The Beauty and the Brawler (11 page)
“I need a vibrator,” she murmured, staring blankly at the ceiling. “Why don’t I have a vibrator?”
Probably because she’d never had time for sex. Work was what she ate, slept, and breathed, new offers and opportunities always at her fingertips;so much so that any other needs became null and void. At least until Luciano. The danger with him was that he made her realize exactly what she’d been missing. By no means was Samara a saint, but she hadn’t exactly had the time to give to a man—even an electronic one.
Maybe that was the reason she’d pulled so far away so quickly. Her big, tough, huge-handed fighter caused her to realize things she never knew she wanted. Before this baby, before
him,
a family was the last thing on her mind, her only goal to build her media empire. Now here she was, in a dark room, tracing her walls with her eyes and wondering if Luciano was as awake as she was.
Turning her head, she glanced at the clock on her nightstand and winced. It was three a.m. and she had a drive to start at eight. She needed to be asleep. Now. Like right now. Uncurling her clenched fingers from her comforter, Samara rolled to her side, placed a hand on her tummy, and closed her eyes, rubbing the flesh there in soft circles, trying to attain the same comfort Luciano had give her last night.
It was the last time she remembered ever sleeping for a full nine hours and then some. No one had called to interrupt it. Not Trip, Paz, Ava, or even Nyssa. She briefly questioned if Luciano had anything to do with it. Maybe. The bastard did seem to be on a protective kick.
He’d also hit too goddamn close to home in the kitchen earlier. What Samara wanted in a man had consistently been a moot point. It wasn’t that she didn’t
want
a normal healthy relationship. She just understood that whomever she developed said relationship with had to be well aware that she had plans. Plans her partner either had to be in agreement with or step aside for. Her parents’ marriage was never a perfect one, but Maxwell and Carla Blackwell loved each other. That was the most important thing. The question was—was Samara looking for that? Was that what she wanted?
“What I
want
is a vibrator, goddammit,” she murmured, kicking her duvet off.
Flopping around on the bed in different positions didn’t help. Counting sheep didn’t, either. She even tried imagining herself sleeping and
nothing.
Nada. Zilch. Her brain just whispered, “Ain’t gonna happen, homie.”
Sitting up, she rubbed the back of her neck and stared at the door. Her plans
were being shot to shit, and it was all due to a few touches from one particular Italian. Her eyes narrowed. One particular Italian who sounded like he was in her goddamn kitchen at the moment. Was that...whistling? At
three a.m.?
He was up, in her kitchen,
whistling?
While she was in her room trying to reason with the needs of her suddenly very
demanding vagina?
Samara snarled a little as she tossed back the covers and headed for the door, snatching it open. She practically sprinted over the carpet to reach the kitchen in time to see Luciano leaning over into her refrigerator. He’d apparently gone shopping while she
had
been able to sleep.
“What’re you doing?” she demanded, trying to keep her eyes off the fact that he wasn’t wearing anything aside from a pair of gray boxer briefs, the globes of his ass briefly taking her back to the memory of how her hands gripped there, the nails digging in when he...
Thump!
“Son of a bitch!” He turned, rubbing the back of his now abused skull from where he’d bumped it, pulling away. Wincing, he squinted at her. “Why are you out of bed?”
“Why are you off my couch?”
Luciano looked like a little boy caught stealing more than one peppermint from the candy jar. “I got hungry...wanted to make a sandwich.”
“Yeah, well…” She shifted from one foot to the other, keeping her gaze on his and refusing to slide it any lower. “You woke me up.”
Dark brows rose. “Really.”
“Yes, really. This place is small.” It wasn’t. “I can hear everything.” She couldn’t. “You should really be more considerate.” He’d been tiptoeing around—it was by chance she'd even heard him but that wasn't the point, dammit!
He blinked then smirked, leaning against the counter as he folded his arms across his chest, the Italian proverbs around each bicep quite obvious.
Way
too obvious. “I’m beginning to wonder if the reason you can’t sleep is because you don’t have
me
to snuggle up to, Sammie.”
She blinked. “Bullshit.”
His quiet laug
h made butterflies take flight in her tummy. “Baby, all you have to do is ask me nicely, and I’ll come give you all the cuddling you want.” Luciano leered.
Face burning, Samara turned to run back to her room, slam the door, and lock it, but one huge hand caught her by the forearm and tugged her back. With a strong grip, Luciano grabbed her by her waist and set her on the counter, stepping between her splayed thighs.
“How about we use our big-girl voice to tell Papa Luc what’s wrong?” He wrapped his arms around her middle, bringing his chest flush with her own.
She sucked in a huge breath. “I’m not calling you that.”
His lips curled at the corners. “I have the sneaky suspicion you want to call me
something.”
“Stop that,” Samara snapped.
“Stop what?”
