“SANTO CIELO.”
Pia shaded her eyes from the bright sunlight slanting through the roof of San Siro stadium as the referee added two minutes to the Americas versus Western Europe game, the teams locked two-two in the tense, bitter rivalry being played in front of eighty thousand screaming fans. “I can’t bear to watch,” her Italian friend groaned. “Valentino is going to be impossibile if this ends in a tie.”
Chiara, thankful for the one and only ally she had, kept her thoughts to herself. She knew how important this game was to Lazzero. Had witnessed how dedicated he was to the REACH charity he supported in Harlem that kept kids off the street and on the court, the cause he was playing for this week. More layers to the man she had so inaccurately assessed at the beginning of all of this.
Who, along with his penchant to care deeply for the things that mattered to him, had a seemingly inexhaustible appetite for social connection if it contributed to the bottom line. The foreign correspondents’ dinner on Saturday, cocktails at the British embassy on Sunday, a dinner meeting with the largest clothing retailer in the world last night at a posh Italian restaurant where they’d consumed wine expensive enough to eat up her entire monthly budget.
Plenty of opportunity for Lazzero to put his hands on her in those supposedly solicitous touches that sent far too much electricity through her body and plenty of opportunity for her to like it far more than she should.
She sank her teeth into her lip as Lazzero took the ball on the sidelines. It had been all business all the time. Which was exactly as it should have been. What she’d signed up for. What she’d asked for. Why then, did she feel so barefoot? Because the way she felt when she was with Lazzero made her feel alive in a way she hadn’t for a very, very long time? Because feeling something felt good?
Her palms damp, her heart pounding, she watched as Lazzero yelled instructions to his teammates, then threw the ball in. Off the Americas team went, roaring down the field. Three neat passes, the final one from Lazzero to Lucca, and the ball was in the net.
The crowd surged to its feet with a mighty roar, Chiara along with it. One last fruitless drive by the Western Europe team and the clock ran out, signaling victory for the Americas. Lazzero, looking utterly nonplussed by his assist in the winning goal, turned and trotted off the field where he and Lucca were enveloped in a melee of congratulations.
Pia groaned. “There goes my chance for romance tonight. You, on the other hand,” she said, tugging on Chiara’s arm, “must go down to the field. It’s La Coppa Estiva tradition to give the winning players a kiss. The television cameras love it.”
Oh, no. Chiara dug her heels in. She was not doing that. But as the other wives and girlfriends filed onto the field, she realized she had no choice. Getting reluctantly to her feet, she left her purse with Pia and made her way down the stairs.
Lazzero eyed her as she approached, an amused light dancing in his dark eyes. Thump went her heart as she took him in. Sweat darkening his T-shirt, his hair slicked back from his brow, his game face still on, he was spectacular.
She pulled to a halt in front of him. Balanced her hands on his waist as she stood on tiptoe to brush a kiss against his cheek. “Congratulations,” she murmured. “You played a fantastic game.”
He caught her jaw in his fingers, the wicked glint in his eyes sending a skitter of foreboding through her. “I think,” he drawled, “they’re going to expect a bit more than that.”
Spreading his big palm against her back, he bowed her in a delicate arch, caged her against the unyielding steel frame of his powerful body. Her breath caught in her throat as he bent his head and took her mouth in a pure, unadulterated seduction that weakened her knees.
Her arms wound around his neck out of the pure need to keep herself upright. But then, her fingers got all tangled up in his gorgeous thick hair, she got all tangled up in the dark, delicious taste of him and the way he incinerated her insides, and the plink, plink of the camera flashes faded to a distant distraction.
Dazed, disoriented, she rocked back on her heels when he ended it, the hand he had wrapped around her hip holding her steady. Light blinding her eyes, a chorus of wolf whistles and applause raining down around them, she struggled to find her equilibrium.
Lazzero swept his sexy, devastating mouth across her cheek to her ear. “It almost felt as if you meant that, angelo mio.”
