The Prototype

70. Heat in Milan

TEMPEST

The slow graze of his lips over my shoulder entered my unconsciousness of sleep, each kiss warm and soft, sinking deeper with every press. The feeling of his beard scraped along the slope of my neck as his mouth shifted higher. He kissed just below my ear, then again lower, working his way back to my shoulder with the same steady rhythm. The heat from his mouth soaked into me, peeling my sleep away in layers, awakening my body.

His Lips parted. Tongue dragged lightly across skin before he kissed again. He breathed against my neck. Calm. Even. Every exhale landed with weight, the air from his nose brushing over sensitive skin with the weight of unspoken hunger.

Fingertips glided along the curve of my waist, firm and certain, mapping the shape of me. Muscles tensed beneath his hand as he drew me backward, slow and precise, until the hard line of his thick dick met the swell of my ass. Hard. Heavy. Resting. No teasing. No shift or grind. Just hot, unrelenting pressure that spoke louder than anything else.

"This gonna be an every morning ritual with you, huh?" I murmured, my voice a lazy rasp, still soaked in sleep but edged with sarcasm.

His chest rumbled behind me with a quiet chuckle, the sound vibrating against my spine, sharp as a blade dipped in silk. "It got you up yesterday, didn't it?"

A slow smirk curled across my lips as I let the moment stretch. I rolled onto my back, silk whispering over my thighs, the hem of my nightgown slipping high to bare skin—soft, warm, untouched except by him. His arm still draped across me, his hand splayed wide over my stomach, a hold that was firm. Possessive.

The warmth of the sheets clinging to my skin. Morning light filtered through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, casting gold across the room—soft and syrupy. It spilled across the polished floors, bleeding over the white sheets tangled around my body, and kissed his skin like it worshipped him.

Marcellus was already watching me. Propped on his side, head resting against his fist, his eyes tracing every inch of me with slow calculation. Sunlight painted across his face, softening the hard lines of his jaw, catching on the slight curve of his smirk. His brows perfectly unbothered, his lips—plush, full, and entirely too dangerous—curved like they already have something arrogant to say.

"Well," I started, stretching the word like honey, "when I'm used to sleeping alone and suddenly wake up to lips on my skin, hands on my body, and your dick grinding on my ass... yeah, it's gonna wake me up. Not exactly something I got to indulge in while being locked away on your estate, don't you think?

His hand dipped lower, slow and easy, dragging across the silk at my waist. Testing the edge. Teasing the line between casual and hungry. He leaned in, mouth brushing mine in one lazy kiss. Then another—deeper, slower—pressed at the base of my throat, warm and laced with a quiet threat. He lingered there too long, like he was debating whether to bite, mark me where no one else could see, bury his claim beneath skin.

His mouth rose to my ear, breath curling hot against it. "I think you just don't wanna admit you like waking up to me." His voice sliding in like a whisper laced with smugness.

A breathy laugh slipped out, dry and low. I tilted my head, meeting him with a sharp look and a raised brow. "Or maybe you're just so damn full of yourself you can't take my answer for what it is."

He hummed against my throat, lips skimming the spot just under my jaw, like he wanted to test how far he could push before I snapped. "Is that so?"

I turned my head slightly, forcing his eyes to meet mine, refusing to let him dodge or deflect. The smirk was still there. Still smug. Still simmering with that quiet, arrogant control he wore like a second skin. "Yes," I said flatly. "Just like you're so full of yourself you actually believe my body belongs to you."