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Marco doesn’t lie.
Oh sure, he withholds information. He uses his considerable intellect to his advantage.
But I’ve never heard him tell an outright lie…
Not like I did.
I shake off the thought. I didn’t lie to Marco; I didn’t tell him who I was. It wasn’t relevant until it was.
His teeth bite lightly on the underside of my breast, shocking me back into the moment. I moan, my fingers scraping along the back of his neck and his well-trimmed hair.
“The things you do to me,” he rumbles.
He has absolutely no idea.
“I want more. Please,” I whisper. I don’t even care that I’m begging.
It feels safe to beg him because I know he’ll give me exactly what I want.
Marco grunts, picking me up again, spinning me over to the worn leather couch. It’s warm now, from the fire that he lit before he went to shower. My back sticks slightly to the leather, but Marco’s hands on my hips distract me. He tugs my pants down, leaving me bare to the fire.
And to him.
It’s so much like that time at the cottage…
The night that he found out about me.
I shudder. I don’t want history to repeat itself, but I’m not sure at this point what Marco knows and doesn’t know about me.
And I don’t want to ruin this moment. Not when I want it so badly.
Not when I need him like I need my next breath.
Marco’s eyes are so dark, they look black. I can see the fire reflected there, and when he looks at me, with the flickering light caressing his skin, he looks like some kind of primal god.
Like something from a fairy tale.
“I’m going to taste you,” he rumbles. One of his big hands slides up my leg, pushing it to the side, opening me to him.
I throw my head back, arching my chest up. He groans, and one hand presses against my hip, pinning me to the couch.
I’m halfway to telling him that he’s being bossy and arrogant and that I need him to hurry up when he takes one long lick at my center.
All the words fly from my mind after that.
There’s nothing left to do exceptfeel.Every sensation feels like a revelation. I somehow notice everything… the way Marco plays with the center of my pleasure. The grip of his hands on my thighs. The way one of his hands slowly escapes and moves up to grab my breast, as though it has a mind of its own.
The way his tongue spears inside me, then retreats.
The way he consumes me like a starving man, and I can do nothing but hold on.
“God, Roisin. Your taste. It’s everything I’ve ever fucking wanted,” he groans.
I should probably warn him that I’ve never actually come before like this. I’d also like the chance to taste him as well, while we’re on the subject…
I wiggle a little, trying to escape his grasp, but his hands push down on me hard enough that I crack an eye open to look at him.
The look he gives me is wicked. There’s no other word to describe it.