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He stands in front of me again, and I stare into his arctic night eyes as he unzips my dress, pushing it away.

He cups my chin and brings his face so close to mine that I can feel his warm breath on my cheek. “How bad do you want this, dove?”

I don’t speak.

The silence says enough.

I’m too overstimulated to form a coherent thought.

Once I’m naked, he steps back, assessing me with his lips quirked.

“Don’t go speechless on me. How bad, Sylvie?”

“I’ve wanted you for days,” I blurt out. “Maybe longer. Luca, don’t make me beg.”

With another smirk, he drops to the floor.

He sets me back at the edge of the bed and lifts my feet like I’m a princess with this strange tenderness.

Another contrast that will screw with my head.

I still can’t believe this is happening.

We don’t even know each other that well.

But how long did I touch myself last night, thinking about this?

And I knew then my own fingers weren’t enough.

Now that my body knows what his tongue feels like, there’s no going back.

He hoists me up and goes on the attack.

His lips blaze a trail over the swell of each breast, along my collarbone, down, down, down to my stomach again.

He stops just below my navel and kisses the softest part of my belly, growling as he inhales my scent.

I bury my fingers in his hair, desperate to hold on, if only to calm my heavy breathing.

But he’s a born master.

His hands trace every burning inch of me he can reach.

My blood runs hotter every second.

Not enough, not enough, he’s making you beg without uttering one word.

I hate it, but I love it.

He’s too good at tormenting me. His fingers skim down my back and he kneads my ass, but he just won’t push his rough fingers between my legs.

He won’t go where I need him the most.

It doesn’t take long before I whimper.

I can feel the heavy wetness between my thighs, the tension, and my skin feels so sensitive I think I’ll collapse from a butterfly’s touch.

Every slow, all-consuming sensation makes me putty in his very capable hands.