Swiped (Chance Encounter Series Book 2) Page 5

  I squint at him. “What?”

  “Let’s just say there would be a lot of arm waving and a lot of her shouting my full name.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “Which is…?”

  “Angelo Giovanni Ricci.”

  “Wait a second. So your name is Geo Gio?”

  “Do you think that’s funny?”

  I press my lips together to keep from smiling and shake my head.

  He narrows his eyes at me.

  “Let’s finish the tour and then have a drink,” I say, trying to buy myself some time to sober up.

  His mouth curls up on one side. “Are you trying to tell me you want to see my bedroom?”

  “Is that all there’s left to see?” I ask, failing to come across as casually as I intended. “I wasn’t implying—”

  “Right this way,” he says, extending his hand and making a face that can only mean trouble.

  I follow him out of the kitchen and stop in the doorway he brings me to, bracing myself against the frame. His neatly made bed appears white and inviting, and his plump pillows pop against the brick wall behind them.

  “Well?” he asks, draping his large hand on my hip.

  I hold my breath as he gathers my hair to one side and lowers his lips to my neck.

  I exhale, my body ignited by his lips on my skin. “It looks…comfortable,” I say, closing my eyes and tilting my head to make it easier for him to taste me.

  He slides his hand around to my stomach, and the way he touches me is so tender and deliberate it feels like he has more control over my body than I do.

  “So you don’t only get off on fucking in storage closets?” I ask, my body growing wetter with every breath he takes against my neck.

  He turns me towards him and pins me against the doorframe.

  My eyes bounce back and forth between his.

  He drags his fingers through my hair and then holds my face in his hands. “I would have you anywhere, Ruby.”

  “Where would you like to have me the most?” I ask, reaching for his top button.

  He clenches his jaw and pinches the bottom of my dress, pulling it up slowly as he speaks. “I’d like to take you for a walk in my uncle’s vineyard.” He gathers my dress up around my waist. “Let you taste the grapes and feel the clean dirt between your toes.”

  I undo another button on his shirt and drop my hands down to the next without looking away.

  “Then I’d undress you,” he says. “So you could feel the warm sunshine on your beautiful skin…arms up.”

  I lift my arms, and he pulls my dress over my head, but he doesn’t take it all the way off. Instead, he leaves it bunched around my wrists and holds them over my head while his free hand traces my collarbone. “Then I’d lay you on the soft ground between the rows,” he says, his hand sliding slowly over my bra. “And kiss you all over until you were dripping for me.”

  My chest rises and falls in his hands, and my breath grows even shallower when he trails his fingertips down my stomach to the top of my underwear, dragging one finger between the elastic edge and my burning skin.

  He leans forward to whisper in my ear. “Then I would push inside you,” he says, dipping a finger inside me. “And fuck you deep until clumps of dirt overflowed from your clenched fists.”

  I moan as he sticks another finger inside me, my legs weak from how good he feels.

  “How would you like that?” he growls, stirring me slowly.

  “Yes,” I say, searching my lust-filled brain for any words at all. “I want that.”

  He pulls the dress off my hands, and I throw my arms around his neck, kissing him until my body fills with white light. I tilt my hips towards him, eager for him to keep working me into this frenzy, and he indulges me for a moment before pulling his hand back and lifting me up.

  I wrap my legs around him as he carries me to the bed, and I almost don’t want to let go when he lays me down, but I do because I need him naked.

  “Take off your bra,” he commands, standing at the end of the bed while he finishes unbuttoning his shirt.

  I do as he says and fling it to the side.

  He feasts his eyes on me, making a face so strained that if I didn’t know better, I’d say it hurt him to look. “Now your underwear,” he says, pulling his shirt off and dropping it to the floor.

  I slide my underwear down while my eyes explore the tattooed muscles he’s been hiding all night. But when his hands go to his belt, they drop immediately. I start to scoot back, as if his cock needs room, but he stops me.

  “Where do you think you’re going,” he says, pushing his pants down so they fall to the floor. “Stay put.”

  I take a deep breath and fixate on how he’s straining in his boxers.

  He catches me looking and pulls them off, his dick slapping up against his stomach so energetically my mouth starts to water. “Want a taste?” he says, stroking himself.

  I sit up and crawl forward, desperate for a closer look. Then I sit back on my knees and reach for him.

  He takes his hand away and watches me, his jaw clenching when I grab hold of him.

  First, I lick him, tickling the base of his shaft with my tongue as my free hand fondles his balls. Then I lick my way to the tip before stroking him, my hand sliding effortlessly over his smooth skin.

  When I notice the bead of precum on his head, I glance up at him as I lick it off, and he looks positively pained. So I decide to put us both out of our misery and sink him to the back of my throat, my mouth watering around him more with every inch.

