Azalea Faye Larau - The sweetheart socialite with a fire underneath and an up and coming ballet dancer in London striving to stay afloat in an ocean of sharks, all the while dealing with heartbreak and loss.
Harlan Emeric Marchetti - The Italian Maf...
"Hold me, love me, touch me, honey, be the first who ever did."
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- A Z A L E A - L A R A U - M A R C H E T T I -
My lips touched his—gentle, hesitant at first, but quickly turning into something deeper, something unspoken. His breath mingled with mine, warm and intoxicating, as I held onto the lapels of his blazer, my fingers curling into the expensive fabric as if anchoring myself to him.
His hand at my waist tightened, possessive yet reverent, while his other hand cupped my face, tilting it up to kiss me deeper.
A sigh escaped me, and he captured it, swallowing every small breath, every little sound, until I felt like I was losing myself to him. He moved forward, slow, controlled, making me step back in sync with him until the backs of my knees met the edge of the bed.
He paused, not out of hesitation, but to look at me.
His lips trailed away from mine, pressing softly against my cheek, then lower—kissing along my jaw, lingering there as his breath fanned over my skin.
Small, wet, butterfly kisses went all the way to the column of my neck and collarbone, gently nipping at the skin while I whimpered, my eyes closed as his hand traced down my back, slow and deliberate, his fingers finally finding the zipper of my dress.
The sound of it being undone was barely a whisper in the quiet room, but it sent a shiver through me. My breath hitched as he dragged it down in agonizing slowness, his fingertips grazing my spine, leaving goosebumps in their wake.
The dress finally slipped from my shoulders, cascading down my body in a pool of silk at my feet, his dark, red eyes drinking me in like his favorite bourbon, my cheeks flushed and eyes heavy, leaving me only in the white lace lingerie underneath.
I heard him suck in a sharp breath, his eyes straying from my face before a low sound erupted from the back of his throat and he touched his forehead to mine.
"You're going to be the death of me," He murmured, "And I love it."
A slow, aching warmth spread through my chest at his words, at the way he was looking at me like I was something sacred, something to be cherished.
I only tangled my hand in his hair in response, dragging his head down to kiss me once more, deeply, as he made me sit on the bed and kneeled before me. His warm hands settled on my bare thighs, sliding down my leg to my heels and taking them off slowly.
"Move back." His voice was quiet but commanding, and I obeyed without question, sliding up onto the bed, watching as he gripped my ankle and pressed a kiss there.
Then another.
And another—higher this time, his lips barely brushing the sensitive skin of my inner thigh.