She was afraid she might have.
“Finally got your priorities straight.” Lucca issued the jab as he waltzed past, his posse trailing behind him. “You look amazing, querida. As always.”
Lazzero’s face darkened. “I can still put my fist through your face, Sousa.”
Lucca only looked amused as he headed to a television interview with Brazilian TV. Chiara looked up at Lazzero, her heartbeat slowing to a more normal rhythm. “How did your meeting with Gianni go?”
His combustible expression turned satisfied. “He loved the sketches. Due in large part, to you. He’s invited us to a dinner party on Friday night to discuss the partnership further.”
She smiled. “That’s amazing. Congratulations.”
He retrieved the towel he had slung over his shoulder and wiped the sweat from his brow. “I thought I’d take you out to say thank you. Celebrate.”
“With the team, you mean?”
“No,” he said casually, slinging the towel over his shoulder. “Just us. I figured you’d had enough socializing. And, I have a surprise for you.”
A surprise? A break from the relentless socializing? She was most definitely on board.
A slither of excitement skittered up her spine. “What should I wear?”
He shrugged. “Something nice. Wear one of your own dresses if you like. We can just be ourselves tonight.”
* * *
It was a directive Lazzero might have reconsidered as he and Chiara stood on the tarmac at Milano Linate Airport in the late afternoon sunshine, her light pink dress fluttering in the wind. Empire-waisted and fitted with flowing long sleeves that somehow still left her shoulders bare, it was designed with multiple layers of some gauzy type of silk that looked as if she was wearing a flimsy scarf instead of a dress.
Which only came to midthigh, mind you, exposing a sweep of bare leg that held him transfixed. He was having dreams about those legs and what they would feel like wrapped around him, and that dress wasn’t helping. The image of what he would like to do with her wasn’t fit for public consumption.
Chiara gave him a sideways look as she proceeded him up the steps into the jet. “You told me to wear what I wanted.”
“I did and you look great.” He kept his description to the bare minimum. “The dress is fantastic.”
Her mouth curved into a smile that would have lit a small metropolis. “I’m glad you think so. It’s one of mine.”
The impact of that smile hit him square in the chest. He was screwed, he conceded. So royally screwed. But then again, he’d known that the moment she’d told him her story. When she’d quietly revealed her plan to defeat the mean girls of the world. It explained everything about the sharp, spiky skin that encased her. The fierce need for independence. The brave face she put on for the world, because he’d been exactly the same.
The difference between him and Chiara was that he had taught himself not to care. Made himself impervious to the world, and she had not. Which should label her as off-limits to him. Instead, he had the reckless desire to peel back more of those layers. To find the Chiara that lay beneath.
They flew down to the boot of Italy to Puglia, known for its sun, sea and amazing views. Sitting in the heel of the boot, it was tranquil and unspoiled, largely untouched by the masses of tourists who flocked to the country.
“It’s stunning,” Chiara breathed as they landed in Salento, nestled in the clear waters of the Adriatic, its tall cliffs sculpted by the sea.
“A friend of mine has a place here.” Lazzero helped her down the steps of the jet, afraid she would topple over in those high heels of hers, which also weren’t helping his internal temperature gauge. “It’s unbelievably beautiful.”
Her dress whipped up in the wind as they walked across the tarmac. He slapped a hand against her thigh as a ground worker stopped to stare. “Can you please control this dress?”
Hot color singed her cheeks. “It’s the wind. Had I known we were flying to dinner, I would have chosen something else.”
And that would have been so, so sad. He ruthlessly pulled his hormones under control as he guided her to the waiting car, allowing her to slide in first, then walked around the car to climb in the other side. The town of Polignano a Mare, perched atop a twenty-meter-high limestone cliff that looked out over the crystal-clear waters of the Adriatic, was only a short drive away.
