Page 132 of Lorenzo

Mocha is sitting up on his bed, glaring at Lorenzo.

"Mocha, go lie down," I manage to say.

Lorenzo chuckles. "He's protective."

"He can be protective somewhere else."

Mocha gives a huff of displeasure but gets up and pads out of the kitchen.

I'm vaguely aware of him leaving, but my attention is on Lorenzo and the delicious things he's doing with his fingers.

He's toying with me, swirling his fingers around my clit without giving me the friction I need.

"Lorenzo," I groan.

"Tell me what you want, Donatella," he commands.

"No one calls me that," I say breathlessly.

"Why not? It's beautiful," he murmurs, sliding one long finger inside me.

My fingers dig into his shoulders.

"Because..."

I can't think. I can't speak.

I can only feel.

"Because?" he prompts, adding a second finger.

"Because I don't like it," I gasp, rocking against him. "I've never liked it."

Although I can't think why right at the moment. In fact, it sounds pretty damn good coming out of his mouth. His lips. His tongue.

"Do you want me to stop?" he asks softly.

I drop my head back. "God, no. Don't stop," I moan.

"Don't stop calling you Donatella, or don't stop fucking you with my fingers? Because I'd really rather continue both."

I'm going to die. Right here in my fucking kitchen. I'm simply going to die.

"Both. Neither. Both," I pant, because I've lost the ability to form a coherent sentence.

He chuckles, the vibrations against my throat arrowing straight to my clit.

"Your wish is my command, Donatella."

His thumb finds my clit again, and he circles it in a perfect rhythm while he continues to pump his fingers in and out of me.

It's too much. Not enough.

I'm hovering on the edge, but he's not letting me fall.

My hands slide up his chest and into his hair, holding him to me.

"Lorenzo," I sob.