Delilah's Diary #1: A Sexy Journey (9 page)

Read Delilah's Diary #1: A Sexy Journey Online

Authors: Jasinda Wilder

BOOK: Delilah's Diary #1: A Sexy Journey

7.26Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

Another thrust, a little deeper, and I felt my wetness slicking him, felt my muscles burning pleasantly as he stretched me to accommodate, and oh god, oh god, it never felt like this before. Not with such desire, such appreciation in Luca's eyes, his hands on me, exploring my skin, his body moving him deeper into me.

He made an "mmmmm" noise in the back of his throat and plunged all the way in, our hips bumping, and then I felt the fluttering pressure low in my belly. He held there, and now I was so wet, so wet, so full of him, past full, and he slid out so all that remained inside was the very tip. This time he slid in to the hilt in one thrust, and I gasped, mouth wide, head arched back, and my fingers scrabbled at his back.

The next thrust was smoother, out and back in, his full length drawing out and spearing in and the heat was spreading, the pressure burgeoning. Again, and again, and now my legs were around his buttocks and pulling him against me, because yes I loved this, wanted it so much, it felt so good.

A rhythm was begun, now, faster and faster, and I was wavering on the edge of detonation, and then...

He rolled, and I was above him. "You do it, now. Take the pleasure for yourself, at your pace." Luca was staring up at me, hands at my waist.

This was new. He was even deeper inside me, like this. The angle of our bodies stretched his cock away from his body, and forced it higher within me. I tried an experimental roll of my hips...

This was nice. Oh yes...A girl could get used to this. His hands held my waist and lifted me up, let me fall down and then lifted again. He wasn't controlling or guiding the pace, only showing me, and I didn't mind, his hands around my waist felt natural and perfect. My weight was on my knees and shins, and I lifted up, feeling his slick length drag out of me, igniting every nerve ending and eliciting a gasp, and then I sank back down,
god
, so deep and there was no stopping me now from the sink-and-rise rhythm of his body inside mine.

He was grunting and whispering my name and chanting something in Italian, sounding like a song—it could have been
sì, tutto bene
but I'm not sure—and he helped me lift and fall, pulling me down onto him, harder and harder now and the storm of heat and lightning and fire in my belly and my veins was raging out of control. My hands were flat on his belly, my spine straight and then bending and straightening as I rode him closer and closer to climax.

No, this was nothing at all like what I did to myself in the Chicago hotel room; the two sensations were almost unrelated. This was raw intensity, pleasure beyond the capacity of words to convey.

My hips were driving like a madwoman's, now, and Luca was exhorting me onwards, his head thrown back and his hips punching up into mine, his eyes closed and his breath ragged and his lovely, perfect masculine body sheened in sweat.

Oh Lord, was he right. Whatever I'd done before bore no resemblance to this.
This
was sex.
This
was making love. I knew I'd just met Luca, but I felt a frightening balloon of emotion expanding in my chest, all centered around Luca and this lesson in sensate delight. I didn't know what it was or what it meant, and I didn't care.

All thoughts were blown away, then, all knowledge of past or present or future. All was pleasure, so pure and raw and intense that it simply defies my control of words to capture.

I collapsed on him, our hips still rolling into each other with the fury of clashing storms, my arms curled under his head and clutching him with all the power of my locked and spasming muscles.

I felt him come, an instant before I did. He said my name and exploded within me, releasing a jet of wet heat against my farthest inner walls, "De-LI-lah," he said with a thrust on the middle syllable, his hips driving into me with slow, ravaging power. Feeling him come, I couldn't remain on this side of sanity. I dissolved on top of him, fell into trembling, shuddering, gasping tremors as every cell in my body came alive as never before.

Luca was holding tight to me, fingers digging into my sides, breathing as if he'd run a marathon. I was limp, completely exhausted, all frayed, sated nerve endings. I was a puddle on top of him, and I couldn't have moved if I wanted. He turned with me so we were on our sides, his shaft still buried inside me.

"That..." I started, but words failed me. "That was so..."

"Amazing," Luca breathed. "So, so amazing."

I looked at him, met his burning brown eyes. "I didn't know...I didn't know it could be like that."

"Nor did I, and I am not new at this as you are."

"That was good for you too?" I asked.

Luca laughed, a full belly laugh of amazement. "Delilah...it was more than amazing. It was...I do not know all the words at this moment...it was powerful."

I didn't know what to say in response, so I didn't say anything, just nestled closer into his arms and tried to contain the baffling welter of emotions and sensations inside me.

Silence blossomed between us, comfortable and easy, the afterglow settling upon us like a heated blanket. I was just beginning to drowse into slumber when Luca spoke again.

"So, are you coming home with me tomorrow?"

My heart froze. Home?

"Come home with you?" My voice was tight and tense.

Luca caught it and spoke hesitantly. "Yes, home. To my parents' house for my holiday. I asked you to travel to Firenze with me."

"I thought you meant, I don't know...that you'd take me to a hotel or something."

Luca brushed hair from my forehead. "Well, I could, but that is not what I was meaning. My parents' home, it is big enough for you to have a room as well. Cheaper than a hotel, no? And more comfortable." He lifted up on an elbow. "I only meant it as a convenience, not—it does not mean what I think you are fearing. I mean, it could, because I have a great affection for you, though we are only friends recently."

Luca was nervous. His English, normally fluent, if accented and sometimes strangely structured, was growing harder to follow.

"Luca, I—"

What did I want? Maybe he just meant it as a kindness, or as he said, a convenience. But what if he wanted more than I could give? To say I'd enjoyed having sex with him would be an understatement. I wanted it again, and again. I felt insatiable, as if I could have him time and again and never be fully sated.

But did that mean I wanted to meet his parents? Did that hold the same import here as it did in America? I didn't know.

He sensed my rush of confusion. "You do not need to answer now. Maybe just sleep and we can talk more when the morning has come."

I nodded and let myself drift, thoughts spinning in wild circles. Luca fell asleep, and so did I, but I woke again in the wee, cold hours of the morning, my mind a jumble of emotions.

I left the bed, put Luca's T-shirt on and dug my netbook out of my bag, opened it to my diary and started writing. I can't believe how much I've written, and as I read it, I can't believe the things I've written. I don't know what to think, what to want. My heart is still a mess over the end of my eight-year marriage, and Harry's infidelity and my sudden status as a single woman alone in the world. And now there's Luca, sleeping in my bed, broad back bare to the dim night, muscles shifting and expanding as he breathes.

I can't deny the pang of affection that stabs my heart as I sit in the corner and write this, watching him sleep. What does that mean? Do I want to find out?

I don't know.

Part of me wants to run, to pack my things and sneak out of Rome...Roma...and find the first bus or train or taxi to somewhere else, somewhere far away from the dangerous slew of emotions the huge, gorgeous man in my bed has spawned.

Run. Run. Run.

The word hammers to the rhythm of my terrified heartbeat. It was supposed to be just sex, just a lesson in the arts of love. But...oh shit. The arts of love. I'd taken that to mean the arts of making love. What if he meant something else? We just met, a few hours ago. How could he mean that? And wasn't the woman supposed to be the one to attach emotions to a physical thing?

I'm going in circles, but I can't deny the urge to flee.

It's three in the morning, and I've just had sex with a stranger, and I don't know what I'm feeling, because he's not a stranger. I know him. But I don't, and I can't, and...

Run. Run. Run.

I wonder if I can find a bus to Venice at this hour?