Page 110 of I'm sorry, Princess
I throw the towel onto the floor and run a hand through my damp hair. I need to get out of these wet clothes. The soaked fabric clings to me, heavy and uncomfortable, a reminder that I dragged her into the bathtub fully dressed like a fucking idiot.
I strip everything off, my shirt, my pants, my boxers, all of it landing in a heap on the floor. I don’t give a fuck. Right now, all I care about is her.
She shifts in her sleep, rolling onto her side, her leg bending up just enough to give me a perfect fucking view of her ass.
For fuck’s sake.
I grit my teeth, forcing myself to look away.
I almost regret my choice of being a gentleman tonight.
Almost.
But then I exhale, shoving the thought away as I carefully slide her fully under the sheets, tucking her in. She’s so fucking small. Even with my massive bed, she barely takes up any space, looking soft and fragile and like she was meant to be here.
I hesitate for a second, then say fuck it and climb in next to her, pulling her into my arms.
Her body molds against mine instinctively, like she knows where she’s supposed to be, like she knows she’s mine.
And for the first time in a very, very long time, I fall asleep peacefully.
Chapter Thirty-one
Serena
Agasp escapes my lips, my body arching involuntarily as a wet, hot tongue circles my clit, teasing, sucking, making my entire core pulse with raw need. Pleasure coils deep inside me, unbearable and electric, spreading like wildfire through my veins.
I stir, my head still heavy from last night’s drinks, the whirlwind of emotions, the storm of tears, and Lorenzo.
I blink through my haze, scanning the unfamiliar surroundings. Black walls. Dim lighting. A massive king-sized bed draped in black silk sheets. And then, his mouth.
I moan again, the sound slipping from my throat before I can even stop it, and fuck, I don’t want to stop it.
Lorenzo’s tongue moves slowly, deliberately, licking me like he has all the time in the world. Like he enjoys this too much to rush it.
I pant, my fingers instinctively slipping into his thick, dark hair, gripping tightly as another wave of pleasure crashes over me.
His deep chuckle vibrates against my core, and I feel him smirk against my skin.
Cocky bastard.
“What—” I manage to whisper, my voice breathless, desperate. “What are you doing?”
His answer is almost lazy, sinful, his voice drenched in amusement.
“Having breakfast.”
And then, freaking hell.
He slides a finger inside me, curling it just right, finding that spot that makes my toes curl and my stomach tighten with unbearable need.
“Oh,” I whimper, rolling my hips against his mouth.
Another finger pushes in, stretching me, filling me, while his tongue keeps flicking, teasing, tasting, sucking. I swear I feel him groan, like he’s the one drowning in pleasure.
“Lorenzo, please,” I gasp, my body shaking, the pressure inside me spiraling into something dangerously close to shattering.
I need more. I need him.
