Page 89 of The Princess and the Paparazzi
By then, Lorelei and I will have swapped back.I only have tonight.
“If the grotto is what you wish for, I think I can grant that wish.” Rafe lifts me up in his arms as effortlessly as if he was lifting Orly and carries me back into the master suite, where he drops me on the bed and peels off his jacket. “Oh, I almost forgot!” He kneels to retrieve the jacket from the floor and pulls out the rose. “Kenna, will you accept this rose?”
“You goof!” I roll my eyes and take the rose from him, forgetting about it two seconds later when he pushes me back against the pillows. He’s kissing me so much more urgently now and hiking my dress up my hips. His hands reach under, and his thumbs hook in my panties.
“These have to come off.” He bends and tugs them down, raking a trail down my thighs with his fingertips and warm breath.
“Now you.” I pull on the collar of his shirt, beckoning him back up the length of my body. He takes his time getting there, making slow but steady progress with kisses that travel up from my ankle, across my calves to my knees, then through more sensitive and dangerous territory—up my inner thigh to my hip bone. I groan and arch my back as he places a knee between my legs and sits up to remove his shirt. Not nearly fast enough.
“Let me help,” I say, reaching to undo the buttons.
“What’s your hurry, Kenna?” Rafe teases, batting my hands away.
How can I tell him that I don’t want to waste any more time? I want to spend every moment I have left with him, without clothes on. No costumes, no barriers. Skin to skin.
“I just”—I blush at my own boldness—“I want to see you. All of you.”
“Likewise.” His eyes are shining, and he flings the shirt to the floor.
“Your turn,” he says, raising an eyebrow.
“This is not a fair game,” I say.
“Why not?”
“You have more clothes on than me.” If this was strip poker, I’d be in trouble. I just have two items to go—the dress and a strapless bra.
“Okay, I’ll even the score.” Rafe undoes his trousers, and in an almost balletic movement, removes them completely. He is wearing nothing but his boxers and socks. “Now we are both two for two.”
He’s kissing me again, all along my neck and back to my lips, plundering my mouth. His tongue is a tease, seeking out my response and retreating, playing with me.
“Time for this to go.” Rafe reaches under the silk bodice of my dress and tugs at my bra as he applies the wet-hot heat of his exquisite mouth to my breast, right through the fabric.
I try to reach around to undo the single hook, but he’s already got it undone. He’s snaking it out from under the dress and tossing it onto the growing pile of clothes.
“What next?” I walk my fingers along the waistband of his silky, boxer briefs, enjoying the way his now obvious arousal jumps as my hand flutters over it. The hard, lean lines of his stomach muscles form a V. And there is no missing the light dusting of dark hair that trails down from his belly button to the straining bulge below. I slide my hand lower and rest it there, feeling a bit like I’m petting a rather wild and unpredictable animal.
“Enough,” Rafe groans. He unzips and yanks the dress over my head, then bends to suck my nipple. The dress hits the floor, and then he is standing beside the bed, peeling off his shorts and kicking off his socks. He makes no move to hide his enormous erection as he bends toward the bed and picks me up, sliding himself against me in the process.
I am throbbing with desire for him now. He could simply lift and shift me slightly, and he’d be inside me. But instead, he takes a step back, walking us toward the bathroom.
“Shower time,” he says.
I wrap my legs around him, enjoying the friction of my sensitive nub rubbing against his treasure trail.
“We don’t have to—” I moan.
“Oh, yes we do,” he says, flicking on the steam and lowering the lights to a dim candle glow. “I’m still hungry, Kenna, and I intend to lick your plate clean. And after I do, I’m going to wash you by hand. Every last inch of you.”
Oh, my God. Or rather, oh, my Titanium Man.
My brain ceases to function in words. It’s regressed to the language of feeling and sensations as we slide against each other in the steamy grotto, hungrily seeking pleasure.
Rafe kneels between my legs, and I have to bite down on my hand to stop myself from crying out when the waves of pleasure crash over me. I’m almost embarrassed at how hard he’s made me come. And without him. I feel selfish. Particularly when he stands up and I observe the obvious evidence of his unrelieved need. It doesn’t seem fair.
“What about you?” I reach for him, thinking smugly to myself that I will never again wonder if he was “wearing a piece” in that skin-tight superhero costume. The answer to that question is right at my fingertips. On the tip of my tongue. Which I use to explore his tip, tasting him and trying out different rhythms to see how he reacts. I wrap my hand around the base of him and squeeze.
“Not yet.” His hand cups the back of my head, gently pulling me away. “I’m going to wash you now, and then I’m going to tuck you in and put you to bed properly.”