Known for its cliff diving, jaw-dropping caves carved out of the limestone rock that rose from the sea, as well as its excellent food, it held a wealth of charm as the sunset bathed it in a fiery glow. Suggesting they leave the car behind and walk the rest of the way to their destination to enjoy the view, Lazzero caught Chiara’s hand in his.
Her gaze dropped to where their fingers were interlaced. “We’re not in public,” she murmured. “You don’t have to do that.”
“Sheer force of habit,” he countered blithely. “Don’t be so prickly, Chiara. We’re holding hands, not necking in the street.”
Which brought with it a whole other series of images that involved him backing her into one of the quaint, cobblestoned side streets and taking exactly what he’d wanted from the very beginning. Not helpful when added to the dress.
She left her hand in his. Was silent as they walked through the whitewashed streets toward the sea, the lanes bursting with splashes of fluorescent color from the vibrant window boxes full of brightly hued blooms. Then it was him wondering about his presence of mind, because the whole thing felt right in a way he couldn’t articulate. Had never experienced before.
The Grotta Nascondiglio Hotel, carved out of the magnificent limestone rocks, rose in front of them as they neared the seafront. Chiara gasped and pointed at something to their right. “Are those the cliff divers? Good heavens, look where they’re diving from.”
They were high—twenty meters above the ground, diving from one of the cliffs that flanked the harbor below. But Lazzero shrugged a shoulder as they moved closer to watch. “It’s perfectly safe. The water is more than deep enough.”
“I don’t care how deep it is,” Chiara breathed. “That’s crazy. I would never do it. Would you?”
“I promised my friend who lives here I would do it next year with him.”
Her eyes went wide. “No way.”
A smile pulled at his lips. “Sometimes you just have to take the leap. Trust that wherever it takes you, you will come out the other side, better, stronger than you were before. Life is about the living, Chiara. Trusting your gut.”
* * *
Chiara’s brain was buzzing as Lazzero escorted her inside the gorgeous Grotta Nascondiglio Hotel. It might have been the challenge he had just laid down in front of her. Or it could simply have been how outrageously attractive he looked in sand-colored trousers and a white shirt that stretched across his muscular torso, emphasizing every rippling muscle to devastating effect.
He didn’t need anything else to assert his dominance over the world, she concluded, knees a bit unsteady. Not even the glittering, understated Rolex that contrasted with his deeply tanned skin as he pressed a hand to her back and guided her inside the restaurant. The aura of power, solidity, about him was unmistakable, his core strength formed in a life that had been trial by fire.
The warm pressure of his palm against her back as they walked inside the massive, natural cave unearthed an excitement all of its own. It was sensory overload as she looked around her at the warmly lit room that opened onto a spectacular view of the Adriatic.
“Tell me we have a table overlooking the water,” she said, “and I will die and go to heaven.”
Lazzero’s ebony eyes danced with humor. “We have a table overlooking the water. In fact, I think it’s that one right there.”
She followed his nod toward a candlelit table for two that sat at the mouth of the cave, the only one left unoccupied. The only thing separating it from a sheer, butterfly-inducing drop to the sea was the cast-iron fence that ran along the perimeter of the restaurant. Chiara’s stomach tipped over with excitement. It was utterly heart-stopping.
The maître d’ appeared and led them toward their table. She slipped into the seat Lazzero held out for her and accepted the menu the host handed her. Pushing her chair in, Lazzero took the seat opposite her.
“Not exactly a little hole in the wall in the East Village,” she murmured, in an attempt to distract herself from the thumping of her heart.
A speculative glimmer lit his dark eyes. “Are you calling this a date, Chiara Ferrante?”
Her stomach missed its landing and crashed into her heart. “It was a joke.”
His sensual mouth curved. “You can’t even say it, can you? Are you going to run for the hills now that we’ve gotten that out of the way?”
“Are you?” she asked pointedly.
“No.” He sat back in his chair, the wine list in hand. “I’m going to choose us a wine.”
He did not ask her preference because, of course, that wasn’t how a date with Lazzero went. His women felt feminine and cared for. And she found herself feeling exactly that as he took control and smoothly ordered a bottle of Barolo.
