Page 139 of I'm sorry, Princess

His fingers lace around both my wrists, pinning them above my head, his other hand gripping my ass to keep me exactly where he wants me. His eyes never leave mine, and something in my chest tightens. This isn’t the way he usually fucks me.

It’s… different.

He kisses me everywhere, my forehead, my eyes, my cheeks, my chin, punctuating each one with another deep, deliberate thrust. My orgasm builds slowly, curling warm and tense inside me, and I can see in his eyes that he realizes it too.

Then he moves. Lifting me in his arms, my legs still wrapped around his waist, he carries me to the balcony. The sunlight hits us both, the morning air spilling in, the world stretching out in the distance.

He sets me on the stone ledge, still inside me, and begins to move again. Harder now.

“Tell me I’m all you need,” he growls, pushing deeper. My head falls back, my nails digging into the strong line of his shoulders.

“You can never move on from me.” His voice is rough, absolute.

“I couldn’t, even if I wanted to,” I breathe, and the truth of it shakes me.

He thrusts harder, deeper, the pleasure cresting and breaking over me in waves. My orgasm rips through me, my back arching, his name spilling from my lips in a scream. Hedoesn’t stop, driving me higher, touching my clit even as I shudder.

“Fuck,” he growls, and then he’s spilling inside me, holding me tight against him.

Something is different. In the way he looked at me. In the way he touched me. In the way I said those words, and the way he didn’t say them back.

We stay there for a moment, my body still perched on the warm stone of the balcony, his body between my legs. I turn toward the horizon, and the sight steals my breath.

“I could stare at this view forever,” I say, my voice still uneven.

“So could I,” he answers.

When I look back at him, I realize he’s not looking at the view at all.

He’s looking at me.

“I love ice cream!” I declare, grinning like a child on Christmas morning as I work my way through my second cup. First was my favorite, Kinder Bueno, creamy and sweet with that perfect hazelnut crunch. Then pistachio, then Nutella, which to my shock was actual Nutella, frozen and sinful. After that came Amareno, tart and rich, and now… now I’m on mint chocolate. Again.

“That’s what you said about the last twenty desserts you inhaled earlier,” Lorenzo says dryly, though there’s a faint curve to his lips. He’s eating… fruit. And frozen yogurt. Of course he is.

I narrow my eyes at him over my spoon. “Are you from the dessert police?”

Before he can answer, I take another slow, blissful bite, closing my eyes like I’ve just ascended into heaven.

Then I’m up, dashing toward the perfect spot to capture the Duomo with my phone. The cathedral rises above the square, massive and ornate, the sunlight making the marble glow. I can’t believe I’m here.

“You’re going to get sick,” he calls after me, his voice lined with boredom.

“I watched Medici three times!” I turn, gesturing wildly at the cathedral. “I can’t believe I’m finally seeing the Duomo! Oh my God, your name is Lorenzo!”

One dark brow arches. “Yeah, that’s the name you’ve been moaning for the last few months.” His smirk is wicked, unapologetic.

I glare. “That’s not what I meant.” My voice drops to a hiss. “Lorenzo de’ Medici! Do you know him?”

“I think I was born in a different century,” he says flatly, as though the subject bores him to death.

My fingers itch to punch his perfect, smug face. “You’re insufferable.”

Instead of taking offense, he leans down and presses a soft kiss to my lips. Just enough to make my chest tighten and my knees consider betrayal. I pretend it didn’t work. It definitely worked.

I turn back to the Duomo, snapping pictures from every angle, then dragging him into a few selfies. He looks like he stepped straight out of a luxury campaign, sharp jaw, those eyes, that air of quiet authority.

But every time I see another Italian woman’s gaze linger too long on him, my smile strains, and I give them a look sharp enough to cut glass. My cheeks are starting to hurt from it. He doesn’t notice. Or maybe he does and just enjoys it.