by Ember Casey
“No,” I manage to gasp out. The last guy who touched my breasts seemed in a rush to get on to other things—which is part of why he didn’t.
“Did he figure out how soft these little nipples felt against his lips? Or how sweet they tasted at the end of a long day?” His mouth starts a slow, tantalizing journey down my throat, across my collarbone, down the slope of my chest. My skin trembles and tingles beneath his lips. I arch toward him.
“No,” I say, It’s more of a squeak than a word. “He didn’t.” And he certainly didn’t touch my breasts the way Dante does now, like he’s worshiping them. Worshiping me.
“So I take it he never did this?” He’s reached the tip of my breast now, and he takes the nipple between his lips and sucks with a force that makes my head fall back against the wall.
I moan and dig my fingers into his shoulders in response, but apparently that’s not enough. Dante lets my nipple pop out of his mouth, grazing it with his teeth as he does so.
“Did he, Ash?”
“N-no,” I manage to say. I’m not sure how I’m forming any words at all.
“That sounds like a very, very bad man,” he says, running his hands down my sides. “And a very stupid one, to mishandle a body like this. Men like that shouldn’t be allowed to touch you.”
I don’t disagree. In fact, I never saw that particular fellow again after that night.
“Tell me,” Dante continues, his lips brushing against the upper slope of my breast, “did he give any other parts of you adequate attention?”
One of his hands is undoing my fly. The other is sliding down the back of my pants, his fingers spreading against the bare skin of my ass. As my jeans fall down my legs he pulls me against him, locking our hips together, letting me feel how hard he is and making me remember how beautifully we fit together.
I have been touched this way by other men—but it’s never affected me half as much.
“Yes,” I tell Dante, a little excited to discover what he might do in response to this admission. “I’ve had a guy grab me there.”
The response is immediate. His fingers dig into my skin with a bite that draws a gasp from my lips. He raises his face to my ear.
“Is that so?” he murmurs. “Well, did he do this?”
One of his hands still keeps me pinned against him, but the other moves, sliding down the curve of my ass and between my legs from behind. This time the sound I make is so strangled it can hardly be called a gasp. Pleasure shoots through me as his finger slides against the swollen wetness between my thighs. If I thought I wanted him before, it’s nothing compared to the throbbing desire I feel now.
“Did you let him explore you?” Dante growls into my ear. “Did you let his fingers into places where you wouldn’t let his cock?”
His questions bring fire to my cheeks—to my whole body. I shake my head.
“Answer me with that sweet tongue of yours,” he says. “I want to hear it.”
“No,” I whisper. “I didn’t.”
“Good.” His fingers press deeper, and though we aren’t at the best angle for this, even these delicate explorations leave me trembling.
“We need to make sure you get all the proper attention,” Dante says, moving his finger back and forth between my legs. Teasing me. “If he didn’t do this much, then I suspect he may have neglected other things as well.”
He pulls his hand away, and though I whimper, he ignores the protest. Instead, he catches me by the waist and starts kissing his way down my body again—ear, throat, collarbone, chest. And then he goes even lower, dropping to his knees as his mouth marches down between my breasts and across my belly, finally pausing just above my navel. His tongue flicks at my bellybutton.
“Did you let him put his mouth on you?” he asks.
My hands are on his shoulders, and it takes me a moment to do anything but nod. Finally, my tongue moves again. “No.”
“No?” Dante might have initially been upset when I confessed that I’d never been with anyone else, but there’s no doubt he’s enjoying himself now.
“No,” I repeat. I’m yours. Only yours.
He’s moving down below my bellybutton now, kissing me lower and lower. I’m shaking again, holding onto his shoulders for support, longing for each and every new touch of his lips. When he finally reaches the crest between my legs, he pauses again.
“You always enjoyed this,” he says. “Did you really deny yourself for so long?”
“It wasn’t exactly an active decision to deny myself,” I say. “It just… never happened.” There’s no way to explain this without embarrassing myself.
“Well,” Dante murmurs darkly, “we’ll just have to make up for lost time, won’t we?”
He doesn’t wait for my response. Instead, he dips his head again and slips his tongue between my legs.
It’s been years since I felt the sensation that shoots through my body right now. Maybe that’s why it feels like my entire world is nothing but pleasure and desire. My nails dig into his shoulders as his tongue teases across my delicate flesh—softly, too softly, as if he wants to reacquaint himself with me before going any further. It’s the most exquisite torture I’ve ever felt.
After a moment, I can’t take it anymore.
“Please,” I beg, squeezing his shoulders tighter. “Please…”
I don’t need to specify any more than that. He drops his hands from my hips to my thighs and gently presses my legs apart—and then suddenly, he’s not so gentle anymore.
I suck in a breath at the first touch of his teeth. But I’m not in pain—no, quite the opposite. I quickly lose track of what’s what—teeth, lips, tongue. He kisses me, massages me, licks me, sucks me. Tortures every bit of the ache between my legs with practiced skill. He remembers what I like. What makes me moan. What makes me scream.
