Page 136 of Mine Again
Then I notice his fingers twitch. Just slightly. That’s when I realize where his hand is resting… on top of a blanket that’s very obviously tented.
I bite down on my lip to keep a groan from escaping and tell myself to keep breathing, to not give in to the rush of memories flooding through me.
Because I remember those fingers. The way they move. And the waythey stroke exactly what’s hidden beneath that blanket.
I also remember the look in his eyes as he stood over me, naked, his hand wrapped around his length, watching me as if I were something sacred. Right before he lowered his body over mine and claimed me.
Heat blooms across my skin, crawling up my neck, flushing my chest. My body stirs in ways it hasn’t for years… at least not while I was conscious.
A low groan cuts through the silence, and I freeze.
Was that me?
My eyes snap to Luca’s face.
Crap, he’s awake.
And staring right back at me.
I want the ground, or in this case, the bed, to swallow me whole.
He caught me staring. Lingering. Wanting.
I throw myself backward, my heart pounding out of my chest.
I have less than a minute to pull myself together before his head appears, sporting a cocky grin.
Spoiler alert: it wasn’t enough time.
His eyes lock on mine, that grin spreading wider as he props himself up on one elbow against the mattress.
“Well, if you want to do more than stare,farfalla, you only have to ask.”
His voice is still thick with sleep, but there’s a gravelly edge to it now. One that curls low in my stomach.
“Or,” he adds, eyes dropping to my lips, “you could keep gawking while I take care of what you woke up.”
My jaw drops. He didn’t just say that.
Heat floods my face. My ears. Probably my entire body.
“I wasn’t… I wasn’t gawking,” I stammer, scrambling for dignity and failing miserably.
He raises an eyebrow, not buying it for a second.
“No?” he teases. “Because it sure looked like you were remembering how good I make you feel… how I make you come.”
I make a strangled sound and snatch a pillow, flinging it at his head.
He laughs. Actual full-on laughs, and I hate how much I feel it. In my chest. In between my thighs.
“I hate you,” I mutter, collapsing back onto the bed and throwing an arm over my face.
“Funny,” he says. He seems closer now, like he’s moved beside the bed, “because your body doesn’t agree.”
And damn him, he’s right.
I grab another pillow and hurl it straight at his smug face.
