Ache for You (Slow Burn Book 3)

by J. T. Geissinger

  He sets the glass on the bedside table without looking away from me, murmuring, “But you know I won’t let you suffer too long.”

  I make an incoherent peep of lust and squirm some more.

  He straddles me, kneeling on either side of my hips and planting his hands beside my head. Staring down into my eyes, he says, “Or maybe I will. I haven’t decided yet.”

  Before I can sling a few voodoo curses at him, he lowers his head and sucks my nipple through the nightie, making me arch and gasp.

  “Mmm. Lace.” He tugs at the fabric with his teeth, scraping it across my nipple, making me gasp again. Then he pushes the nightie down, fills his hands with my breasts, and goes back and forth between them, nibbling and sucking until I can barely draw a breath.

  “So pink and hard,” he whispers, softly kissing around one aching nipple. “Wet from my tongue. Where else are you pink and wet, bella?”

  God please find out please find out and hurry up about it. I don’t dare speak, because I’m afraid it will break the spell, and he’ll go back to being angry and giving me space.

  The last thing in the world I want from him at this moment is space.

  He slides his big hands down my ribs until they span my waist. He squeezes, his eyes dark, his grip just this side of hard. I can tell he’s controlling himself, he’s working hard to go slow, and it thrills me to know he’s as excited as I am.

  He follows the curve of my hips down to my thighs, then slowly pushes up the hem of my nightie.

  “No panties,” he breathes, staring down at me with avid eyes. He slips a thumb into my wetness and strokes it up and down as I moan and rock my hips, my nipples tingling.

  Looking at me spread open, his fingers between my legs, he grips his erection in his other hand and squeezes it through his trousers.

  Wowzers. I almost faint from desire.

  He draws his zipper down and pulls his hard cock out of his boxer briefs, fisting it at the base. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, watching me with hooded eyes as I flex my hips in time to the movement of his thumb. “God, you turn me on.”

  “Right back atcha, hot stuff. I need to touch you.”

  I strain against the belt, tugging my wrists, but he’s got me tightly bound. Why that should be so hot, I don’t know, but I can’t remember ever feeling this wound up. The air against my skin is excruciating. The sheets under my body are a bed of hot coals.

  His hands work both of us until I’m panting and sweating, about to break. “Please. Oh God, please.”

  “What do you want, sweetheart?”

  “Please make me come.”

  “How? Mouth or cock?”

  I let out a low guttural moan, rolling my head on the pillow, and he chuckles.

  “Certo. Both.”

  He lowers his head between my thighs and replaces his thumb with his tongue.

  I suck in a breath through my teeth, exhaling hard when he slides a finger inside me. “Ohh . . .”

  He grunts into me. It’s dirty and hot, and I love it. I love it so much I open my legs wider and rock my hips against his tongue, moaning like a porn star when he reaches up to tweak my hard nipple.

  Leather cuts into my wrists. Matteo’s rough cheeks scrape against my bare thighs. I’m trembling and panting and desperate for him, for him to fill me, fuck me, tell me how he feels about me as he spills himself inside my body and claims me for his own.

  I arch hard against the bed, pulling at my restraints, the ache between my legs gathering into burning hot pins and needles. Almost—almost—

  As I’m about to go over the edge, his mouth vanishes. Then he slaps me lightly between my legs where his tongue just was, right on my throbbing clit.

  I come, screaming.

  He grips one of my knees and opens my legs wider, and slaps me again. And again.

  And again.

  I cry out, the pleasure so intense it’s almost pain.

  He speaks to me in Italian as I writhe, his tone low and urgent, the words spilling out in a rush that becomes a musical hum in my ears. I’m helpless, lost, jerking and wailing, begging him not to stop in a voice that doesn’t sound like my own.

  “Beautiful. Beautiful,” he whispers raggedly, and slaps me again.

  When the last convulsion passes and I’m drenched and limp on the sheets, every part of me aching, I burst into tears.

  “Sweetheart, oh sweetheart, oh God, did I hurt you? What’s the matter?”