My back is pressed against the wall. My legs are shaking so violently that I’m sure the only reason I’m still standing is because Dante has his arms around my thighs. He’s relentless, drawing cry after cry from my lips, sending one tremor of pleasure after another across my skin—and deep inside of me, to places I’d all but forgotten about.
Little by little, the tension builds up, the pleasure bunches and swells, my body grows tauter and tighter. I can feel the peak coming, feel Dante building me up toward the place where he’s sent me many times before. But just when I’m nearly there, he stops. Pulls back.
“What are you doing?” I ask him breathlessly. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”
But he climbs to his feet. Presses close to me again, bare chest to bare chest. Down at my waist, I can feel him fumbling with his pants.
“I’m going to be inside of you when you come,” he growls against my hair. “It’s been too long since I’ve had that pleasure.”
“It’s been two weeks,” I remind him—though admittedly our encounter in the bakery still feels something like a dream.
“As I said, too long.”
His pants are on the floor now. He doesn’t even bother stepping out of them. Instead, he grabs my thighs again and lifts me up, pinning me between his chest and the wall. He hooks my legs around his hips, and I wrap my arms around him as his lips come down on mine.
I can taste myself on him. I never thought my own scent, my own taste, could drive me mad, but on Dante’s lips, it does. I pull him closer, kiss him closer, do everything in my power to bring our bodies together.
And then he’s pressing at me below, sinking into me, joining us in that final way.
The sex in the bakery was good. Explosive. But this is different. This is not two people giving into years of pent-up lust, succumbing to some latent passion left unexplored for too long. This is deeper—I can feel it in the way he kisses me, in the way he touches me, in the way he drives into me. We found each other physically. Now we have to find each other emotionally, cross the walls we built up by accident or fear, connect in a way that goes deeper than the sensual passion. I want him. Not just in my body,
not just for pleasure. I want his joy, his love—all of his emotions. I want him on a level that goes beyond my body, deeper even than my heart.
And he wants me that way, too. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t be kissing me like this. This is all so familiar, and at the same time, we never reached this place when we were together before. It might appear the same on the surface, but it isn’t. It will never be.
And when he finally drives me over the edge, when my body finally spasms in the culmination of sensation and desire, I know I will never be the same, either.
CHAPTER EIGHT
There is nothing like the pleasure of waking up in Dante Fontaine’s arms.
He’s warm and solid around me. It’s absolute heaven. I can’t remember the last time I was this happy.
Dante must have woken before I did, because even as I’m coming into full consciousness, his fingers are sliding over my hip, up my side, over my breast. He’s curled around my back, closer than close, and he smells of sweat and soap and me.
“Good morning,” he murmurs in my ear. He’s said those words to me before, but they’re sweeter now than they ever were.
“Good morning,” I whisper back. My voice is hoarse, rough. I roll over in his arms, wanting to look up into his eyes, and he pulls back just enough to let me do so. The sheets tangle around my legs, and my hair seems to be everywhere, but I don’t care. He pushes the tangled strands out of my eyes—I’d swear his fingers are warmer and softer than usual—until finally I’m able to meet his gaze.
I don’t get to enjoy the view for long. He dips his head and kisses me—first a peck, then something more. His lips are as warm and soft as his hands. They taste like morning—which, on anyone else, I’m sure, wouldn’t be entirely pleasant. But it’s familiar in a way that makes my heart speed up, and in this moment I swear there’s no sweeter taste in all the world.
His hand is still roaming over my body, skimming across the bare skin of my stomach, dancing lightly over my nipple, tugging at my hair before moving down again. His leg hooks over one of mine as my arm loops around him, and we’re tangled again, as intertwined as we were last night.
I can’t believe this is happening. I can’t believe Dante is here in my bed, that we spent most of last night making love, that we’re actually going to give our relationship another shot. I know I’m an idiot for doing it, but at the same time, I’m so happy I can hardly contain myself. But though I’m willing to lose myself in him another time—and then another, then another—just when I think he’s going to sink into me again, he pulls back.
“Are you hungry?” he asks. He nuzzles my neck, giving me an appetite for all sorts of things, but I don’t think that’s what he means. And though I’d like to spend more time in his arms—an infinite amount of time—I could definitely use something to eat.
“Yes,” I say. “But I’m not sure how much food I have here. There should be a couple of eggs, and maybe some cereal—”
“I thought we might go out.”
It’s a simple statement, and coming from any other guy I probably wouldn’t have given it a second thought. But for us, this is huge. Our first public outing. The fact that Dante is willing to take this step fills me with joy.
It means that I wasn’t an idiot to believe he’s changed.
“There’s a little diner down the street,” I tell him. “They make a mean omelet.”
“That sounds great,” he says. He dips his face and kisses my neck again.
And though we’re both hungry, getting ourselves dressed and out the door is something of a production. First, there’s the challenge of finding his clothes—which are mostly in the living room but managed to end up in a couple of other places, too—then, the matter of actually getting dressed without distracting each other too much. It takes me five solid minutes to put on my bra because Dante keeps coming up behind me and sucking on my neck. And when I’m halfway into a clean dress, he grabs me and pushes me up against the wall and kisses me until I can’t remember my name, let alone how to use a zipper.
“Are you sure you don’t just want to skip breakfast?” I ask him when he pulls away.
