Reaching around to my cock, she grabs it through my jeans, keeping me against her hand. I groan, but I’m certain she hasn’t heard me over the noises of the street.
As we pull into the underground parking garage of The Kenna, I speed to my parking spot, killing the engine and settling the bike before I hop off. She hurries off too and reaches for her helmet.
“No,” I growl. “Leave it on. There are cameras in the elevator, piccola ladra.”
I want to kiss her so badly—to watch theexpressions on her face—but until we’re tucked behind my apartment doors, the helmets will stay to conceal our identities. It doesn’t matter how many times she has been to my apartment—that was before the paparazzi painted her to be in a relationship with another man. If we were to be caught on camera, it would create a media frenzy that we’re not ready for.
She cocks her head to the side in question but leaves her helmet on, letting me guide her with my hand on her lower back as though it’s not still slick with her arousal.
Once we’re inside the elevator, with the call button for the forty-seventh floor lit up, I pounce as the doors shut behind us.
Turning to her, I grab both of her wrists in my hand and pull them above her head, pressing them against the wall as my dominant hand finds its way back between her legs. Immediately, I circle her clit with the exact amount of pressure I know will have her writhing within seconds.
“I have pictured what you’d look like in my motorcycle helmet and the reality is much, much better than the fantasy. You have until the elevator pings to come, amore mio. I know you are close.”
She moans as I change how I massage her, her knees buckling slightly.
“You are so beautiful. Even when I cannot see your face, I know what expressions dance across it. The rise and fall of your chest. The motion of your hips. Come for me. Let go, let me hear you.”
On instinct, she moves against the hold I have on her wrists, but I keep her pinned in place, rubbing her clit while I tease her entrance with another finger. Soft mewls reverberate from her lips before she lets go, crying out in pleasure as I hit just the right spot and her orgasm ricochets through her body.
I continue to massage her through her climax, enjoying the sounds she makes and the way her body trembles, until the elevator doors open with a softping.
Letting go of her wrists, I wrap my arm around her lower back, hoisting her into my arms as hers encircle my neck. Her legs lock around me and I carry her out of the elevator and toward my apartment.
Quickly, I unlock the door and slam it shut behind me, not bothering to turn on any lights and go toward my living space.
With one hand, I pull the motorcycle helmet from my head and drop it onto the couch before I do the same for Vinnie, pressing my lips against hers in a frenzied kiss the second it’s off her head.
“Where are we going?” she asks breathlessly against my lips as I continue to move through my dark apartment with her in my arms.
Stepping into my room, I readjust my hold on her and walk until my shins hit the edge of my bed, tossing her onto it.
Even though all I can see is her shadow in the dark, I can’t help but smile as I place my knee between her legs, crawling up to where she landed. “To bed, piccola ladra. I’m taking you to bed.”
Chapter 30
Sly
Sweaty and spent, we lay in a heap of intertwined limbs with the sheet tangled between us. Dusting my fingers against Vinnie’s bare shoulder, she curls into me further, a soft breath of air expelling from her lips with a deep sigh.
The warm light from a lamp splays dimly across my bedroom, casting a serene glow through the room.
“Are you tired?” I ask, glancing over at the clock on my bedside table. It’s not particularly late, but she seems content, and on the verge of sleep.
“Not really. Could we watch a movie?” Her head lifts from my chest to look at me with a hopeful gleam.
A smile touches my lips. She wants to watch a movie.
It’s such a simple request, but it humbles me. Reminds me of how well we fit together, like two pieces of a puzzle that were always meant to match together.
Reaching my arm out, I pat the wood of the table in search of the remote. “Of course.”
The TV comes to life at the press of a button, the ten o’clock news opens up to a story about the Manhattan Bridge closing two lanes next week to conduct roadwork. The newscaster has a green-screen image of the bridge behind her as she reads the prompter.
I’m about to switch to a streaming site when they switch to their local celebrity segment, and August St. Jean’s photo appears behind her.
Immediately, I freeze.
