Page 91 of The Slug Crystal
I laugh softly, my fingers tracing the line of his jaw. "My interest is very real. Empirically verifiable."
"In that case," he says, his voice dropping to a register I've never heard from him before, "further investigation seems warranted."
Before I can respond, he stands, lifting me effortlessly into his arms. I let out a surprised gasp, my arms instinctively wrapping around his neck. For a man who spends most of his time in libraries and laboratories, he's surprisingly strong.
"The bench isn't suitable," he explains, carrying me deeper into the pavilion where cushioned lounge chairs are arranged for daytime visitors. "Optimal conditions are essential for accurate results."
His academic phrasing makes me smile against his neck. "Forever a scientist."
"I've wanted to do this since I first saw you," he confesses, setting me down gently on the widest lounger. "Standing in that customs line, clutching a blue snail and looking so beautifully determined."
The admission sends heat spreading through me. Marco has always seemed the most detached of the group, hisinterest in our quest more scholarly than emotional. To know he's been watching me, wanting me, since the beginning feels like a monumental confession for him to share.
He lowers himself beside me, his movements deliberate as he traces the curve of my cheek with gentle fingers. "May I?" he asks, hand hovering at the top button of my blouse.
I nod, suddenly breathless. "Please."
Marco undoes each button with the same careful precision he uses when handling anything scholarly, his eyes following his fingers' progress as if cataloging every newly revealed inch of skin. When he pushes the fabric aside, his intake of breath is audible in the quiet night.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, tracing the lace edge of my bra. "Like a Renaissance painting come to life."
His words, delivered in that scholarly tone now laced with desire, are more arousing than I could have imagined. My fingers tangle in his dark curls, pulling him down to me for another kiss. This one is deeper, hungrier, his tongue exploring my mouth with the same methodical attention he's given my body.
I tug at his shirt, suddenly desperate to feel his skin against mine. He helps, pulling it over his head to reveal a chest more defined than his button-downs had suggested. He has lean muscles covered with a light dusting of dark hair that narrows to a tantalizing trail disappearing beneath his belt.
"You've been hiding this under tweed and linen," I tease, running my hands over his chest.
"Field research requires physical fitness," he responds, his smile almost shy. "Though I admit, this is the first time in a while that my exercise regimen has been properly appreciated."
My bra follows his shirt, tossed aside onto the stone floor of the pavilion. Marco's eyes darken as he takes in the sight of me half-undressed in the moonlight. His hand cups mybreast, thumb circling the nipple with exquisite precision until it hardens beneath his touch. When he lowers his mouth to replace his thumb, I arch off the lounger, a soft moan escaping me.
"Sensitive," he observes, his breath hot against my skin. "Fascinating."
His scientific commentary should be comical, but somehow it only heightens my arousal. This is Marco, after all, with his analytical mind and careful observations. Even in passion, he remains true to himself.
My hands find his belt, fumbling slightly in my eagerness. He helps, removing the rest of our clothing with efficient movements until we're both naked beneath the star-scattered sky. The night air is cool against my heated skin, raising goosebumps that Marco traces with gentle fingers.
"Cold?" he asks, concern momentarily replacing desire.
"Not even a little," I assure him, pulling him down until his body covers mine. The weight of him feels perfect, his skin burning against mine. His erection presses against my thigh, thick, hard, and pulsing. I reach between us to stroke him, delighting in his sharp intake of breath when my fingers close around his length.
"Emma," he groans, the sound of my name in his mouth sounding like a prayer.
His hand slides between my legs, finding me already wet for him. His fingers explore with deliberate strokes, mapping my body's responses with the same care he'd give to charting gastropod territory. When he finds the spot that makes me gasp, he focuses there, his rhythm steady and unrelenting until my hips buck against his hand.
"Not yet," he whispers, withdrawing his fingers. "I want to feel you."
He positions himself between my thighs, the head of his cock pressing against my entrance. His eyes find mine in the darkness, seeking final confirmation. I nod, beyond wordsnow, and he pushes forward slowly, filling me inch by careful inch.
"Oh god," I breathe as he seats himself fully inside me.
Marco remains still for a moment, his forehead pressed against my cheek, his breathing ragged. "You feel incredible," he says, his voice strained with the effort of control. "Like nothing I've ever experienced."
When he begins to move, it's with the same measured precision that characterizes everything he does. Long, deep strokes that withdraw almost completely before filling me again, each one slightly different as if he's conducting an experiment to determine exactly what brings me the most pleasure. My legs wrap around his waist, changing the angle and drawing him deeper.
"There," I gasp when he hits a spot that sends sparks shooting through my nervous system. "Right there."
Marco, a quick study, repeats the motion exactly, maintaining the perfect angle with scientific accuracy. His hand slips between us, finding my clit and circling it in time with his thrusts. The dual sensation is overwhelming, building pressure at the base of my spine that threatens to explode outward.
