Page 96 of Ricardo

The first touch is softer than the need behind it. It has to be. She is trembling, and I need to know whether it is fear or desire before I let myself want more, take more, give more.

Then her free hand comes to my shirt, fingers curling into damp cotton, and she kisses me back.

There is nothing uncertain about it.

A sound leaves her, low and needy, and whatever restraint I have left shatters.

I tilt my head, deepen the kiss, and her mouth opens under mine. She tastes like coffee and a faint trace of saltiness from her fries, warm and alive and everything I have not allowed myself to imagine.

Years of careful control, of building a life around order and protection and distance, all of it dissolves in the rain and firelight.

The blanket pools around her waist as she leans into me, her other hand sliding up my arm to my shoulder. Her touch is light, then firm, testing. My own hand moves from her jaw into her hair, damp and cool from the rain, and I angle her head just so, needing more.

Her fingers curl into my shirt, pulling me closer still. She shifts, her body pressing against mine from hip to shoulder, and the heat of her through the thin, damp fabric is staggering.

I have imagined this.

Not just the kiss, but the feel of her, the way she would move, the small sounds she would make. None of my imagination did this justice.

Her lips are soft, her kiss is hungry, and she is giving as good as she gets.

I shift, turning her until she is tucked against the back of the sofa, my body leaning over hers. Her hands slide up into my hair, and she makes another small, breathless sound that sends fire through my veins.

My mouth moves from hers to the line of her jaw, down the sensitive skin of her throat. She tilts her head back, exposing herself, and I taste the rapid pulse beating against my lips.

“Ricardo,” she breathes.

“Still with me?” I ask.

"God, yes." Her fingers tighten in my hair, a silent command that says more.

I return to her mouth, harder this time, and this time she is the one who pulls me closer. She shifts, wrapping one leg around my hip, pulling me down until I am flush against her.

The friction of our bodies, the heat and the pressure, makes me groan into her mouth.

Her dress is black and damp, and I find the zipper at the back. It slides down easily under my fingers. She arches her back slightly, giving me access, her hands still fisted in my hair as I kiss her again and again.

Then my knuckles brush the bare skin of her back.

She shudders, pressing harder into me.

My control is gone.

I slip my hand beneath the fabric, onto the smooth, warm curve of her lower back. She moans into my mouth, a raw sound that sends a bolt of pure desire straight through me.

The firelight flickers over her skin, catching in the deep red of her hair where it spills against the sofa cushions. Her head is thrown back against the sofa cushions, her lips swollen from my kisses, her eyes closed. I watch her for a half-second, committing this to memory, before my gaze falls to the pale cream of her collarbones with those delectable freckles dotted across them.

I lower my head and press my lips to her skin, tracing the line of one collarbone with my tongue. Her hands clutch at my shoulders, her breathing coming in ragged, shallow gasps.

“Ricardo,” she says again.

It is the plea in her tone that undoes me completely.

But first...

I pull back because I need air and sanity, though I am not sure either one is possible at the moment.

“Julia.”