It was, she discovered, a heady feeling given she’d been the one doing the taking care of for as long as she could remember.
“So,” Lazzero said, sitting back in his chair when their glasses were full. “Tell me about this urban line of yours. What kind of a vision do you have for it?”
She snagged her lip between her teeth. “You really want to know?”
“Yes. I do.”
She told him about the portfolio of designs she’d been working on ever since she was a teenager. How her vision had been to design a line for both teenagers and young women starting out in the work force, neither of whom had much disposable income.
“Most women in New York can’t afford designer fashion. Most are like me—they want to be able to express their individuality without blowing their grocery budget on a handbag.”
Lazzero made a face. “I’ve never understood the whole handbag thing.” He pointed his glass at her. “How would you market it, then?”
“Online. My own website, which would include a blog to drive traffic to the retail store. The boutique online fashion retailers... Keep it small and targeted.”
“Smart,” he agreed. “The trends are definitely headed that way. Very little overhead and no in-store marketing costs.”
He swirled the rich red wine in his glass. Set his gaze on hers. “I was speaking with Bianca, my head designer, this morning when I signed off on the sketches. She mentioned to me how talented she thought you were.”
Her insides warmed. “That’s very nice of her to say.”
“She’s tough. It’s no faint praise. Bianca,” he elaborated, “heads up an incubator program in Manhattan, the MFDA—Manhattan Fashion Designer Association. You’ve heard of it?”
She nodded. “Of course. They nurture new talent from the community—offer bursaries for school and co-op positions in the industry. It’s an amazing mentoring program.”
“I told Bianca your story. She wants to meet you.” Lazzero’s casually delivered statement popped her eyes wide-open. “If you are interested, of course. It would just be for a coffee. To see if you’d be a good fit for the group. There are no guarantees they’d take you on, but Bianca holds a great deal of sway.”
Her stomach swooped and then dropped. “It’s impossible to crack, Lazzero. Some of the most talented kids at school never made it in.”
“They’re looking for people with vision. You have one.” He shook his head. “You don’t second-guess an opportunity like this. You embrace it. See where it goes. It may go somewhere. It may go nowhere. But at least you tried.”
She bit the inside of her mouth. She had only been dabbling at the drawing the past few years. What if she’d lost her technique? What if she didn’t have it anymore? And then there was the part where she’d never get another chance like this.
“It’s just a coffee,” Lazzero said quietly. “Think about it.”
She nodded. Sat back in her chair, her head spinning, and took a sip of her wine. The fact that he believed in her enough to do that for her ignited a glow inside of her. But it wasn’t just that. He had invited her opinion about the sketches, had valued her input. He valued her for who she was. When was the last time someone had done that?
He might be every bit as much of a playboy as Antonio was, but that, she realized, was where the similarities between the two men began and ended. Lazzero was fascinating and complex, the depth to him undeniably compelling. He was brutally honest about who he was and what he had to offer a woman, which Antonio had never been.
What he’d said that first night about her had been right. She was afraid to get hurt again. Was afraid to admit how she felt about him. But denying this connection between them wasn’t getting her anywhere.
A flock of butterflies swooped through her stomach. What if she were to walk into this thing with Lazzero with her eyes wide-open? No wild, dreamy expectations like she’d had with Antonio. Just the cold hard reality that when she and Lazzero went back to New York, it would be over?
It was a heady thought that gained momentum as the conversation drifted from politics to the entertaining stories Lazzero had to tell about the mega-million-dollar athletes he worked with. As she sipped the delicious, full-bodied wine. Absorbed the heart-stoppingly romantic atmosphere as the waves crashed against the cliff below.
And then there was the way Lazzero kept holding her hand as if it was the most natural thing in the world. The brush of his long, muscular legs against the bare skin of her thighs that sent shivers of excitement through her. The way his gaze rested on her mouth with increasing frequency as the night wore on.
