Deviant Prince [Romano Brotherhood, #2]

27 | Vivienne

I've always hated it when, in romance books, the guy knows the girl's body better than she does. When one kiss from him reduces her into a trembly mess and she's all overcome because, oh my God, it's just never felt like this before, and it never will again! Like he owns the key to her pleasure, and he'll never give it up, not even to her.

I can't decide what sounds worse—another person knowing me that thoroughly, or never experiencing that soul shattering connection in the first place. Because in the romance books, unless you're into sadism, they end up together. But what are you supposed to do in real life when shit goes south and you've let someone else own every single piece of you?

Personally, I stick to finding my own pleasure and letting the men I fuck follow suit. Even as an inexperienced teenager first discovering sex, I never let a man dictate anything about my body; and if he did, I made sure that at the end of the day, I still owned it.

Is this reflecting a deep-rooted issue I have with intimacy? Potentially.

And am I about to eat my own words? Fucking certainly. And choke on them, too.

Because Massimo kisses me like he's starved for my breath. He crushes me into the wall, owning me with the demanding pull of his lips, and even though our kiss is the only place we touch, the rest of me feels him, burns for him, like I never have before. 

It's not like those other times he let me take the lead and set the pace. That seemed almost like a more inexperienced side of him, the one he defaulted to before he became comfortable letting me see that he desires me. This—the bruising drug of his kiss, the way he licks into me with the perfect amount of teeth, tongue, and breath—is the touch of an experienced man, well versed in giving pleasure.

It's cruel just how much he makes me feel, and how easily he does it. His control of my body is almost subconscious, in fact, but it's too alive—too lethal—to be considered mechanical.

Massimo drops to his knees.

It's not what I'm expecting, and it leaves me gasping for air at the loss of contact. Deliriously, I wonder how in the hell I went so long without kissing a man who makes me trust that he knows my body like the back of his hand. He could set the world on fire after this and I might be too drugged from his touch to care.

But Massimo kneels, his powerful thighs straining his finely tailored slacks. At some point he discarded his jacket. His dress shirt is crisp and clean, like fresh snow. He's so fucking perfect. Every belt loop, button, and seam is exquisitely in place. And so is the expression on his face as he slides my pants down my legs and runs an unhurried finger over my wet slit. Almost clinically.

He's at my feet, but he's in charge. I move to touch him, to steady myself. I want to mess up his hair a little, yank on it in that way he likes, but he shakes his head, his voice crackling between us. "No touching. Lift this." He taps one of my thighs and helps me maneuver it over his shoulder.

"Yes," he exhales, a pleasure-laden sigh, and fuck, watching him press an open mouth to my panties is like electroshock to my nerves. He sucks my clit through the thin cotton, his nose brushing my pubic bone.

Yearning, mistrust, and desire swirl in my belly. It's hard work to keep my hands pressed flat to the wall, but I'm willing putty beneath his lips. Reluctantly but excitedly, I'm giving up control. Just like he's always wanted.

He pulls back, showing his first sign of impatience when he yanks my panties down my hips. "Step out of this," he orders calmly, letting me stand on two feet so he can toss them away, dragging powerful hands up my thighs, kneading my ass roughly. My slick arousal turns into an almost painful throbbing as delighted shivers follow his touch.