Private Tasting
Lucio raised a goblet of red wine to his lips, and Beth Munroe pretended not to be jealous of the glass. God, what she wouldn’t give to take it from his hand, straddle his muscular thighs, put her mouth on his skin, and have him tremble under her touch. She wanted to slide her tongue along the hard line of his jaw, feel the rasp of his five o’clock shadow scrape along her taste buds. To slip her hands beneath the hem of his shirt, tangle her fingers in the rough curls of his chest hair, and hear him hiss with pleasure.
Take his clothes off.
Turn him on.
Fuck him until he couldn’t remember his name.
Let him fuck her until she couldn’t remember hers.
Her breath hitched as he caught her gaze and smiled.
“What is it you Americans say? A quarter for your thoughts?”
His voice, deep as thunder, rumbled through her, and the sultry kick of his Italian accent was lightning to her senses. “Penny,” she said, shifting on his sumptuous leather couch. She tucked her legs underneath as the cooling breeze from the Sicilian evening wafted past. “Penny for your thoughts.” She drained the last of her wine and let the slow rush of alcohol warm her limbs.
Not that they needed heating. The six-foot-two-inches of raw male sitting in front of her was doing a great job of making her temperature rise and her insides go hot.
And wet.
Lucio De Luca, one of Sicily’s most eligible bachelors with a reputation and a sizzle to match. Blue-black hair, eyes the color of roasted almonds, and a mouth—shit. She fantasized about his lips on her tits, those teeth tugging, biting, nibbling.
Beth shifted, trying to quell the need pulsing deep inside, but God, that mouth. She wanted her pussy on it, his tongue inside her wet center. Her body pulled tight, desire and frustrated need twisted her stomach. She took in a sharp breath, and fumbled for the thread of their conversation. “Penny,” she repeated. “Penny for your thoughts.”
His teeth gleamed white against his tanned skin. “Your thoughts are worth far more to me, cara . I will give you a euro for one.”
She only had one— take me to bed. Her stomach gave an excited kick, and her panties dampened. She wanted Lucio, needed him in the most primal way. And she was going to get him. Beth was tired of lusting for him, dreaming of him. Tired of pretending her fingers were his, that her vibrator was his cock.
Tonight that was going to change.
“Beth? What are you thinking?”
That she was going to enjoy him for as long as he wanted to share his sexy body—a night, a week? She didn’t care. Beth was going to screw him until the memory of his touch was in her molecules. Her gaze drifted across the wide expanse of his chest. She smiled. “The wine is delicious.”
He reached for her empty glass, slipped it from her fingers. “You’re flattering me.”
“Telling the truth. Your vineyard is a shoo-in for an award—many of them.”
His black brows puckered, and he halted in the midst of pouring her another glass of Chianti. “Shoes?”
He resumed his task. Dark ruby liquid slid into the crystal goblet. His smooth movements, the play of his large hands against the slim stem, was doing more to inebriate her senses than the previous two glasses of alcohol. She wanted him to hold her with that gentleness, then put his mouth to her and drink his fill.
He handed her the wine. “Tell me why shoes will win me an award.”
“Sorry. You’re…” As she tried to think of the correct term, Lucio bent to collect a square of brie. Fire crackled in the fireplace. Shadow and light danced across the thick ebony locks of his hair, caressed the hard line of his square jaw, and kissed the slope of his nose. She forgot what she was thinking.
“Beth?”
She heard the amusement in his voice. Closing her eyes, she took a long, slow pull of the wine. He was the only one who could turn her name into an aphrodisiac. “Um—” She shook her head and drained her
Lucio raised a goblet of red wine to his lips, and Beth Munroe pretended not to be jealous of the glass. God, what she wouldn’t give to take it from his hand, straddle his muscular thighs, put her mouth on his skin, and have him tremble under her touch. She wanted to slide her tongue along the hard line of his jaw, feel the rasp of his five o’clock shadow scrape along her taste buds. To slip her hands beneath the hem of his shirt, tangle her fingers in the rough curls of his chest hair, and hear him hiss with pleasure.
Take his clothes off.
Turn him on.
Fuck him until he couldn’t remember his name.
Let him fuck her until she couldn’t remember hers.
Her breath hitched as he caught her gaze and smiled.
“What is it you Americans say? A quarter for your thoughts?”
His voice, deep as thunder, rumbled through her, and the sultry kick of his Italian accent was lightning to her senses. “Penny,” she said, shifting on his sumptuous leather couch. She tucked her legs underneath as the cooling breeze from the Sicilian evening wafted past. “Penny for your thoughts.” She drained the last of her wine and let the slow rush of alcohol warm her limbs.
Not that they needed heating. The six-foot-two-inches of raw male sitting in front of her was doing a great job of making her temperature rise and her insides go hot.
And wet.
Lucio De Luca, one of Sicily’s most eligible bachelors with a reputation and a sizzle to match. Blue-black hair, eyes the color of roasted almonds, and a mouth—shit. She fantasized about his lips on her tits, those teeth tugging, biting, nibbling.
Beth shifted, trying to quell the need pulsing deep inside, but God, that mouth. She wanted her pussy on it, his tongue inside her wet center. Her body pulled tight, desire and frustrated need twisted her stomach. She took in a sharp breath, and fumbled for the thread of their conversation. “Penny,” she repeated. “Penny for your thoughts.”
His teeth gleamed white against his tanned skin. “Your thoughts are worth far more to me, cara . I will give you a euro for one.”
She only had one— take me to bed. Her stomach gave an excited kick, and her panties dampened. She wanted Lucio, needed him in the most primal way. And she was going to get him. Beth was tired of lusting for him, dreaming of him. Tired of pretending her fingers were his, that her vibrator was his cock.
Tonight that was going to change.
“Beth? What are you thinking?”
That she was going to enjoy him for as long as he wanted to share his sexy body—a night, a week? She didn’t care. Beth was going to screw him until the memory of his touch was in her molecules. Her gaze drifted across the wide expanse of his chest. She smiled. “The wine is delicious.”
He reached for her empty glass, slipped it from her fingers. “You’re flattering me.”
“Telling the truth. Your vineyard is a shoo-in for an award—many of them.”
His black brows puckered, and he halted in the midst of pouring her another glass of Chianti. “Shoes?”
He resumed his task. Dark ruby liquid slid into the crystal goblet. His smooth movements, the play of his large hands against the slim stem, was doing more to inebriate her senses than the previous two glasses of alcohol. She wanted him to hold her with that gentleness, then put his mouth to her and drink his fill.
He handed her the wine. “Tell me why shoes will win me an award.”
“Sorry. You’re…” As she tried to think of the correct term, Lucio bent to collect a square of brie. Fire crackled in the fireplace. Shadow and light danced across the thick ebony locks of his hair, caressed the hard line of his square jaw, and kissed the slope of his nose. She forgot what she was thinking.
“Beth?”
She heard the amusement in his voice. Closing her eyes, she took a long, slow pull of the wine. He was the only one who could turn her name into an aphrodisiac. “Um—” She shook her head and drained her
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