Page 22 of The Italian Reckoning (A New York Criminal Empire #3)

SARAH

H e’s addicting. I can’t place my finger on exactly why, but as soon as Rocky wakes up and his cock stirs to life, we’re back at it like rabbits.

His kisses this early in the morning are slow and lazy, his touches are gentle and send alluring shivers over my arms and down my back, and his moans are these sweet, delicate sounds that sound too precious to come from a man of his build. But they do.

He shifts and writhes beneath me while I grind my hips down in slow rolls to coax more attention onto his cock. The back of his fingers caress my cheek, and one hand rests lightly on my ribcage to hold me as I balance over him and weave a hundred secret notes of affection into each kiss we share.

In this moment, nothing else matters. There’s just me. And him. That’s it.

Our kisses slowly increase in heat when his cock reaches full mast, and his lips grow more insistent on lavishing attention over my throat when I tip my head back and let the warmth of his body heat up what parts of me aren’t covered by the blanket.

Rocky keeps his hands on my ribs, but they slide down to my waist when I seat myself in his lap and ease his cock into me with one smooth move.

This early in the morning, I’m still relaxed and open so the stretch and pull of muscle as my body opens for him is a welcome sensation.

I don’t ever want to forget it. Fully seated, I caress my lower belly and rock my hips back and forth, then squeeze until Rocky groans.

“Shit,” he croaks, his voice still thick from sleep, “feels like a dream.”

“Pretty great dream,” I reply lazily as I lift myself up, flex my core muscles, and slowly sink back down.

My pace begins slow. I’m riding him for the enjoyment of the sensation of his cock moving inside me and the flickers of pleasure that ignite through my core each time his length shifts against my G-spot or I grind down and tease my clit. But it doesn’t stay slow for long.

I crave more. I want the overwhelming rush of stimulation, the flood of pleasure that consumed me the night before.

I want to feel delight spreading to my fingers and toes along with the hot rush of Rocky finding his completion inside me.

So my pace increases and Rocky’s hands tighten at my waist to support me.

Before long, I’m riding him and panting while his own hips rise to meet me each time I bounce back down on his cock, and there’s nothing to hold us back from the orgasmic end we’re crashing toward.

I lean down and kiss him and maintain that kiss as our thrusts turn messy and I lose my rhythm bouncing on his cock.

It dissolves into frantic bucks of my hips and rolling grinds each time we come into contact, then Rocky’s arm is around my waist and he’s fucking up in short, sharp thrusts as he chases his end.

We come together with soft giggles and moans, kissing lazily and sharing moans of pleasure back and forth until every drop of cum is spent between us and we’re boneless and exhausted.

Rocky’s chest becomes my mattress and I lay there twitching until his soft cock slowly slips out of me and I’m left empty.

Reality arrives twenty minutes later when a stronger beam of light creeps in through the curtains and the urge to pee drags me from the enticing warmth of Rocky’s arms. He holds my hand and murmurs in his throat a wordless plea for me to stay.

But I can’t stay.

There’s too much at stake, and my sexy desire to fuck the day away with Rocky Barati is replaced with guilt the moment I close the bathroom door.

I fucked Rocky. Twice. Maybe more. He was between my legs and all over my body, inside me where no one has been for years.

Why do I miss him? Even telling myself that it’s just sex doesn’t work.

Standing in front of the large mirror, my heart squeezes with an unexpected ache as I take in the kiss marks and love bites across my body.

Rocky is right out there. I could literally go and do something about this ache in my chest, say something that would make these marks grow permanent, but I can’t.

We’re too different.

But it’s so fucking hot. He’s so fucking hot.

The thoughts don’t calm even as I climb into the shower and turn the spray on full.

Is it because he’s a criminal? Physical attraction aside, what is it that’s so fucking alluring about Rocky?

Maybe it’s the biker connection. I was already lusting after him when I didn’t know who he was so there definitely has to be some confusing transfer there, and I’m not exactly mad about it, but does this mean I’ve lost my biker?

All my fantasies will be replaced with Rocky and if so, is that even a bad thing?

Soap pours down my body, washing away every phantom touch he left behind, every drop of fluid that lingers, and every kiss he pressed against my skin with praise.

Is he sexy because deep down, I get off on breaking the rules I set for myself? That really, I’m so strict in my life because all I care about is finding something or someone to break them for and then I’m just some crazy nymphomaniac?

I can’t decide. Nothing feels right. Everything feels like a useless theory that eventually circles back around to my being too weak to stand up for myself. All it took was some wine, some teasing, and a kiss and I fell into bed with Rocky like he wasn’t a wanted criminal.

But he saved my life.

Stepping out of the shower, I’m back to staring at my clean, fresh pink body in the mirror and my attention drifts down to the array of scars across my abdomen.

There’s no hiding the fact that Rocky saw them, but he avoided them after my first flinch.

Is this the true reason I can’t get him out of my mind?

Because biker or no biker, he’s saved my life multiple times. He’s the first man to touch me since that terrible night—the first man who hasn’t utterly repulsed me. Is that also because he saved me? Is that really my criteria now to withstand the touch of a man?

I can’t deny the connection because Rocky’s done it twice and just thinking about it gets me all hot under the collar again.

If I’d known him five years ago, maybe I wouldn’t be the tangled up mess I am now.

By the time I dry myself off and dress in dry clothes Rocky slipped into the bathroom when I wasn’t looking, I feel better. Outside, the morning sun fills the penthouse with a welcoming, golden light that forces me to squint through my glasses and make me wish I’d brought my shades.

“So,” I say, finding my voice when I locate Rocky in the lounge surrounded by an array of breakfast foods, “should we talk about it?”

“About what?” Rocky, dressed in jeans and a sexy henley, walks forward and presses a glass of orange juice into my hand.

“Last night?”

“Depends.” He turns back to the trays of food filled with bacon, sausage and an array of meats and breads, fruit bowls, yogurt, waffles and more. “Do you want to talk about it or is this the morning after guilt surging up?”

“Guilt?”

He flashes me a smile. “You’re a cop. I’m a criminal. I’m not even the faceless biker anymore. If you’re about to tell me that last night was a mistake then I’ll respect your honesty.”

I should tell him that. Something deep inside me surges up with those exact words as if it’s my moral obligation to say exactly that, but I can’t get the words past my lips. Instead, I drown them in a mouthful of orange juice and shake my head.

“Maybe later.” Later, when my thoughts aren’t jumbled and I’m not distracted by how sexy the open collar of the henley makes him look, or when I’m not overwhelmed by the urge to reach across and pull him in for another kiss just so I can hear those sweet sounds he made earlier.

“Maybe later,” he repeats, sitting on the other side of the table. “Maybe we should do the important thing first.”

“Which is?”

Rocky picks up a black phone from the table and holds it out to me. “My forty-eight hours are up. So do your thing. Call the cops. I won’t stop you.”