I tried to reinitiate my assault, but he bowed away and caught my wrists. “Nico. Let me touch you.”

“Elizabeth.” He brought my hands behind my back, held me in place. “You take off your shirt first.”

“It’s actually three shirts and sports bra.”

“Well . . .” He looked lost, forlorn. He breathed out, incredulous. Abruptly, as though suddenly struck by genius, he grinned then reached into his back pocket. I only had a moment before I recognized his intent, eyeballing the large pocket knife in his hand.

I stepped back, covering my chest. “What are you doing?”

“I’m cutting your clothes off.” He reached for the first tie and batted my hands away. “Hold still.”

I opened my mouth to object, but was too late. Nico, with a force that was as hurried as it was careful, dissected first my sweater, then my other sweater, then my shirt. In all it took him maybe fifteen seconds. His eyes burned brighter with each opened layer, roughly pulling them from my shoulders then discarding them on the floor.

It was hot. I liked it. His hands pawed at me, and his mouth captured mine for quick kisses. When I was down to my sports bra, I moved as though to pull it off, but he stilled my movements, slipped his finger under the elastic, made a single cut, then tore it in two.

Oh Nico.

Chapter 22

Dear Reader—I’ve included two versions of Chapter 22 in this book. The first describes a “closed door” love scene where specifics of the scene are minimal. The second version of Chapter 22 describes an “open door” love scene where the specifics of the scene are provided. I’ve included both so that you, the reader, can choose the chapter which matches your comfort level/preference. I know this is unusual! But I’m not afraid of taking chances and trying new things; obviously neither are you if you’re reading my book ;-)

—Sincerely, Penny Reid

Closed Door Love Scenes

Nico’s hands and mouth were greedy and unrelenting. I purposely overlooked the irrationality of making love in an elevator. In fact, I didn’t care where we were. All I knew was that we were finally, finally touching like I needed, like I’d been starving for.

I was blind to everything other than the fact that I needed him—his touch, his strength and caresses, his sweet words. As ludicrous as it was, my mind couldn’t fathom waiting another moment, not even the five minutes or less it would take to get to my apartment.

Nico seemed to feel the same urgency. At first his movements were frantic, rough, focused, needy. He murmured to himself, words of desire and wanting, seemingly lost in us and the moment; but then gradually, as though sensing his power over me, he became teasing and maddeningly, adorably arrogant.

Freaking Nico!

I couldn’t help but try to tease him in return. Then his eyes and my name on his lips were my undoing. He looked lost; yet in that moment I felt found. I waved my white flag of surrender.

I soothed him by reminding him that I loved him, I repeated the words over and over until they became a chant. I loved this man. I wanted all of him, everywhere, surrounding me, always. I wanted to breathe him in and own him, possess him. I wanted to be everything to him as he had become to me.

He drew out my moans and sighs. His hands explored the peaks and valleys of my body with a covetous command. And when we found each other I was overwhelmed by our shared bliss as I gazed into his beautiful green eyes.

I hoped he saw the love I witnessed in him reflected in me. I hoped he knew how momentous and real my feelings were. I hoped he understood that what we did was not lightly done. It was a pledge. A gift.

And it was meant only for him.

~*~

We made our way back to my place shortly after recovering from the dazed euphoria that accompanies great love making. In complete honesty, I don’t know if we would have ever left the elevator if given the choice. However, it started to move, and I yelped at the realization that all my clothes, but my leggings were shredded—by his knife—and in tatters on the floor.

In typical Nico fashion he allowed me to panic for a few seconds before offering me his T-shirt. I pulled it on along with my leggings just in time. The doors opened to the lobby; Nico pulled me against his chest and improvised a ludicrous story to the waiting mechanic.

The man looked not at all impressed, never cracked a smile, then gave us both a knowing, annoyed once over. Wordlessly, he sent us on our way.

We stumbled into my apartment, laughing and kissing and—at least I was—embarrassed.

“Unlike you, I’m not used to people seeing me without my clothes on,” I told him.

Nico shrugged out of his jacket, threw it over his shoulder like he hated it, then kicked my door closed. He tugged at the T-shirt on my shoulders. “I’ve never understood why people in the US get so stirred up about nudity.”

