Postcards From Buenos Aires. Bella Frances

pulled at his shirt—fingers grabbing, nails scratching. Vaguely aware of his wound throbbing, he filled his hands with her. Hauled her dress up and over her hips. She tried to scrabble towards him, to get at more of his clothes, but he had to see her and touch her. Had to.

      He pinned her to the ground with his hand and stared at her slender bones, at the tiny triangle of her panties. She was so delicate, so feminine … Another jolt of lust made him even thicker. Even harder. He grabbed the fine fabric that covered her in his fist and tugged. She yelped and breathed out hard. But she still clambered to clutch at him as he balled the shredded silk and tossed it aside.

      ‘I liked those,’ she said.

      ‘You put them on knowing I’d take them off. Didn’t you?’

      ‘You’re so hot for yourself—aren’t you, Hurricane?’

      He grinned at her again—couldn’t help it. She fired him up to be a little more rough, a little more bold.

      ‘I’m hot for you.’

      He pulled her dress right up to her waist, exposed her nakedness to his hungry eyes.

      ‘You’re perfect.’

      She was. Exquisite. The neat V of dark hair drew his gaze, and as the words left his lips he parted her flesh and slid his fingers home.

      Like a wild beast calmed, she stilled, threw back her head, closed her eyes and moaned. She was swollen and soaked. Just as he’d known she would be. As he’d always remembered. Her clitoris was engorged, begging for his touch, and he circled and slid his finger over it just once. Her cry echoed off the walls and went straight to his heart.

      ‘I’ve got to taste you, hermosa.’

      Hands to her hips, he slid her swiftly up the silk rug. She hauled at her dress, dragged it over her head and unhooked her bra. She lay back in the moonlight, clothes cast around under the domed ceiling. She was some bewitching fairy or nymph, clouding his head. Entrancing him. Robbing him of sense.

      He lifted her hips, held her open under his gaze, drinking in the moonlit sight of her that he’d never had a chance to see properly in those few stolen minutes years ago. Then he bent his head until his lips and tongue lay between her splayed legs. And then he lapped her, tasted her and relished her.

      She had orgasmed in seconds that first time. Caught him completely by surprise. And herself. He doubted she had even known what had happened. He’d catapulted himself out of bed in shock.

      But this time as her legs tensed, her arms gripped his and she burst apart, pulsed and jerked in his mouth. As her cries echoed in the hallway he held her in place and licked at her until she thrashed her arms and legs and begged him to stop.

      ‘Rocco—Rocco, please!’

      The words rang out, almost dragging him out of his frenzy. And then he was lifting her, hugging her up, plastered against his body, striding along the hallway, taking them both to his suite. She hung her head on his shoulder, lay limply in his arms.

      ‘Is that what it takes to calm you, Frankie? I must remember that …’

      She felt so soft in his arms, lying back quietly as he paced past closed doors. Light was beginning to flood in through the huge stained glass window that marked the end of the hallway and the door to his suite.

      ‘I’m only taking a moment …’ She smiled, then tipped up her face, softened by dawn’s golden light.

      God, she was even more beautiful like this. He didn’t think he could wait another second to have her.

      He kicked open the door. Three paces and he laid her down on his bed. She leaned up on her elbows, completely naked. He zoned in on her tiny curved breasts, pink nipples erect and inviting. His hands fumbled like a teenager with his belt, his fly, his shirt buttons.

      Her chest heaved up and down with hard, shallow breaths, then she kneeled up and grabbed at his shirt, hauled at it. Kissed him.

      ‘Back in the game—Hurricane.’

      Sweat beaded between them—he didn’t know from whom. They made noises … breathed and gasped and murmured each other’s names. She was licking at his nipples, her fine little fingers running over his flesh, tracing the fresh scar that had begun to bleed.

      ‘Oh, my God—did I do that? I’m sorry.’

      He kicked off the last of his clothes, pulled a handful of condoms from the drawer and scattered them on the bed.

      ‘Doesn’t matter. Come here. Lie down.’

      He grabbed her by the wrists and held her as he kneed her legs apart and then tipped her down.

      She strained, held herself taut as he positioned her. Her eyes were on him. His erection. He was so swollen it stood proud, huge, and just the sight of her staring made him nearly lose his grip.

      ‘Rocco, my God … my God.’

      She leaned up, licked her wet lips and raised her eyes to his. He felt like a god. She did that to him.

      His fingers peeled a condom packet apart and she reached to take the condom out. Then she cupped his straining sac and began to roll it delicately. Too delicately.

      He’d had enough. His control was shot. He couldn’t wait any more.

      He shook his head. ‘Lie back. Let me do this, Frankie. Come on, hermosa. Come on.’

      She did as she was told. But her eyes drank him in. Every part of him.

      Finally he was just where he wanted to be, leaning over her as he’d wanted, as he’d imagined. Finally he was getting to hold her under him and nudge the tip of his shaft inch by inch into her hot, sweet heaven.

      She was so slight, so slender. But so ready. And even if he’d had an ounce of self-control left—even if he’d wanted to take it slowly—she had other plans. She slid down to meet him, her eyes never leaving his even as her body took him in and her hands smoothed their way around to his backside.

      And he slid home.

      The strain not to take her hard and fast nearly broke him, but he lifted her hips and took it as slowly as he could. He felt her fingers frame his face … looked down, opened his eyes. She was staring with those huge eyes, deep and dark and so full of secrets. She licked her lips and drove him on with her hips. Her breasts jiggled as he thrust into her and he knew then that this was the most erotic experience of his life.

      ‘Rocco, baby, this is too good … too good.’

      She squeezed her hips even more, and just the perfect tilt of them sliding together nearly killed him. She called out to the day-brightened room as she lost it. He was losing it with her. This was it. The wait was over.

      He grabbed her wrists with one hand and pinned them above her head, held her down. Then he threw each of her legs round his waist and hauled her by her hips as close as he could get her. She curled back on the bed, for once his supplicant, and he leaned over her, stared into her and ground himself free.

      Released.

      It was immense.

      He came and didn’t stop coming. And she was there, squeezing him home.

      Cradling her in his arms, he rolled over and spread her like silk over his body while he crashed back down to earth. His heart hammered and his vision struggled to return. The edges and curves of the white plaster cornice slowly took shape around the dark grey ceiling high above him. The blackout blinds were high on the windows, letting in the morning’s brightness.

      It was days since he’d been here. Weeks, maybe even months since he’d had a woman here. And he’d never, ever had a girl like Frankie here. Anywhere. Ever.

      He squeezed her to his chest, almost as if checking she was real.

      ‘What do you think? Worth the wait?’