my cock, which is aching for her. I step out of the pants and shove them aside.

“What do you think?” she parrots back to me.

“I’m fluent in Italian, bella. Like I said, my nonna raised us. She spoke mostly in Italian with my nonno and my father. All of us kids decided to learn it so we’d know what they were saying. I’ll speak as much of it to you as you like.”

She wraps her hand around me, making me moan. “Nope, nuh-uh. You’re irresistible enough, thank you very much.”

“You have me at your mercy.”

“I think you’ll find me very merciful today.” A mischievous look crosses her face. “Get down. We’re going to try it.”

“The sit-ups?” I ask, my smile slowly widening until I’m grinning like a pazzo.

No woman has ever made me feel this way before.

No one has ever made me feel like this…

It’s as if all the worries from the day have been stripped away. I don’t care anymore that thousands of people who never met me are discussing my private business and making up stories about me. I don’t care that Emily’s book is lying unread beside my bed, or that important emails are sitting unanswered in my inbox. All I care about is that Bianca wants me.

“The sit-ups.” She pads over to her dresser, still the same old, warped wood as when we were kids, and removes a condom from the top drawer, which is a mindfuck if anything is. I had no clue the day I so inexpertly kissed her that I’d fuck her one day. That I’d be so crazy for her. That I’d find myself⁠—

No, that’s not something I can think about now. She’s made it clear what she wants from me, and I’m going to give it to her.

“Is that for me?” I ask as she walks over, swinging her hips, looking every bit like a sex goddess.

She raises her eyebrows and opens the packet, then removes the condom and rolls it onto me—the feeling of her hot fingers fluttering across the head of my cock enough to make it throb with need.

“Does that answer your question?” she asks.

I slide a hand up her throat—not forcefully enough to hurt her, but enough to put that brazen, excited glimmer back in her eyes as I tip her face up to me. Her big, dark eyes hold mine, her lips parted in anticipation.

“Ragazza cativa.” I say close to her lips, nearly making the words part of a kiss.

A smile tips up her lips. “Yes?”

“You’re a very naughty girl, Bianca.”

She leans up and captures my bottom lip in her teeth, nipping it.

Fuuuuuuck.

“Now get down and give me twenty,” she says.