She didn’t want to feel dead inside anymore. She wanted to walk into the fire with Lazzero. To know every thrilling moment of it. To not look back and wonder what if. Because she wasn’t the same girl she’d once been. She was tougher. Wiser. And she knew what she wanted.
Somewhere along the way, between a discussion of the current state of the EU and the choice of decadent dessert, she lost the plot completely.
Lazzero’s gaze darkened. “I have a question,” he asked huskily, eyes on hers. “When are we getting to the necking part of the evening?”
Her insides fell apart on a low heated pull. “Lazzero—”
He lifted his hand. Signaled their waiter. Five minutes later, he had the bill paid and something else the waiter had placed in his hand. Extending a purposeful hand to her, he navigated the sea of tables to the exit with an impatience that had her heart slamming into her breastbone. But he didn’t lead her toward the entrance, he directed her toward the elevators instead.
“Aren’t we getting the car?” she breathed.
“No.” Jamming his thumb on the call button Lazzero summoned the elevator. A key, she identified past her pounding heart. He had a key in his hand.
She could have cried out with frustration when the elevator doors opened to reveal two couples inside. She smiled politely at them, her knees shaking. Lazzero, noticing her less-than-steady stature, slid an arm around her waist and pulled her back against his hard, solid frame. Which was like touching dry timber to a match. By the time they stopped at their floor, she was trembling so much, she could hardly breathe.
Open slid the elevator doors. Out she and Lazzero stepped. Down the hall he strode, her hand in his. There didn’t seem to be any other rooms on this floor, just the one door Lazzero stopped in front of at the end. Expecting him to use the key, she gasped as he backed her up against the wall instead, his mouth dipping to take hers in a hot, hard kiss, one that promised a wildness that echoed the shaking in her knees.
His hand wound around a thick chunk of her hair, he angled her head until he had her exactly where he wanted her, then plunged deeper, until they were consuming each other with a ferocity that was terrifying in its intensity.
When they finally came up for air, they were both breathing hard. Lazzero dragged his mouth up to her ear. “You are so beautiful,” he murmured. “Tell me you want this, Chiara.”
A moment of complete and utter panic consumed her. She drew back, a handful of his shirt in her fingers. Took a deep breath and grounded herself in his dark, hot gaze. In the man, she was learning, she could trust without reservation. Reaching up, she traced the hard, sensual line of his mouth with her fingers and nodded.
His eyes turned to flame. His brief fumble with the key before he got it into the lock wiped away the last of her reservations. Door unlocked, he picked her up, wrapped her legs around him and walked through the door, kicking it shut.
* * *
Wild for her in a way he had never experienced before, Lazzero backed Chiara up against the wall and picked the kiss up where he had left off. Trailing openmouthed caresses down the elegant line of her neck, he sank his teeth into the vein that throbbed for him. Her gasp rang out, hot, needy.
Tempted beyond bearing, he slid his hands beneath the gauzy silk of her dress and cupped her bottom. Silk. She was wearing silk panties beneath the dress—light, sheer wisps of nothing. Sliding his hands over her bottom, wanting, needing to feel her against him, he lifted her, altered the angle between them so that he was cradled in the heat between her thighs. She gasped as the still-covered length of his erection parted her softness through the silk of her panties.
“God, Lazzero. That feels—”
He smoothed a thumb over the juncture of her thigh and abdomen. She arched against him, his hot, hard length rubbing against her center.
“How?” he whispered, his voice rough. “How does it make you feel?”
“So good,” she whimpered. “It feels so good. So hot.”
He uttered a string of curses. Slow it down, his brain warned. Slow it down or he’d be buried in her in about five seconds flat and that was not how this was going to go. Not when the thought of having her was blowing a hole in his brain.
His heart threatening to batter its way through his chest, he sucked in a breath. Unwrapped her legs from around his waist and eased her down his body until her feet touched the floor, the slide of her curves against him hardening him to painful steel. Confused, Chiara stared up at him, her green eyes dazed with desire.
