Page 44 of My Dark Fairy Tale

“Mmm,” he hummed. “It does.Mi fai eccitare. Potrei guardarti tutto il giorno.You turn me on. I could look at you all day.”

My head thunked back against the headrest, my mouth parting on a sigh.

“Repeat after me, Guinevere,” he demanded, and that cold edge made me hotter than his compliment.

“Mi fai eccitare. Potrei guardarti tutto il giorno.”

“Grazie tante,” he teased, thanking me for my compliment. “Very good.”

I squirmed but didn’t stop his hand as it traced languid designs on the skin of my thigh, moving slowly higher and higher up under the fabric of my dress.

“Scommetto che hai una bella albicocca,” he said, so husky it was almost a growl. “I bet you have a pretty pussy.”

“Albicocca?” I repeated, more than a little breathless. “Apricot?”

“La figais the most popular, but a pussy can be as sweet asalbicoccaorfragola, as lovely as afarfallaorpasserina.”

Fig, apricot, strawberry. Butterfly or sparrow.

“Everything is so beautiful in Italian.Pussyandcuntsound so much coarser,” I admitted, gripping his wrist not to stop him but to ground myself in the moment as his fingertips brushed the tender skin beside my groin.

“Si, something so sweet and juicy and pretty pink must be spoken of like poetry,” he agreed, but his eyes were dark as they left the road to watch his fingers ruck my skirt up to my hips.

The pale blue of my panties was exposed to the heat of his gaze, and every molecule in my body seemed to buzz with its own electrical current.

We still hadn’t evenkissed.

Why did that make this sensual Italian lesson so much more erotic?

“Che bella,” he said, and he didn’t have to translate for me.

What beauty.

I blushed so deeply I worried the color would be tattooed on my skin. There was a squirmy sensation in my gut that was an intoxicating mix of arousal, daring, and lingering shame. A small noise like a whine leaked from my throat as I struggled to voice any of my desires.

“Slide your hips down for me,” he murmured.

I obeyed without thinking, settling deeper into the seat so I could spread my legs wider.

This was the kind of encounter I’d dreamed of late at night in my bed back home in Michigan when the winters seemed as endless as my loneliness. Warm summer air and the heavy weight of a man’s hand on my skin.

I sucked in a deep breath when Raffa brushed his thumb down the center of my fabric-covered groin, pressing into the damp spot at the apex. When he pulled away, I almost protested, but my words died on my tongue when he pressed the tip of his damp thumb into his mouth and sucked it clean.

“Hai un buon sapore come immaginavo,” he said. “You taste as good as I imagined.”

“Like apricots?” I teased, surprised by the confidence I felt, half lying in my seat with my wet underwear exposed and my taste on Raffa’s lips.

“Like sin,” he corrected. “It is addictive.”

There was a brief pause that felt like a prelude to something dangerous. I held my breath.

“Tell me, Vera, have you ever tasted yourself?” he asked finally in a low purr.

“No,” I said on an exhale of shocked laughter.

He groaned then, lowering his hand to adjust the huge ridge in his trousers to lie down one thigh. “You are killing me.”

“How?” I licked my dry lips, wishing we were somewhere he could turn the full weight of his attention on me and my curious, aching yearning.