Page 179 of Freed
“Then come here.”
I climb onto the bed, but I don’t crawl into his arms. Not yet. I swing one leg over him and straddle his lap, settling over the hard ridge already pressing against his sleep pants.
His hands find my hips instantly.
“Elizabeth.”
I love the warning in his voice.
I love ignoring it more.
I roll my hips once, dragging myself over him. His grip tightens.
“Careful,” he says.
I lean down, brushing my lips over his. “No.”
That breaks something in him.
Lorenzo surges up, one hand spearing into my hair as his mouth takes mine. The kiss is rough. Hungry. All teeth and tongue and the kind of need that still shocks me after all this time. He kisses me like I’ve been gone for months instead of across the hall putting our children to bed.
His other hand slides down my back, over my ass, and he groans when he finds the lace soaked through.
“Jesus Christ.” His fingers press against me through the fabric. “You came in here like this?”
“I told you.” I nip his lower lip. “I need something.”
He drags the lace aside and slips his fingers through me, finding exactly how wet I am for him.
“Greedy wife.”
I shudder. “Always.”
He touches me with slow, practiced cruelty, rubbing my clit with his thumb while two fingers slide inside me. I gasp into his mouth, my hips jerking, but he catches me with his free arm and holds me against him.
“Quiet,” he murmurs. “Unless you want to wake the house.”
I bite his shoulder to muffle the sound.
He laughs under his breath. “That’s my good girl.”
The praise hits me like a match to gasoline.
I grind down on his hand, riding his fingers while he watches my face with that devastating focus of his. Like there is nothing in the world more important than the way I fall apart for him. His fingers curl and my back arches.
“Lorenzo.”
“I know.” His mouth brushes my throat. “I know exactly what you need.”
He rolls us suddenly, pinning me beneath him. The shift steals my breath. His body covers mine, heavy and hot, and then his mouth is moving down my body, over my breasts, my ribs, my stomach.
He pauses there. Just for a second. His lips press to the soft place beneath my navel, and my heart gives one hard, painful beat. Because he doesn’t know.
Not yet.
His mouth drifts lower before I can lose my nerve, and then he’s between my thighs, tearing the lace down my legs with less patience than skill.
“Lorenzo,” I whisper.