“This!” She waved a hand between them. “This isn’t natural. Our
relationship
isn’t natural! This goddamn easy camaraderie is driving me insane, and I can’t understand why I haven’t either kicked you the fuck out or
freaked
the fuck out yet! Meanwhile I’m rolling around in my bed like a rabid baby squirrel because all of a sudden I’m feeling like I’m missing out on either the best sex or the best sleep of my life if you aren’t with me and—”
The gentle brush of Luciano’s lips against her own was what stopped her tirade. He didn’t push or dominate. Simply pressed his mouth to hers and slid the tip of his tongue against the seam, coaxing her to open as he glided it inside. Then he just stopped. He stopped and stared.
“Sammie?”
“Yes?” Bastard made her voice all breathless and needy! Goddammit!
“Shut. Up.”
Her eyes opened wide. “What—”
He kissed her again. Hard and bruising. The sweetest punishment. His tongue tangled against hers in earnest, his hands slid from her back up to her shoulders and down again, kneading all the way before they slipped beneath her T-shirt. Warm, rough palms drifted over her skin, his fingertips dancing along her spine as he moved one hand to bring her closer to him. Once again he stopped. “If you don’t”—he pecked her lips—“I can’t keep doing this.” Another peck. “And I’m pretty sure both of us want me to keep doing this.” He moved to her jaw and then down her throat, nibbling there. “Because as confused as our heads are at the moment”—Luciano palmed her ass, squeezing as she gasped—“I think the rest of us is pretty in tune.” He stole the breath from her lungs with the next kiss.
Panting, she placed her forehead to his shoulder. “Luc, we still need to talk and—”
“Hush.”
“But—”
“
Se non tranquilla giù vado a sculacciare voi.”
The goddamn Italian. Why the Italian? Maybe because the son of a bitch knew what the Italian did to her.
“Cruel,” she murmured. “You’re so damn cruel.”
“
Con ogni mezzo necessario.”
And that was it. Samara would blame it on the Italian. She’d say the reason why she gripped the back of his head so fast and hard was because he’d played dirty. She’d claim that the way every word rolled off of his very skilled tongue had to do with the fact she’d forgotten every concern and tried to devour his mouth. And she’d do it all tomorrow.
***
Delicately. He’d handle this delicately and be as gentle as humanly possible. Luciano had made a promise to himself that he’d take things slowly here. That he wouldn’t rush or push her. That he’d keep his cock to himself. He couldn’t scare her off or risk hurting the baby so he’d simply...
“Jesus. H!” Luciano cried out the moment Samara’s palm slid against said cock. Apparently slow and delicate didn’t mean shit to her. Maybe the Italian had pushed it too far? She gripped him and stroked; his knees almost buckled. His hands found her boy shorts, and he tugged them down her hips then her legs before tossing them over his shoulder.
Returning to the apex of her thighs, he wrapped her legs around his waist while pulling her T-shirt up over her head and tossing that too. With trembling hands he palmed her breasts, thumbs rolling over her ripe, beaded nipples, the stark darkness of her uncovered flesh causing a pulse to beat in his dick as his mouth watered. She gasped as he pinched one between his fingertips and tugged, her hips sliding forward farther.
The head of his cock bumped her clit, and electricity shot down his groin as a spine-tingling moan erupted from her mouth. “Luc...”
“Shhh.” Luciano kissed her eyelids, her cheeks, the tip of her nose, and her lips, massaging her scalp with one hand and her bare ass with the other, all the while grinding his pelvis into hers with slow, measured movements. Her cream coated his shaft as he pushed and pulled, running the underside of his cock against the sensitive bundle of nerves that rested there. She whimpered and he fed off it, moving faster against her until he felt her nails digging into his shoulders. Pulling back, he watched her chew her lip while she gazed at him through hooded eyes, those hazel orbs never breaking contact.
Luciano placed his lips to her collarbone and suckled there as she moved against him in an imitation of what they’d be doing soon enough then placed his mouth to her ear. “Did you miss my cock, Sammie?”
She gasped.
“Tell me you missed it, and it’s yours. Say the words, and I’ll fuck you without another hesitation.”
“Luc...” The catch in her voice let him know she was already close to the edge.
He stopped moving and she cried out. He pinned her with firm but gentle hands. “Say the words, Sammie.”
“Please...”
“Please what?” Luciano stared straight at her.
“
Dite vi siete persi il mio cazzo.”
Whatever reservations she had broke that moment. “I missed your cock.”
He moved his hips backwards then placed the head of his dick at her now weeping pussy, pushing forward just a bit. “Don’t. Move.”
“Mmm...”
Luciano slid in deeper, the heat of her practically burning him. His balls drew up almost painfully tight with the need to release. She inched forward, and he smacked her on the ass. “What’d I say?”
Samara sucked in a deep breath.
“What.” In. “Did.” Out. “I.” In. “Say?” Out. He played that game until she answered him.
“You said not to move,” she breathlessly answered.
“So why’d you move?”
“Jesus...”
“
Rispondimi.”
“Because...”
