Page 45

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

NICO

H e inched forward, and placed his lips on hers.

It felt as though that Ducati was still humming between her thighs.

She could feel his hard chest, his torso, those thighs—even the damp of him that was wafting from his flesh beneath the racing suit.

His hot, urgent breath entered her, hers entered him, until she couldn’t tell where hers ended and his began.

She gripped his head, pulling him in deeper.

She made a move to turn and put his back up against the tree.

But he stood fixed, just like the tree behind her as though he had roots planted deep into the earth too.

He pulled away, grabbed her wrists, and pushed her hands down beside her, holding her palms against the rough tree bark.

She thought of that kiss outside Drink and Dive.

There was no question in his eyes like there had been that night. And she suddenly wondered what her eyes looked like to him. He looked as though he knew something, and she couldn’t escape the uncomfortable feeling that he could read her thoughts, that he was doing so …

Right. Now.

The bark of the tree was rough. His hands held her wrists so firmly, she couldn’t move them. It should hurt , she kept thinking, but it doesn’t .

He let go and placed one finger on her lower lip.

That finger drifted, gliding down the base of her throat, stopping when it reached the zipper of the racing suit. He’d kept his eyes on hers until he reached that point. But now he stared at the spot where his finger had landed, and he followed that finger as the zipper slid south.

“This suit doesn’t fit properly,” he muttered in a voice that managed to hum between her legs as though he’d placed his mouth there.

“It’s too small. Here,” he said, cupping her breasts, brushing his thumb across her rigid nipples. “And”—he gripped her hips with such force she rocked forward—“here.”

He grabbed the tab and pulled the zipper down to her navel as far as it would go.

She opened her mouth, but he swallowed her words, placing his mouth upon hers.

This time, the kiss—deeper and more urgent.

He held his hands on either side of her throat, and her body went liquid and limp.

When he pulled away, there was a moment she thought she might crumple to the ground like tissue paper.

Before she realized it, the racing suit lay in a pool around her ankles, and he had his hands on the button of her jeans.

She made a move to unzip his racing suit. But he stopped her.

She was puzzled. “Don’t you?”

“Don’t I what?”

“Don’t you want—”

“What I want, Nico, is for you to stop moving your fucking hands and getting in my way. If you must do something to occupy them, here.” He placed one hand on his erection. “That’s nice,” he said, still working on the button. “Why do they make these things so fucking difficult?”

Her hand slid up and down the length of him.

He glanced up, gazed into her eyes, and leaned his torso into hers.

Underneath the thick racing suit, which he was wearing over jeans, she could still feel him. And then she had a sudden thought as he struggled with that button.

“Wait! Your father and grandfather …”

His eyes opened wide in mock horror. “Nico?! How can you think of my papa and nonno when your hand is on my cock?”

She blushed. Her mouth opened to say something. But no words came. What could she say?

The button of her jeans sprung loose.

Her hands flew on top of his. “Where are they? Will they?”

He shoved her hands aside. “No, they won’t.”

He leaned into her. She felt him. All of him.

Down went the zipper.

A cool breeze lay a trail of goosebumps on her thighs as he slid the jeans down her legs until they circled her ankles along with the racing suit.

He unbuckled one boot, took it off, and tossed it aside, not bothering with the other one. He lifted her foot, and foot and ankle sprung loose from suit and jeans.

As he rose, she felt his hands glide up her body followed by his hot breath until he was gazing back at her, his hands resting on her hips.

Her breath caught as one of his thumbs slipped under the elastic of her panties. He kept his eyes fixed on hers as he brushed her hip with it—back and forth.

“Are—you—sure?” Her words were forced between gasps of her faltering breath.

“Yes, I’m sure,” he said as that thumb continued to move methodically, matching the beating of her heart. “You don’t have to worry, Nico. But if you want to leave, we’ll leave.” He paused. “Do you want to leave?” he asked, his voice deep like the low throttle of a powerful engine.

The thumb stopped and he slid that hand under her panties and between her thighs. One finger slid along the slick lips of her vagina.

He grinned. “I’ll take that as a no.”

His finger slipped inside her.

He placed the elbow of his other arm up against the tree and leaned into it, hanging his head. She shivered as strands of his hair and his hot breath grazed her shoulder.

“Fuck,” he muttered.

He’d said it so quietly, she thought maybe he didn’t want her to hear him. She wasn’t even certain she had heard him. Maybe it was her who had muttered.

His breathing began to mirror hers—heavy and labored, coming and going in deeper waves as though there wasn’t enough oxygen to satisfy his lungs. She felt there might not be enough to satisfy hers. She could hear it but feel it too as his chest moved against her own.

“Fu—uuu—ck,” he groaned. This time, more a guttural sound than an actual articulated word.

Her breath stuttered as she swelled and throbbed beneath his finger sliding …

Back and forth.

In and out.

“You must really like having my Ducati between your thighs,” he murmured in her ear, his head still hanging to the side so that she couldn’t see his face. He plunged his finger inside. “Damn,” he whispered hoarsely, “I bet you taste good, Nico.”

She trembled as she felt herself clench his finger.

She reached for his shoulders to steady herself, but just as she did, he began to lower himself and his finger slipped out. Now that heavy wet between her thighs began to throb.

She was going to fall. “I’m going to—”

“No, you’re not,” he said. “I’ve got you.”

“What, what are you doing?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” he said as he slid her panties down her thighs and sprung one ankle free.

He didn’t need to ask. She opened her legs, and he placed his mouth there.

He made a groaning, guttural sound. When he spoke, his words with his breath vibrated, hummed, and then sank deep inside her.

“Damn, Nico, you taste like butterscotch,” he said as he ran his tongue up and down.

Those words vibrated and sparked every cell from the top of her head to the ends of her toes so that every inch of her was humming. Her insides clenched. Her legs quivered. Her entire body began to shake so violently, there was no way he could hold her now.

But he did.

And his words, with his breath, with his mouth, with his tongue—entered her.

“You’ve made a great first impression, Nico. If they show up now, just think how great the second one will be.”