  Matteo is frantic, ripping the belt off my wrists and gathering me into his arms. I sob against his chest, clinging to him, until I catch my breath and my tears slow.

  He takes my face in his hands. “I’m so sorry! I thought you liked it, I thought it felt good for you, I should have asked—”

  “Don’t be sorry. That was the most incredible orgasm of my life.”

  He stills. His eyes search my face. “Really?”

  I nod, sniffling. “Yes, really. I think I saw God.”

  He exhales in relief, squeezing me so hard I think he might snap me in half. “Jesus.”

  “Him too. There might have also been cherubs.”

  Matteo starts to laugh, softly at first, then louder. “What am I going to do with you?”

  “More of the same, please.”

  He takes us back down to the bed and kisses me with so much tenderness it leaves me shaking. He dries my face with his fingertips and his lips, kissing away the tears, murmuring such sweet things I feel like my heart could break from hearing them. I wrap my legs around his waist and my arms around his shoulders and tell him to take off the rest of his clothes.

  “Oh.” He goes still again.

  “What is it?”

  “I didn’t bring a condom.”

  I understand by the look on his face why not. “Like when a woman doesn’t shave her legs before a date so she won’t be tempted to have sex.”

  “Exactly.”

  I take a breath for courage and say, “I’m clean. I was just tested. So . . .”

  His lids droop a little, and his voice drops. “So . . . bare is what you’re saying.”

  I bite my lip, nodding. “As long as you’re clean, too.”

  “I am,” he answers instantly. “I have the papers at the house if you want me to go get them.”

  I give him a look that says, Shut the hell up.

  He grins. “Okay. Now that that’s out of the way.” He jumps up, stands on the side of the bed, and strips.

  When he’s finished and is standing there naked in all his glory, I slowly shake my head in awe. “Wow. Just . . . wow.”

  “Thank you. I think.”

  “Get your ass in this bed this instant.”

  He’s a good boy and obeys without batting a lash, jumping on top of me with a fake animal growl and tickling me until I shriek. Then he slides inside me and the shrieking stops, replaced by deep groans.

  Into my ear he says huskily, “You’re soaked.”

  “Your fault.” I gasp as he thrusts, driving deeper. “Oh God, this is all your fault if you stop I will kill you.”

  “And so hot,” he whispers, thrusting again. “You feel so amazing. You feel like heaven, bella, fucking heaven.”

  I open my thighs and take him deeper, grabbing him by the scruff of the neck. When my nails scratch his scalp, things turn intense. He bites my neck. I bite his shoulder. His fingers dig into my ass. Mine dig into his back. He starts to fuck me, hard, grunting and hissing out such wonderfully filthy things it makes my cheeks burn.

  I love it. I love it all. Every dirty word. Every possessive bite. Every single pinch, stroke, and groan he gives me.

  When he shudders, making a soft agonized noise, I know he’s close. Close and holding back so I can get there first.

  But I want to get there together.

  Into his ear I whisper, “I have an IUD. Come inside me.”

  “God,” he says, his voice strangled. “Could you be any more perfect?”

  Then I can’t think anymore because
I’m riding a cresting wave, higher and higher, up into the bright endless blue of the sky. The roar of the wind blocks my ears. The sun burns my face, the smell of his skin sears my nose, and I’m flying.

  The wave breaks over me. The roar of the wind becomes the sound of my name as he throws back his head and shouts it, his body tight and straining, surging against mine.

  I fall and fall and fall, tumbling, twisting, turning, letting go of my last shred of resistance when he spills himself inside me and cries out something in his language that sounds like a prayer.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  We sleep.

  I wake with his hand on my breast, his hardness and heat against my back. We make love again, slowly, quietly, on our sides. I’m glad I’m not looking at his face because I’m so emotional I fight tears the entire time.

  I never expected to feel so much. My chest aches from holding it all inside. I love you is on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t say it, even afterward when we’re lying entangled with our breath and pulses slowing, sweat cooling on our skin, and he’s tenderly smiling down at me with his heart in his eyes.