“We need to slow it down,” he said huskily, snaring her hand and leading her into the suite, “or this is going to be over way too fast.”
The suite, he discovered, was like something straight out of a fantasy. Carved out of the same limestone rock as the rest of the hotel, the circular room was finished with exposed brick and a mosaic-tiled floor illuminated by the soft glow of the lamp that had been left on for them.
Not to be outdone by the view from the restaurant, a luxurious sitting area offered a spectacular view of the sea through the open French doors and the terrace beyond. It was, however, the massive bed dominating the space that held his attention.
He sat down on it. Drew Chiara between his parted legs. His blood fizzled in his veins as he scoured her from head to toe.
“I don’t know what to touch first,” he admitted huskily. “You are so stunning you make my head want to explode.”
Her eyes darkened to twin pools of forest green. She apparently knew exactly what she wanted to touch. Hands trembling, she moved her fingers to the buttons of his shirt. Worked her way down the row until she’d reached the last, buried beneath his belt. Dragging his shirt from his pants, she undid it, spread her palms flat against his abs and traced her fingers over each indentation and rise of muscle.
“You are insane,” she murmured.
His stomach contracted, a rush of heat flooding through him. Not as insane as he was going to be if he didn’t touch her soon. Shrugging off the shirt, he threw it to the floor. Hands at her waist, he turned her around and lowered the zip on her dress, exposing inches of creamy, olive skin as he sent the dress fluttering to the floor in a cloud of dusky-pink silk.
“Step out of it,” he instructed, heart jamming in his chest.
She kicked the dress aside and turned around. Absorbed the heat of his gaze as it singed every inch of her skin. The soft, full, oh-so-kissable mouth that had driven him wild from the beginning. The delicate pink bra and panty set she wore that did little to hide the lush femininity beneath.
He sank his hands into her waist and lifted her to straddle him, her knees coming down on either side of his. Cupping her head with the palm of his hand, he brought her mouth down to his. Devoured her until she was soft and malleable beneath his hands and as into this as he was.
Needing to touch, to discover, he dropped his hands to her closure of her bra. Undid it and stripped it off, dropping it to the floor. Her curves, heavy and rose-tipped, filled his hands. Drunk on her, unable to get enough, he traced circles around her flesh with his thumbs, moving ever closer to the swollen tips with every sweep of his fingers, but never where she wanted it, until she groaned and pushed herself into his hands.
“Like this?” he asked softly, rubbing his thumbs over the distended peaks, enflamed by her response. She gasped and muttered her assent. He rolled the hard nubs between his fingers until she was twisting against him, restless and needy.
“You want more?” he murmured. “Show me where.”
A wave of color stained her cheeks. “Lazzero—” she whispered.
“Show me.”
She sank her teeth into her lip. Spread a palm against her abdomen, low, where those tiny pink panties barely covered her femininity. His blood surged in his veins. Tempted beyond bearing, he covered her palm with his, his eyes on hers. “You want me to touch you?”
Her cheeks turned a deeper, fiery red. Then came a tiny nod. He almost lost it right there, but somehow, he held it together. Easing his fingers beneath the waistband of her panties, he cupped her in his palm. Waited while she got used to his intimate possession, her beautiful green eyes dilating with heat. Then, sliding a finger along her slick cleft, he caressed her with a lazy stroke. Felt his heart slam in his chest at how wet, how aroused she was.
“You feel like honey,” he murmured, taking her mouth in a lazy kiss at the same time as he rotated his thumb against her sweet, throbbing center. “Like hot, slick honey.”
She moaned into his mouth. He kept teasing her until she was even hotter, slicker, aroused to a fever pitch. Then he slid a finger inside of her—slowly, gently, watching the pleasure flicker across her face as he claimed her with an intimate caress.
“You like that?”
“More,” she whispered, arching her back.
