❝Book 1 in the 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒 series
He spreads my folds wide, his hungry mouth latching onto my clit, sucking hard and licking expertly. My hips move on their own, riding his face as soft whimpers escape me.
Just when I think I can't take any more, he...
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P A R I S
(A/N: this whole chapter is an erotic dream of Paris. In the old version it actually happened, but I decided to switch it up and make it a dream for this new version)
The house is quiet, the only sound the faint hum of the refrigerator. I wake in the middle of the night, thirsty, and swing my legs over the side of the bed. The silk of my night dress brush against my skin as I pad barefoot toward the kitchen.
The hall is dimly lit by the faint glow of the streetlights through the windows. I yawn, rubbing at my eyes, and make my way into the kitchen.
He's there—Luciano—leaning casually against the island, laptop open in front of him, fingers poised above the keys. The white tanktop clings to him, showing off strong forearms and the dark tattoos that wind across his skin, making my stomach flutter. The moment he senses me, my chest skips a beat.
I quietly fill a glass with water and take a slow sip, standing just in front of him, on the opposite side of the counter. I study him as he types, the soft lamplight tracing the angles of his face. His jaw tenses slightly as he leans forward, and I notice the subtle flex of his shoulders. He's completely calm, unreadable, but aware. I can feel it.
I drain the last of my water, setting the glass on the counter. And then the silence starts to irritate me. He hasn't even glanced up, and the way he's pretending I don't exist is infuriating.
I deliberately walk closer, and his fingers freeze mid-keystroke. I feel the faintest shift in the air around him—like a warning, a test. I don't speak. I just purposely climb onto his lap and straddle him, leaning forward so my knees rest on either side of him.
My nightdress rides up over my hips, teasing the view of my lacy thong and the curve of my ass. His eyes lift, dark and steady, locking with mine. He doesn't move away. He doesn't even breathe heavier. Calm. Controlled.
"What are you doing?" He asks, his voice low, neutral.
I don't answer. I just let my hands rest on his shoulders, leaning in a fraction closer. His gaze sharpens, but he doesn't push me off.
I press my lips to his—a soft tease meant to test just how much control he really has. He goes still for a heartbeat, a tension running through him that tells me everything his face refuses to show. His body reacts before he lets himself move.
Then he responds.
Not rushed. Not gentle. Controlled... but burning underneath, like he's fighting the urge to take over entirely.
I angle my mouth against his, deepening the kiss with confidence, letting him feel exactly what I want without overwhelming him. My fingers slide up the sides of his neck, tracing the heat there, the flex of muscle, the way his pulse jumps under my touch. I drag my nails against his skin, just enough to make his breath hitch against my lips.
