Page 57 of My Italian Love Affair

But as my hand dips beneath the waistband of my pantiesand moves lower still, I imagine that it isn’t mine at all.

I imagine that it’shis.

His hands brush over my skin as he moves lower, his mouth hot against the skin of my neck as he litters hot, burning kisses against my sensitive flesh.

My breathing grows uneven, pleasure building as I chase the fantasy.

I haven’t even touched myself yet and my thighs are already trembling as I imagine his weight pressing me back against the wall, his strong arms pinning me to it, his voice rasping in my ear…

I sigh in delight as my fingers slide between my thighs, the image of him burning into my eyelids.

I wouldn’t be able to escape it even if I tried.

I’m much too far gone now.

If only he knew how wet I am just from the thought of him alone.

If only he knew how I so desperately wish that he was here right now.

If only he knew how I’m thinking of him as I touch myself.

He had been so close to me today, and it had been the first time I’d really been able to appreciate his tall height and strong, athletic build. His proximity and the way that he towered over me is all that I can think of as I move my fingers towards my clit.

I sigh in delight as I delicately trace light, little circles over it, marvelling in the way it’s already pulsing and throbbing in excitement.

I picture his hands - all big and rough- sliding and grabbingand squeezing my flesh, and a shudder rolls through my body as my own fingers trace over the place I want him the most.

My head tilts back, elongating my neck.

All I can hear is the husk of his voice, low and smooth and breathing right in my ear, and it’s almost embarrassing how absolutely ruined I am just from his phantom whisper.

As my hands moves lower, I imagine his fingers stretching me out, so much thicker and longer than mine.

It’s good, of course - so,sogood.

But it isn’t enough.

My hand simply cannot compare to the imagined feel of his. My walls tighten with each squeeze of my fingers and each swipe of my thumb, and it’s just about enough to pretend that it’s him, to pretend that he’s the one touching me, encouraging me -

But it’s not the same.

God, I’m desperate for him. So eager that it almost hurts.

If he knew, would he give me what I craved?

Open your legs for me, giornalista.

Let me in.

I gasp out loud, my thighs parting wider just at the thought of his low voice and commanding tone.

My fingers graze over my clit as I think of the teasing words he’d say as he worked me up, edging me closer and closer to release.

You need it, don’t you?

I knew it.

I’ve known it all along.

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