Then he bent, extended his tongue and licked a circle around my right nipple. It was my turn to moan. I grabbed his shoulders, felt them work under my fingers. He was cutting me out of my pants.

That was also hot.

When my outer layer was speedily peeled away he cupped me through my leggings, and I arched against his hand.

“I can’t wait to taste you.” He whispered against my stomach, allowing his hot breath to spill over my chest, sharpen the goose bumps pricking my skin. “I’ve always wondered what you taste like.” I could tell he was speaking mostly to himself, but his words drove me a lot insane.

His thumbs curled into my leggings and underwear, yanked them downward; his breathing was uneven, excited, mirrored my own. I fumbled for the front of his pants, but he moved beyond my reach. Instead he roughly trapped me against the plush, velvet wall of the lift and kneeled between my legs. He hooked my knees over his shoulders and supported my bottom with his strength.

I sucked in a sharp breath as his tongue made contact with my center and nearly broke into a thousand pieces when he hummed against me. I gripped the wall, but could find no purchase. My hands grabbed fruitlessly—his shoulders, my thighs, his hair.

“Nico!”

He ignored my plea, instead teasing me with the movements—both frantic and languid— of his tongue, his fingers, his breath. Every time I felt close he would exasperate me by backing away, slowing his strokes to playful caresses; he wound me upward, left me dangling on the edge of reason, teasing me in love making like he teased me in life.

I tried moving, pressing into him, rubbing against his mouth; my resultant groans of frustration were involuntary. At one point I heard him laugh—a low, happy vibration—and in that moment I wanted to kill him. Finally, because he decided it was time, he sent me crashing into oblivion, hooking his finger and rubbing, stroking, licking, sucking.

My body shook, tensed, twisted, exploded. I cried out; I cried his name. My legs gripped the sides of his face like a vice and nonsensical words were wrung from me—sounding distant, unrecognizable to my ears.

Before I’d completely descended from the clouds, he steadied me with one hand and made quick work of his pants with the other as he stood. I was circling back to earth, and the sight of him, of his body against mine, his wet lips, his hooded eyes, made my insides tighten with an indescribably striking pain.

But then I noticed his smile. The bastard was giving me the boldest, brazenest, self-satisfied grin I’d ever seen. He was basically preening, obviously proud of himself.

Freaking Nico!

I reached for him, and he hissed, but then he pressed himself into my palm; his smile wavered. I arched an eyebrow and watched his face. He appeared a tad uncertain, lost, hesitant. I touched him, caressed him, teased him by sliding his hardness between my legs. He growled, sucked in a sharp breath as I brought his fingers—which moments ago had been inside me—to my mouth and sucked, swirling my tongue between his index and middle fingers.

My eyes were still half-lidded, hazy. Tremors continued to shake my core, but I wasn’t about to give him satisfaction without a little retaliation.

I slid against him; his fingers flexed on my backside. “God, I want you.”

“I know I’m good, but I’m not God, Nico.”

A tortured chuckle shook his chest, and he pressed me against the wall with his body, with intimidating strength. I enjoyed the delicious, sweet torture of his skin against mine, the friction of our mating. I bit the tip of his finger and scratched my nails down his side.

He hissed. “Be nice.”

“Nope.” I squeezed him, my hand caught between us, my thumb rubbing circles around his tip.

“Elizabeth . . .” My name was an appeal, a prayer; he looked like he was in pain. His pleading eyes melted my resolve. I slackened my grip and allowed him to lift me off my feet—which he did seemingly with complete ease—until I straddled him, my legs around his waist, my back against the lush fabric of the wall.

“Elizabeth,” he said my name again, his eyes wide, searching. “I love you so much."

“I know, Nico.” I nodded once, caressed his cheek with my fingers. His forehead touched mine. I arched as he entered me, and we both gasped.

I kissed him, hard. I loved this man. I wanted all of him, everywhere, inside me, surrounding me, always. I wanted to breathe him in and own him, process him. I wanted to be everything to him as had become to me.

We easily found our mutual rhythm, and my legs gripped his waist. His hands explored the peaks and valleys of my body with a covetous command, his thumbs drawing tight circles against my tightened ni**les. He bit me fiercely when my nails dug into his shoulders then soothed the abused flesh with his tongue. Our position pushed my br**sts forward, and he lavished them with hot, wet kisses.

He drew out my moans and sighs. I knew I was close, could feel the tightrope strain and pull and swore to God that I would beat Nico to death if he teased me now. My knees began to shake. I pulled his hair, forced his gaze to mine.

I was overwhelmed by both happiness and sadness as I gazed into his beautiful green eyes. I lost myself to another crashing wave of sublime insanity, and I cried, “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

I felt him come undone at my words; his eyes closed; his strong body held me against the wall until I could barely draw breath. He moved and shuddered and buried his head in my neck, losing himself in our combined blissful oblivion.

I hoped he saw his love reflected in me. I hoped he knew how momentous and real my feelings were. I hoped he knew 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.”

Nico shrugged out of his shirt, threw it over his shoulder like he hated it, then kicked my door closed. He tugged at the jacket 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 jacket off and threw it across the room.

“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?[19]”

And that’s when it happened.

In that moment the world tilted, and I lost complete control of my s*x or**s. 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 properly how to speak and write it a few years ago.”

“Why-why-why would you do that?”

His eyes narrowed, surveyed me; he hesitated. His big hands stilled on my waistband except for his thumb rubbing little circles over my hips. “Does it bother you? O ti piace?[20]”

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

He chuckled then tsked.

“Mi fai impazzire[21].” 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[22].”

“Guh . . .”

“I tuoi occhi hanno il colore del cielo in estate [23]. . .” He trailed light kisses down my throat and removed my pants as he moved. “Ti amo da sempre[24].”

“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 then between my thighs. “Il contatto con la tua pelle. Oh, non ne ho mai abbastanza[25].”

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

“Mmm. Il tuo fragranza[26]. . .” He shifted out of my reach as he bit me. I could only moan my disappointment.