Page 138 of I'm sorry, Princess

I push the thought away before it can root itself too deeply. I have to stop comparing everything beautiful to Lorenzo Moretti.

I slip out of bed quietly, moving through my morning ritual, skincare, light makeup: mascara to frame my eyes, a dusting of blush, baby-pink gloss. My beige summer dress hugs my curves like it was made for me, the slit up my right thigh just enough to tease without giving too much away. The corset back cinches my waist, the fabric smoothing over my hips. I step into strappy nude heels, straighten my hair, and finish with a mist of my favorite Tom Ford perfume.

I’m ready to discover Florence.

And tonight, dinner with his mother.

Lorenzo is still asleep, stretched out on his stomach, one arm draped lazily over the side of the bed, the other tucked close to his body. His short, dark curls are messy across his forehead, and the morning light traces over his bare back, every muscle defined and relaxed.

I climb onto the bed and press a kiss to the warm skin between his shoulder blades. His muscles tighten beneath my lips.

In one smooth movement, he rolls over and catches me by the waist, pulling me down until I’m straddling him.

“Good morning,” I whisper, brushing my lips over his.

His hands slide lower, cupping my ass, and the heat rushes to my cheeks. My body reacts instantly, like it always does with him. It’s maddening, this pull, this lack of control he has over me.

“Good morning, princess,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough from sleep. His palms roam over me like he’s memorizing every curve, and I can feel him hardening beneath me. The pressure makes my thighs tighten instinctively, and my pulse spikes.

We don’t have time for this. I tell myself that. We have plans. Florence is waiting.

“Get dressed. We need to go,” I say, trying for firmness. But as I shift to move off him, his hips tilt upward, and his erection presses exactly where it shouldn’t, and exactly where I need it.

His smirk is slow, wicked. “I’ve got a better idea.”

His mouth finds my neck, lips dragging heat over my skin. One hand slides under my dress, tracing the sensitive inside of my thigh until it’s hovering just where I’m already throbbing for him. My breath hitches.

He knows my body better than I do.

“This dress,” he murmurs against my skin, “on the floor.”

The fabric bunches at my waist, and the cool air hits my bare legs. My panties are already damp, and his knowing glance makes my blush deepen.

“And you,” his voice dips darker, “clenching around my cock.”

He pushes my panties aside with deliberate slowness, sliding a finger inside me while his thumb circles my clit. My back arches helplessly, a soft sound escaping my lips. His other hand cups my breast, his mouth closing around the nipple, sucking with just enough pressure to make my head fall back.

My hands grip his shoulders, my body already tilting toward surrender, even as the rational part of me whispers about Florence, about dinner, about time. But he’s relentless, and when Lorenzo wants something, there’s never any stopping him.

“Oh…” The sound slips from my lips before I can catch it. My hips move instinctively against his fingers, chasing the rhythm, and when he adds another, I clutch at his shoulders for balance. My free hand slides into his dark curls, gripping, grounding myself as pleasure blooms low in my belly.

“Lorenzo,” I moan, my voice unsteady, my body silently begging him to move faster.

“Yeah?” His voice is rough, rasped with sleep and desire. His mouth is still on my breasts, sucking, biting, making my skin burn. Then his gaze finds mine, and for a moment the air between us shifts, before his lips crush against mine, stealing my breath.

He pulls his fingers from me, leaving an ache, a sudden emptiness that makes me whimper. He’s only in his boxers, but that doesn’t last, he peels them away, and suddenly I’m in his lap, my bare heat brushing against his length. The contact alone makes me gasp, my hips moving just enough to feel the tease of him sliding against me.

“We need to go,” I say, breathless, though I can barely remember where. “I booked our whole day.”

He kisses me harder, his tongue sweeping through my mouth until my thoughts scatter. His teeth catch my lower lip, and then he murmurs against it, low and commanding, “Ride me, princess.”

Freaking hell.

It doesn’t take much, one slow lift of my hips, one deliberate slide down, and he’s filling me. No matter how many times we’ve done this, my body still has to stretch around him. He’s too big, and it’s too much, and yet I take all of him because I can’t not.

The moment is filthy and intimate all at once, my dress bunched at my waist, my legs braced on either side of him as I roll my hips in slow, deep movements that make my eyes close. His hand grips my waist, the other curling around my neck, holding me steady as he kisses me, hot, consuming.

For a few minutes, he lets me lead. I move at my own pace, savoring the drag of him inside me. But then he flips us with effortless strength, his body covering mine. I hook my legs around him, welcoming the shift, and he drives into me again, slower now, but deeper, each thrust pressing into something more than just my body.