  “Fuck, Ruby.”

  I love the breathy way he says my name, and I pinch my lips around him so I can suck him harder. I must be doing a good job because he grabs a clump of my hair and twirls it around his fist, pulling it tight like he does in my fantasies.

  I moan around him, and his hips start to rock, meeting me halfway as I suck his head down my throat until I’m gagging on him, but I don’t stop…

  Until he pulls my head back and makes me look up at him. I want him so bad I’m sure he can see the hunger in my eyes, but his eyes have gone so black I can’t guess what he’s thinking.

  “My turn,” he says, letting go of my hair and sinking to the floor. He fondles my breasts and then brings his mouth to my right nipple, teasing it as he wraps his arm around me and drags me towards the head of the bed.

  I arch my back when I feel his teeth, but he’s gentle, almost too gentle for how much I want him. In fact, I’m about to beg for it when I feel his large hand push my thighs apart.

  He kisses his way down my body, his fingers already playing me, and when he lowers his tongue against my wet slit, I writhe beneath him, gushing against his tongue. As soon as he tastes me, he stops being gentle, scooping me out furiously and lapping at me like he intends to lick my clit right off.

  “Geo,” I cry. “Oh god, Geo, yes!”

  But he doesn’t look up, doesn’t even stop for breath. He just keeps devouring me like I’m his delicious prisoner, and soon the heat grows so intense my eyes start to water.

  When my hips buck, he grabs them and holds them down, picking up the pace until the pleasure is too much.

  “I’m going to come,” I whimper moments before I grab fistfuls of his bedding and pour past his lips.

  He drinks me for a long time, and when he lifts his head, his lips are shiny.

  I smile as he crawls over me. “That was amazing,” I say, touching his wet lips.

  He crushes them against mine, giving me a taste of my own desire, and I’m stunned by how drained my body feels. Normally, I just move things along because guys don’t know what they’re doing down there, and bad oral sex is downright boring. But having him between my legs was nothing short of explosive, and I’m delirious at the rush of endorphins coursing through me.

  It’s only when he slides inside me that I’m nudged from my haze, and I fix my eyes on him as he stretches me open. “Geo,” I whisper, dragging a hand along his cheek as he fills me up.


  He looks down at me, his face furrowed in focused pleasure.

  “I’m yours,” I say, dragging my hand down his beautiful chest as he fucks me slow, my breasts rocking beneath him.

  He folds one of my legs against his side and hits me deeper, making me cry out over and over until my eyelids grow heavy.

  “I want you to watch me come,” he says.

  I part my lips to speak, but he’s already pulled out and knelt over me, his slick dick clenched in his hand. I watch as he empties his load on my stomach and chest, turned on by the careful way he decorates me with his pleasure, milking himself onto my body like his come is an offering.

  As soon as he’s spent, he collapses beside me, panting, and lets go of his dick, his eyes on me like he’s in awe of something I’ve done.

  I roll my head towards him. “Give me a taste,” I say, casting my eyes down my body.

  He drags two thick fingers through the streak across my breast and brings them to my lips.

  I lift my head and suck his fingers clean, closing my eyes just before my own taste comes through.

  “You’re almost too beautiful to fuck,” he says, his eyes on my flushed cheeks. A moment later, he reaches behind him, pulls the comforter over us, and pulls me to him, unbothered by the mess that gets crushed between us.

  “Lucky for me, I’m not.”

  “You are, though,” he says, his eyes on mine. “I just can’t help myself.”

  “Well thank god.” I throw a leg over his hip. “’Cause I really needed that.”

  “Can I be honest with you?” he asks, holding my chin and looking at my lips.

  “Of course.”

  He lifts his eyes to mine. “I think I could love you,” he says. “And I haven’t felt that way about anyone in a long time.”

  I flatten a hand across his strong chest. “I think I could love you, too.”

  And for the first time in my life, I actually mean it.

  So why do I feel the urge to run for my life?

  N I N E

  I wake up beside Geo in a blind panic.

  Obviously I know this isn’t a rational feeling to have when one wakes up to a man who could’ve been Michelangelo’s muse, but I can’t help it.

  Sleepovers are strictly against the rules. As are first-date blowjobs and admissions of heartfelt feelings, all of which I’m guilty of.

  However, based on the peaceful look on his face and how still his eyelashes rest against his tan cheeks, he is not feeling as conflicted as I am.

  I take a deep breath and try to relax. Is this a committed relationship now? Do I officially have to delete Tinder? Oh god, not helping.

  I fluff my pillow against my head and turn my attention to his tattoos. There’s an angel in a submissive pose at the top of his arm, her wings tucked neatly at her sides. The artwork is beautiful, and in the background, there’s a pair of hands in a prayer position that are so detailed I wonder if they’re based on a particular pair.