  Love made such a willing fool of me before. I need to be 100 percent sure this time that I’m not being blind.

  “You’re thinking.”

  His voice is thick with sleep and satisfaction. He strokes a hand up my spine, burying it in my hair, and pulls me closer against him.

  “How could you tell?”

  “I smell something burning.”

  “Ha.”

  We’re quiet for a time, though it feels as if a thousand things are being said. His hands are spinning stories against my skin. His strong, steady heartbeat underneath my cheek is selling promises. His smile is a fairy tale I want nothing more than to believe.

  “Tell me.”

  I sigh, happy and melancholy, peaceful and scared shitless all at the same time. “This might be easier for me to deal with if you were poor and looked like Shrek.”

  “I’ll sell the castle and give all the money to charity,” he says promptly. “I’ll gain two hundred pounds and paint myself green.”

  “Good.” I hide my face in his chest.

  He cradles me in his arms, kissing my temple, nuzzling my ear, chuckling a bit at my stupidity. “If it makes you feel any better, from now on I’ll only tell you all the things I find irritating about you.”

  I jerk my head up and glare at him. “Like what?”

  He presses his lips together to keep from laughing. “Your calm, even temper, for instance. Your sweet, loving tongue.”

  I say tartly, “You thought my tongue was pretty sweet when it was wrapped around your dick.”

  His eyes flare. He murmurs, “My kingdom for that mouth.”

  My heart skips a beat. Suddenly breathless, I say, “You don’t have a kingdom, Count.”

  “The hell I don’t.”

  I roll my eyes when his smug smile makes an appearance. “Okay. Sure. You’re the king of the fashion world. The ruler of ready to wear. The liege of lederhosen—”

  “You know I don’t make lederhosen,” he growls, rolling me onto my back so I’m pinned underneath him. “And call me Count one more time . . .” He lowers his head and nips my breast.

  “Ow!”

  Warm and soothing, his tongue slides over the place he just nipped.

  I scowl at the top of his head. “You bit my boob!”

  He sends me a smoldering look. With a rough edge to his voice, he says, “You fucking loved it.”

  My stomach drops, like it always does when he looks at me that way. When he rises up on his elbows and takes my head in his hands, my stomach bottoms out altogether.

  “And you love me, too. Don’t you?”

  His eyes bore straight down into me, blue lasers searing my soul, daring me to lie to him.

  “I thought . . . you wanted me . . . space.”

  It’s all I can string together. My brain is mush from the way he’s looking at me. From his words and his intensity, from the effort of holding back my enthusiastic Yes!

  “I want you to tell me how you feel about me,” he says, looking right into my eyes. “I want you to be brave and put it all out there. To my face this time. We can take it slow. It doesn’t have to change anything. But if you don’t think this is going anywhere, I need to know. I meant what I said yesterday. I can’t be a rebound. For anyone else, yes, but not for you.”

  I bite my lip so hard it hurts. “I already told you I’ve never wanted anything as much as I want you.”

  He waits, unblinking, watching my face.

  “And that I’m terrified you’ll break my heart.”

  He’s as still as a stone.

  Holy guacamole, this guy can be intimidating.

  “What else?” he prompts.

  “That’s not enough?”

  “Indulge me.”

  I moisten my lips, wishing my heart would settle into a steady rhythm. “I don’t think you’re a rebound.”

  “You don’t think?”

  Oh shit. Bad choice of words. “I mean I’m pretty sure.” When he blanches, I quickly add, “I’m almost a hundred percent sure!”

  He withdraws from me like you’d recoil from a big steaming pile of dog doo on the sidewalk. He turns his back to me and sits on the edge of the mattress with his head in his hands.

  I sit up, pulling the sheet up to cover my bare breasts, and try not to panic. He wanted the truth. He asked for the truth!

  Yes, he did, and you’re a moron if you think it’s what he really wanted to hear.

  I whisper, “Please don’t be angry with me.”

