The Rebel of Raleigh High (Raleigh Rebels #1)(56)
“Dolcezza,” he whispers “Non fermarti.”
My heart trips over itself, stuttering frantically to find its lost rhythm. “You called me that earlier. What does it mean, Dolcezza?”
Alex’s voice is rough-edged and low. “Sweetness,” he murmurs.
A rush of adrenalin slams into me, pooling in the pit of my stomach. Sweetness. I am his sweetness. Fuck. “And…the other part?” I ask.
His eyes still closed, his face in profile, his features cast in gold by the fire, Alex looks like some of kind of mythical god. His chest rises abruptly, and he lets out a pained groan. “It means don’t stop.”
He moves so quickly, I barely have time to yelp as his eyes fly open and he twists, grabbing me by the waist, lifting me from the sofa in a swift, effortless maneuver that makes me feel as though I weigh nothing at all. His hands are firm, guiding me, and all of a sudden I’m exactly where I wanted to be five minutes ago, legs either side of him, straddling him, my chest crushed up against him as his hands press urgently against my back. He shifts down a little, sliding down the sofa, and I feel him between my legs—his dick, rock solid and hard enough to dig into the underside of my thigh. For one long, paralyzing moment, I think I’m going to punch him in the throat in an attempt to flee the situation. My head… fuck, my mind is roaring. I can’t…I can’t fucking…
Alex takes my hands and places them on either side of his throat, holding his own hands over mine, drawing me down closer to him. I can feel his pulse hammering frantically beneath my palms. “Ssshhhh. It’s fine. It’s okay, Silver. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m not even gonna touch you. Relax.”
“Okay. Okay.” I nod up and down, breathing in through my nose. “Okay.” By the third okay, the surge of panic that rose up and closed around my throat is dissipating.
“I’m never going to do anything without your permission,” he says, in that low, ragged voice. “I just wanted you here, against me, your body against mine. I wanted you fucking closer, Silver. Your hands in my hair like that…” He doesn’t finish. I don’t think he can.
Taking my time, along with a second to catch my breath, I slide my hands out from under his and gingerly brush the tips of my fingers down the side of his face. “It felt good?” I whisper.
His eyes are bottomless and fierce in the almost dark room. “Beyond good,” he grinds out. “Your hands anywhere on me feel good. But that…” He shakes his head, like he’s trying to clear his addled mind. “No one’s touched me like that before.”
I see the truth in his eyes. I’m no fucking fool. Alex doesn’t carry himself like a guy who’s inexperienced with women. I’ve heard of The Rockwell, and I know of its unsavory reputation. There’s no doubt in my mind that Alex hasn’t been a virgin for a very, very long time, but to have him tell me that I’m the first person to touch him in such a simple, intimate way like that, rubbing his head? I had no idea I could be any sort of first for him, and that feels fucking incredible.
With one hand, I tentatively begin to repeat the motion, weaving my fingers into the thickness of his hair, pressing the tips of my fingers into his scalp, biting my bottom lip between my teeth when he shudders beneath me. He rests his hands at my hips, but I’m unafraid of the contact. I’m fascinated by the way he’s looking up at me, eyes burning, jaw set, head angled back a little, exposing the column of his throat as he leans into my touch.
“Stop biting your lip,” he grinds out roughly.
“Why?” God, my own voice has its own uneven step to it, too.
“Because it’s driving me fucking crazy,” he says.
“Now, now, Mr. Moretti. Patience is king.”
“I’m patient. For you, I’ll be eternally patient. Doesn’t mean watching you bite that lip isn’t the most torturous thing I’ve ever fucking seen.”
I’m pleased, though I try not to be. Being pleased means I’m enjoying the fact that I can turn him on so easily. And that? That’s dangerous.
When Alex shifts underneath me again, my reaction is immediate and unintentional, though. I press my hips down, rolling them once against him, and Alex goes absolutely, utterly, terrifyingly still. No sound comes out of his mouth, but I can read the word he mouths perfectly well on his lips. “Fuck.” A tendon strains in his neck, the muscles in his chest tensed beneath his t-shirt as he tightens beneath me.
I’m burning up. My face must be bright red from my jawline to my hairline. I feel…I feel alive, in a dangerous, reckless, insane kind of way, and for the first time since Leon Wickman’s Spring Fling party, I also feel a little powerful. Like in that slight, barely-there movement just now, I regained a scrap of the power that was stolen from me. The first time I rocked myself against him might have been an accident, but the second time I do it…shit, I don’t know what possesses me, but the second time I do it, I do it on purpose.
A flare of pleasure, intense and a little bewildering, sparks between my legs as I roll my hips again, and Alex’s fingers dig into my sides, gouging into my hips, through my jeans.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Silver,” he pants. In two seconds flat, I’m off his lap, on my back, the sofa underneath me, and Alex is hovering over me, holding his weight off me, his mouth less than an inch from mine. “If I kiss you now, I’m going to try and fucking consume you,” he rasps. “It won’t be a little sip. It won’t be fucking controlled.”