The gleam in his eyes makes me think he’s seriously considering it, but then he shakes his head. “Let’s go out. I want the whole world to know how I feel about you.”
My belly fills with warmth. All of this seems too good to be true. Any moment now I’ll probably wake up. Alone.
But if this is a dream, I’m going to follow it to the very end.
“Let me get my shoes,” I say, adjusting my dress. “And find my purse. Oh—and I should probably call Mama Pat and let her know I’ll be late.” I can’t believe I almost forgot about work. I never forget about work—it’s not exactly an option when you run your own business. Dante has me all distracted.
A few minutes later, I’ve found my cell phone and dialed Mama Pat.
“Ash, honey? Is everything okay?”
“Everything’s great,” I say cheerfully. More than great, truth be told. “Look, Mama Pat—I was wondering if you and Jilly might be able to hold down the fort this morning. I—” Dante is behind me again, his arms sliding around my waist, his face in my hair. “I just needed to—” He nips my neck, and I bite down a cry of surprise and pleasure.
“Honey, take all the time you need,” Mama Pat says. “I’ve been telling you for months that there’s no reason for you to be here a hundred hours a week. Jilly and I will manage just fine.”
“The dough for the croissants is on the top shelf in the walk-in,” I tell her. I try to push Dante’s face away, to eliminate any distractions while I go over the day’s tasks with Mama Pat, but he just catches my hand and begins kissing my fingers one by one. “I—make sure Jilly remembers to discount the banana bread. I want it gone by the end of the day. And there’s a man coming in to pick up a dozen chocolate cupcakes at three, and—”
“And Melissa Varner is coming to get five pies—two cherry, two apple, and one mixed berry. She’ll be in at four. I’m looking at the order right now. It’s a light day, as far as orders go. I think we’ll manage just fine, my dear.”
“I should be in later. I don’t know what time—”
“Take the whole day, dear. You deserve some time off. When was the last time you had a vacation?”
Since I opened the bakery? Never. And Mama Pat knows that.
“I can call you after the post-church rush and give you an update, if that would make it easier,” she says. “Go on, dear. You know I’ll take good care of this place for you.”
“I know, Mama Pat.” I smile. “I do expect a call, though.”
“You’ll get one. Now go enjoy yourself.”
I hang up, finally allowing myself to pay attention to Dante. One of his arms is around my waist. The other still holds my hand to his mouth. He’s moved on from kissing and started sucking the fingers one by one.
“We—we should go,” I manage. “If we want to actually make it to breakfast, I mean.”
“Agreed.” He pulls my fingers away from his mouth, but he keeps his hand around mine as we walk toward the door. I stop in the foyer to survey my hair in the mirror—it’s a mess, even for me—but as I start to fiddle with the strands, Dante spins me around to face him.
“You look beautiful,” he says, smoothing my hair back from my face.
“Actually, I look like I just rolled out of bed.”
“The last time I checked, those two things weren’t mutually exclusive.”
I laugh and blush at the same time. “I’d still rather not go out in public looking like I just had a roll in the hay.”
The corner of his mouth tilts up. “Even if that’s the truth?”
“Especially if that’s the truth.” I spin back around and face the mirror again. “I’m not used to… I mean, I don’t really have experience with this sort of thing. Dating, I mean.” And the fact that Dante is famous adds an entirely new layer of complication. Dante—even tousled, tired, wearing-yesterday’s-clothes Dante
—still looks every bit the celebrity. If I’m going out in public with him, I want to look at least moderately presentable.
I can feel his eyes on me as I play with my hair, twirling it and tucking it behind my ears in an attempt to tame the wild waves. His hand rests on my lower back—we can’t seem to keep from touching each other, even for a moment—and there’s something so quietly intimate about him watching me that my whole body starts to feel all trembly again. My eyes meet his in the mirror, and he pulls me back against him.
“You’re so beautiful,” he says. “I mean that. Even disheveled and fresh out of bed, you outshine everyone else.”
“You’re just saying that because you’re the one who took me to bed in the first place.”
“No. I’m saying it because it’s the truth. In my line of work, I see a lot of objectively beautiful women. But you… you have something else. I can’t even begin to describe it, not in any way that would do it justice.”
His arms tighten around my waist, and his face turns so that his lips are against my hair. I relax back against him.
“I love you, Ashlyn,” he whispers. “Maybe this isn’t the right time to say it, but I want you to know that.”
My chest tightens. Yesterday, before I saw that issue of Celebrity Spark, I thought he was content to go our separate ways. Today, he’s telling me he loves me. Is this real? Can I trust it?
But when life gives you everything you ever wanted—even when you’ve spent the last few years trying to convince yourself that you don’t want it—you don’t push it away.
“I love you, too,” I whisper. It feels so wonderful to say that out loud, to admit all of the feelings I’ve tried to repress. “I never stopped loving you.” I twist around in his arms so I can face him properly, and in an instant his lips are on mine.
I could kiss him forever. Longer than forever. But after a moment, he pulls back—though he doesn’t release me from his arms. Instead, he stares down at me like he can’t believe what he’s seeing, and his smile is breathtaking.
