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Sitting before Ophelia, Peter dangled his right glove in front of her as she made a series of phone calls. In his left hand, he held a long feather. He used it to brush her nose, her lips, her chin, and then the contour of her ears.
Ophelia raised her eyebrows at him but managed a smile. She had been talking non-stop with her friends since they landed at Leonardo Da Vinci, the Roman airport. Earlier that morning, in London, she texted them that she would be back home in less than three hours. They were now at her apartment, their home, and he couldn’t wait to try the oversized California King he had ordered from the same people who built the bed for Samuel. It arrived the same day they left for their honeymoon, and he never had a chance to experience the comfortable-looking mattress.
“Stop it,” she whispered to him, her eyes lit by his own fire. She was sitting on her red leather loveseat, legs folded beneath her as she played with her blouse, popping and locking the small clip buttons on the front. Apparently, she enjoyed giving him glimpses of the black bra underneath that too opened in the front.
“Say you’ll call later.” He angled the tip of the feather toward the swell of her breasts.
Her eyes widened and he watched her chest rising and straining against the tight shirt.
His lips curved up and he tossed the glove he was swinging with his finger to the floor, then lowered his naked hand toward her throat. He hadn’t touched her, but she moaned in anticipation, inclined her head slightly to the side, and soon after gasped, bringing one hand to her mouth. Peter loved to play that game with her. He never tired of seeing her lose her cool and beg him to touch her. And he especially loved to tease her when they were around other people.
“I hate you, demon,” she mouthed as he removed his other glove. A heartbeat later, Ophelia shivered and said out loud, “Malina, I must go. Will you stop by later at Ravenna’s to help her with the party?”
A pause and Peter took full advantage of it by brushing her throat with the softest of touches. Light as the feather he had been using on her, his fingers trailed along the side of her long neck. Her mouth opened in a silent “O,” and he knew pleasure was already building inside her.
“Okay. See you later then.” She ended the call and jumped at him, her legs straddling him, her chest pressed against his as she bit his lower lip and opened his shirt while tugging it free from his pants. Then she passed her finger under the buttons on his jeans and pulled them down.
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Monica La Porta 