𝐌𝐢𝐥𝐟 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞

𝟐𝟐: 𝐇𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐨 𝐈𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐲

As we climbed off the private jet, the hot Italian air hit us like a wave. Beyoncé fanned herself lazily with the magazine I’d been flipping through earlier. “Damn, it’s hot,” she complained, barely glancing in my direction. Her sunglasses shielded her eyes, but I could still tell she was annoyed.

“Yeah, weird, considering it’s supposed to rain tomorrow,” I said, more to myself than to her. The forecast didn’t make sense, but right now, it was scorching.

Beyoncé didn’t miss a beat. “I don’t like that short little dress you have on,” she said, still fanning herself. “People are staring.”

I smirked, feeling a little thrill from the way she said it. “Does that mean I look sexy?”

She didn’t bother looking at me, just muttered, “Funny.”

I knew it wasn’t just the heat that was getting to her. Beyoncé had been on edge all day, snapping at me over little things, and it wasn’t hard to figure out why. We’d been building up this trip for weeks now, and with all the work stress and travel, we hadn’t had a moment to ourselves. That tension was bound to snap sooner or later, and I had a feeling it was going to be very soon.

We climbed into the sleek black car waiting for us, and Beyoncé slid into the backseat beside me. “Turn the air conditioning up,” she said sharply to the driver. “And roll the partition up.”

The moment the cool air started blowing, Beyoncé let out a satisfied sigh, sinking back into the plush leather seat. I leaned back too, letting the air wash over me, but I could feel her gaze burning into me even though her sunglasses stayed on.

Her hand found its way to my inner thigh, her touch feather-light but enough to send a jolt through me. “You know,” she said, her voice low and smooth, “now that we’re finally in Italy…”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “You’ve been counting the hours, wifey?”

She smirked, finally turning to face me. “Damn right I have. Come on, let’s have a quickie before we get to the apartment.”

I opened my mouth to protest, to say something about how we should wait until we were in a more private setting, but Beyoncé’s hand was already moving, cupping me between my legs, making my breath hitch. Any argument I had died on my lips, replaced by a gasp as her fingers pressed against me.

“Shh,” she whispered, leaning in close to kiss me, slow and deep, like we had all the time in the world. Her lips were soft and tasted faintly of the wine she’d been sipping on the plane. I moaned into her mouth, unable to help myself as she deepened the kiss, her hand working magic between my legs.

The leather seat beneath me felt cool against my back as I leaned into it, surrendering to her completely. Every touch of her hand sent a shockwave through my body, and her mouth was relentless, kissing me like it was the last time we’d ever be alone. I was lost in the sensation of her, the way she seemed to know exactly how to drive me wild.