Her uninhibited, innocent responses affected him like nothing he could remember, the blood raging in his head now. He slid deeper, each gentle push of his finger taking him further inside her silky body. The feel of her velvet flesh clenching around him was indescribable. She was tight and so damn hot. Heaven.
“That’s it,” he encouraged thickly as she moved into his touch, inviting it now. “Ride me, baby. Take your pleasure.”
She closed her eyes. He tangled his tongue with hers, absorbed every broken sound until her harsh pants became desperate. “Lazzero—” she breathed.
He slid two fingers inside of her. Pumped them deep. Once, twice, three times, and she came apart in his arms.
* * *
Chiara wasn’t sure how long it took her to surface, her bones melted into nothing as his strong arms held her upright. When she finally returned to consciousness, she found herself drowning in the dark glitter of satisfaction in his black gaze.
He had given her extreme pleasure, but had taken none for himself. The tense set of his big body beneath her hands was testament to the control he had exerted over himself. But now it was stretched to the limit.
Emboldened by what they’d just shared, wanting to give him the same pleasure he’d just given her, she dropped her hand to the hard ridge that strained his trousers. Reveled in the harsh intake of air he sucked in. “I think we should abstain from that right now,” he murmured, clamping his hand over hers.
“I want to touch you,” she said softly, her eyes on his. “Let me.”
He considered her for a moment, and then his hands fell away. She curled her fingers around the button of his pants. Released it from its closure. Her fingers moving to his zipper, she lowered it, working it carefully past his straining erection.
The air was so hot and heavy between them as she reached inside his briefs and closed her fingers around him, it was hard to breathe. He was insanely masculine—like smooth, hard steel. Moving her hands over him, she stroked him, petted him, her body going slick all over again at the thought of having him. Taking him.
With a low groan, Lazzero rolled off the bed and divested himself of the rest of his clothes. The sound of a foil wrapper sounded inordinately loud in the whisper-quiet room. Prowling back to the bed, he kissed her again, eased her back into the soft sheets with the weight of his body and stripped the panties from her.
An ache building inside of her in a deeper, headier place, she cupped the back of his head and brought his mouth down to hers.
Luxurious, intimate, the meeting of their mouths went on forever. Sliding his hand around the back of her knee, Lazzero curved her leg around his waist. Settled himself into the cradle of her thighs until his heat was positioned against her slick, wet flesh. Her stomach dissolved into dust. He was big. So big.
“We go slow,” he murmured, reading her expression. “Tell me how it feels, caro. What you like.”
She arched her hips, desperate for him. He slid a palm beneath her bottom, raised her up and slipped the velvet head of him just inside her, his big body shuddering. “So tight,” he said raggedly, “so good. How does that feel?”
“Amazing.” She barely got the word out past the pounding of her heart. “More.”
He sank inside of her a little bit more. Retreated, then pushed deeper, each stroke giving her time to adjust to the size and girth of him. Gentle, so patient, he tried her patience.
She closed her hands around his rock-hard glutes and pulled him deeper. A muttered curse leaving his mouth, he grasped her hips and claimed her with a single, powerful thrust that filled every part of her. Tore the breath from her lungs.
Never had she felt so possessed, so full of everything. Mouth glued to his, her air his air, they set a frantic rhythm together until they melted into one. Until she felt herself tighten around him, the pleasure threatening to shatter her all over again.
“That’s it.” Thick, hoarse, the guttural edge to Lazzero’s voice at her ear spurred her on. “Let go.”
His big body flexed above her, his muscles bunching as he shifted his position to deepen his thrusts. The connection they shared as his dark gaze burned into hers was so electric, so all-encompassing, it froze her in place. So much more than just the physical, it was the most intimate, soul-baring experience of her life.
Slowly, deliberately, he ground against her where she needed him the most. The delicious friction of his body against hers sent her over the edge with a sharp cry. An animal-like groan leaving his throat, Lazzero unleashed himself and took his pleasure, claiming her so deeply all she saw was white-hot stars as they shattered into one.