Page 106 of The Crowned Garza

“I figured. And I don’t care.”

His eyes meet mine, a pinch between his brows. “What do you figure?”

“You overheard Trent scolding me and what he said about my choice in men. You panicked that I might finally come to my senses and move on from you. So you broke your resolve and gave me what you knew I wanted.” I press a kiss to his inner wrist. “Am I right?”

When he just stares at me, I know it’s not far off from the truth. “I’m not as clueless as you might think, Mr. Luciani.”

He’s still resistant. Torn. Restrained.

“Remember how it felt this morning?” I brush my lips against his. “Don’t you wanna feel like that again?”

With an unconvincing shake of his head, he shifts from a crouch to sit on the floor with his back against the sofa. “I can’t.”

Like a prong from the devil’s pitchfork, selfish and stubborn, I ease up from the sofa and lower to sit astride him.

He’s hard as steel. Who tortures themselves like this?

Bracketing his face, I kiss him. Slow and coaxing. Gauging him.

When I feel it’s safe, I reach down between us.

“Just once more,” I cajole, undoing his pants.

He makes no move to stop me, and it feels like victory when I finally have him in my hand. He’s so hard he’s pulsing, pre-cum seeping out of the swollen head.

Lust and fire drown out everything from his eyes. His restraint is broken, his resistance gagged and bounded.

No sudden movements, lest I jolt him out of it, I kiss him while I reach for my purse on the sofa and fish out a condom. Then make quick work of sheathing him before he can change his mind.

Raising my hips, I shift my panties to the side and position him at my entrance.

“This sin is on me,” I whisper. “You can pray for me later.”

With that, I sink down onto his thick, hard shaft, evoking a low, throaty groan from him and a wispy gasp from my own lungs.

Stuffed to the hilt, I pause for a few seconds, lips parted. Relishing the feel of him inside me. Perfect width, perfect length, perfect hardness. All of him is perfect.

Around a breathy moan, I ask, “You good?”

Eyes hooded, his hands drift to settle on my hips, fingers pressing into my skin. “It’s yours,piccola regina. Take what you need.”

And he wonders why I can’t leave him alone.

Fueled by those words, I rise up, then slowly sink down again…and again…and again…increasing the pace and rhythm in small, even increments. Watching strained lines of pleasure etch on his face as I empty and fill myself of him over and over.

Done teasing, I plant my hands on his chest and begin riding him. Good and proper. Intentional with every roll of my hips, every rise and fall, every press to the hilt.

“Fuuuck,” he groans. “You’re so good… You fuck me so fucking good.”

Encapsulated by pleasure, his hands are all over me, unable to stay still. My breasts, my hips, my ass, my neck, my face, my hair… He mutters strings of words in his native tongue, then in English, then an incomprehensible mixture of both.

Watching him fall apart beneath me burns me up with an intensely intoxicating heat. Engulfing me. Every vein in my body strums like plucked strings, and as I gaze into his heated whiskey eyes, my legs start trembling, heralding my orgasm.

A knock sounds at the door. “Boss?”

“Go away,” Saint growls out.

I don’t stop riding him.