“Maybe because we value modesty!” I swatted at his hands unsuccessfully; he, somewhat roughly, pulled the shirt off and threw it across the room, again like he hated it.

“But why hide such . . .” His gaze devoured me, my bare shoulders, chest, stomach; he gripped the edge of my pants and used his leverage on the material to yank me forward, against his chest. “Perché nascondere una cosa così bella?[6]”

And that’s when it happened.

In that moment the world tilted, and I lost complete control of my female organs. Apparently my vagina, uterus, and ovaries were Italian and, when spoken to in Italian by Nico Manganiello, no longer belonged to me. I had no idea what he’d said. Just the sound, coming from his mouth—no lie—was the sexiest thing ever of all time.

I felt woozy and leaned against him, my lashes fluttered like butterfly wings.

“Elizabeth? Are you okay?”

When I spoke I noted that my voice sounded strangely hoarse. “I—I didn’t know you could speak Italian.”

“Yeah, we all spoke it at home, and I learned to speak and write it properly a few years ago.”

“Why-why-why would you do that?”

He surveyed me, uncertain; his big hands stilled on my waistband except for his thumb rubbing little circles over my hips. “Does it bother you? O ti piace?[7]”

I shuttered, gripped his shoulders, and my eyes drifted shut. “Oh god.”

He chuckled then tsked.

“Mi fai impazzire[8],” he whispered against my ear. Nico licked my neck then blew on the wet spot which immediately made me shiver. “Ho cercato di dimenticarti, ma è impossibile.[9]”

“Guh . . .”

“I tuoi occhi hanno il colore del cielo in estate [10]. . .” He trailed light kisses down my throat and removed my pants. “Ti amo da sempre[11].”

“Oh!” I arched against him, my nails dug into his back. I fought another shudder. I failed.

He slid his fingers up my legs, his touch light behind my knees. “Il contatto con la tua pelle. Oh, non ne ho mai abbastanza[12].”

I pressed against him like a cat and reached for his pants, frustrated. His unknown words were seriously making me mindless. I was beyond modesty or shame. I was in an uncharted, murky realm of arousal where I couldn’t quite control the sounds I made nor the movements of my body.

“Mmm. Il tuo fragranza[13] . . .” He shifted out of my reach as he bit me. I could only moan my disappointment.

Nico pushed my shoulders, and I fell backward. I didn’t realize until my back hit the mattress that he’d managed to move us to the bed. He loomed over me, stood at my knees, his eyes glittering with delicious wickedness.

“Please . . .” At this point I was really a-okay with begging.

Nico grinned. If I hadn’t been in a near coma of turned-on-ness I would have been highly aggravated by the grin. It was colossally confident.

“Anche se a volte sei più testarda di un mulo[14].”

He unbuttoned his pants very, very slowly. He was driving me to madness.

“Mi piace la passione che è in te. La tua lingua tagliente mi eccita da morire[15].”

Nico’s movements were tortuously unhurried. With continued languidity, he lowered himself to me. “Non ti lascerò mai andare[16].” His eyes were suddenly sober, serious, and they held mine. I stilled my movements. “Ti amo[17].”

I blinked at him. Even through the sensual cloud I registered the meaning of his words.

Ti amo. I love you.

I swallowed, brushed my lips against his, and panted breathlessly in return, “Ti amo, Nico.”

He nudged my nose with his, his eyes wide. “D'ora in poi non c'è modo di tornare indietro. Sei mia, per sempre[18].” His eyes lit from within with blazing ferocity, scorching satisfaction.

He claimed me with heartbreaking gentleness. Our breath met; I breathed him in. I held him to me, wrapped my arms around his neck, wanted to be fully saturated in him, completely crushed.

As I returned to earth I couldn’t help but brood over the fact that he could have just read me a restaurant menu and I would have been blissfully ignorant. He had a fatal weapon, and I was rendered stupid, powerless against it.

Italians who speak Italian should be illegal, or at least come with warning labels—may make your panties explode.

Chapter 22

Open Door Love Scenes

He hastily tugged the ruined garment from my shoulders and brushed his knuckles under my br**sts. He moaned. I shivered. Nico had barely touched me with anything but his burning, twinkly eyes, and I was panting.