  He shakes his head, exhaling heavily. “I’m not. I’m angry with myself.”

  When he stands and starts to get dressed, the option of not panicking vanishes. “Matteo, please don’t go. Let’s talk about this.”

  “Why? Will it change anything?”

  “Please, I want you to understand—”

  “I understand perfectly,” he says, ice crackling in his voice. “This is what I was trying to avoid. This is why I told you to take your time. Then you got drunk and told me I was what you were looking for. You paid me wonderful compliments. You even complimented my hair.”

  He sounds disgusted, as if he can’t believe I stooped so low.

  “You gave me everything I wanted. You gave me all of you. You let go. Only you didn’t, because when I asked you if you loved me, you wouldn’t say yes.” His eyes are fierce. “Not because you couldn’t, because I think you do. You wouldn’t.”

  “You’re the one who keeps telling me I need time!”

  “You do!” he thunders. “And you’re going to get it!”

  I watch in shock as he yanks on his pants and shirt. He stuffs his feet into his shoes without putting his socks on, grabs his keys from the dresser, and stalks out of the room without so much as a See ya later.

  “Don’t you dare cry,” I warn myself, listening to Matteo’s car engine roar to life outside. “Don’t you dare.”

  I go into the shower and stand with my face turned up to the spray so I have an excuse for all the water pouring down my cheeks.

  The rest of the morning without him feels endless and empty. My heart hurts. I don’t know if I should call him or leave him alone to cool down. I suspect he’s right that the only thing that will fix this is a separation, but I hate it.

  On the other hand, I’ve finally discovered what other flaws he has besides a gigantic ego: the man has a temper that’s just as fast to flare into dragon mode as my own. I probably shouldn’t be happy about it because I can already see a lot of fights in our future that could’ve been better handled with calm conversation.

  But then again, makeup sex is a pretty awesome silver lining.

  When I walk into the shop, Clara takes one look at me and starts to judge.

  “You chased the sperm, didn’t you?”

  “Relationships are more complicated than eggs and sperm, Clara!”

  “You want a complicated relation
ship, get a cat. Men are as complex as ferns. Don’t overthink it.”

  She goes back to her embroidery, and I go into my office and do a face-plant on my desk. Ten seconds into it my phone rings.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, Kimber.”

  I flatten myself into my chair and stare at the ceiling. “Hi, Brad. Will you do me a favor?”

  “Sure! What is it?”

  “The next time I develop feelings for someone, just shoot me in the heart and Super Glue my vagina.”

  There’s a long concerned pause. “I take it the Matteo situation isn’t improving.”

  “Correct.”

  “Do you want me to talk to him?”

  My eyes almost pop out of my head. “Of course not! Was that a joke?”

  “I’m just saying, it might help. I can explain to him about your personality.”

  “What about my personality?” I demand, jerking upright in the chair.

  He calmly continues on, as if he isn’t in danger of being murdered. “The stubbornness. The temper. The way you always have to win. I won’t tell him about the gas, though. He’s on his own in that department.”

  I do another face-plant on the desk, groaning. “How is this my life?”

  “In other news . . .” He pauses for dramatic effect. “I’m moving here.”

  “Here? Where here? I’m very confused.”

  Brad sighs loudly. “To Florence! Isn’t that awesome?”

  “I can think of a few other words,” I say through gritted teeth. “Why are you moving here? Your whole life is in San Francisco!”

  “No it’s not. You’re here.”

  That leaves me utterly speechless. I must have done something really terrible in a previous life for the universe to treat me so cruelly.

  Then he adds sheepishly, “And so is Gio.”

  “Gio?”

  “Giancarlo. I told you about him.”

  It takes a moment to sink in, then I’m astounded. “You’re that serious about this guy? Already?”

  “Oh hellooo, pot,” he says drily. “Kettle here. Let’s have lunch and talk about the definition of irony.”

  I see he’s developed a biting sense of snark since he decided to come out. Maybe I have Giancarlo to thank for that. Good for him. “What about your parents?”