I claw at his shirt, desperate, while he controls the pace, the depth, the destruction.
He fists my hair, angling my head, deepening the contact. His tongue sweeps over mine in the sweetest dance of pained worship.
The perfection of it burns my lungs.
He releases me, his hands driving a scorching path down my body, searing my hips, palming my ass. He grips tight, pulling me flush against him, the hardness of his body unforgiving.
I gasp as he lifts me and tugs on the restrictive material of my skirt, hitching it higher until I can wrap my legs around him.
“This can’t continue.” He spins us, dropping onto the daybed with me straddling his lap, my skirt bunched indecently around my hips. “Once morning comes?—”
“I know.” I cut him off with another kiss, not willing to endure a lecture on how he’ll move on.
It’s bad enough that I’ll have to walk away. Entrust the Cavallo portfolio to someone else. Only see him at work functions and galas, where we’ll pretend this never happened.
But right now, he’s mine. And for one brief moment, I get to be his.
I grind against him, his cock hard and adamant between my thighs. I become lost in the drag of his mouth. The scrape of his teeth. The harsh grasp of powerful fingers.
He groans my name, the sound a gut-deep ache that resonates in my soul. “Non sono più io, quando ti tocco.”
“English,” I beg.
His arm wraps around my waist as he maneuvers us, laying me down, pinning me beneath him. “I’m not myself when I’m touching you.”
My heart skips violently, my pulse a frantic, struggling beat.
“I’ve never been able to look at you without wanting you, Isla.”
I cling to him. “Say it in Italian.”
His lips hover over mine, the darkness in his eyes brimming with lust. “Non sono mai riuscito a guardati senza desiderarti.”
God, I believe him. With all that I am and everything I’ll be.
“Non ci sarà mai un’altra.”
I shudder, enraptured by his words, his voice, the way his palm slides possessively up my thigh. My body throbs beneath his, every inch screaming for more.
His hand skims higher, all rough fingers and calloused skin. He delves beneath the scrunched material of my skirt, grazing silk.
My breathing fractures, the heat in my belly coiling as he drags his knuckles over the delicate barrier.
“Raffael—” I choke out.
“La mia rovina.” He kisses me again, slower this time. His tongue sweeps mine, tasting, taking, consuming while his fingers slip beneath my underwear to where I’m wet and desperate.
He groans. “Cosi fottutamente perfetta.”
“Oh, God, you need to speak Italian more often.” I clutch at him, nails digging into his shoulders. “Please?—”
His thumb finds my clit, stealing all my sense and reason.
I whimper, grinding into the press of his hand.
He works me with his fingers. With grazes of teeth and guttural curses that vibrate into my bones. And still it’s not enough.
“I need more,” I rasp.