  I’m squinting at them when he makes a soft noise and opens his eyes.

  “Good morning,” I whisper.

  “You’re still here,” he says.

  My face drops. Was he hoping I’d be gone?

  “I’m glad,” he says. “I was worried last night was a dream.”

  “It was,” I say, running my fingernails along his scalp. I’ve never seen his hair so messy, and he looks sexy as hell. I wipe my fingers under my eyes in case I look a fright.

  “Are you hungry?” he asks, still squeezing his pillow beneath him.

  “I’m never hungry right when I wake up.”

  “So you’re one of those freaks I’ve heard about?”

  I roll my eyes and then look back at him, hoping he can’t tell how new I am to pillow talk. “I was admiring your tattoos. Are you religious?”

  He scrunches his face. “Not as religious as the artwork might lead you to believe.”

  “So why the angel?” I ask. “And the praying hands?”

  “My great-great-grandfather saw an angel in the road when he was traveling from Florence to Milan.”

  I perk up my ears.

  “That’s how the story goes, anyway.”

  “Then what?”

  “She told him to stop his journey short, plant some grape seeds, and pray to St. Vincent,” he says. “She promised that if he did that, his family’s troubles would be no more.”

  “And it worked?”

  “Apparently.”

  “Cool,” I say. “So the tat reminds you—?”

  “To pay attention,” he says.

  “Right.”

  “So many people go through the motions, but they don’t pay attention. And there are signs everywhere,” he says. “Maybe not angels, but voices of reason that can guide you if you’re not too distracted to hear them.”

  “Like intuition?”

  “Exactly.”

  I rise up onto my elbows and look across his back. “What’s Chi ha fatto il male, faccia la penitenza?”

  He laughs. “Haven’t a clue.”

  “Did I butcher it that badly?”

  “No,” he says, obviously amused. “Close enough.”

  “Well?”

  “It means you reap what you sow.”

  “Was that inspired by the vineyard, too?”

  “No,” he says. “It’s just a favorite motto.”

  “And the two-headed wolf below it?”

  “There’s a parable about how each of us has two wolves fighting inside us,” he says. “Have you heard it?”

  I shake my head. “How does it go?”

  “To make a long story short, one wolf is good and represents all the positive qualities a person can have: kindness, humility, compassion, joy, et cetera.”

  “Okay.”

  “And the other wolf is evil. He represents malice, hatred, dishonesty, laziness, jealousy. You get the idea.”

  “Which one wins?” I ask.

  “The one you feed.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “Wow.”

  “My mom told me that story when I was little, and it made a big impression on me.”

  “I bet. Plus, it goes well with…” I choose not to butcher the Italian again. “Your motto.”

  “I think so, anyway.”

  I prop up even further and let my eyes trail from one tattoo to the next, stopping when I get to the cursive letters along the edge of his shoulder blade. “Who’s Christina?”

  He rolls over and rubs his eyes.

  “Geo.”

  “What?”

  “Who’s Christina?”

  He turns his head towards me. “She’s my daughter.”

  My heart sinks, taking all the moisture in my mouth with it. “Pardon?”

  “She lives in Italy,” he says. “With her mother.”

  I shake my head. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “There hasn’t been a good time.”

  “Now is good for me,” I say, keeping the covers wrapped around me as I sit up.

  He sighs and sits up, too, but lets the bedspread fall down around his hips.

  I try not to let his toned stomach distract me. “Well? At least tell me how old she is and—”

  “She’s eight.”

  “Eight?!” I regret the shock in my voice as soon as I hear it. “You’re not even old enough to have an eight-year-old dau—”

  “Neither is her mother, but that doesn’t change anything.”

  I take a deep breath and hope he’ll continue.

  “When I was eighteen, I spent the summer in Italy working for my uncle.”

  I press my lips together.

  “Sofia was working in the market at the time, and we became friendly. I suppose she was charmed by the American accent I spoke Italian with, and she was one of the only girls my age so… Eventually we became careless, and she got pregnant.”

  I swallow.

  “I tried to do the right thing. I said I wanted to marry her and bring her and the baby back to the States with me,
even though I was far from prepared for that. But she refused.”

  I cast my eyes down to where he’s gripping his own hands.

  “Her parents were furious with both of us then, and the only thing any of us could agree on was that the baby should stay with its mother. To make matters worse, my whole family was heartbroken, too. Frankly, if it weren’t for how much I love Christina, I’d wish the whole fling never happened.”

  “So you have a relationship with her?”

  He nods. “I try my best. I mean, it hasn’t been easy, and it breaks my heart that she might grow up questioning my love for her.”

  I bite the inside of my cheek.

  “But she has a good life there, a simpler life than she would ever be able to have here, and it would be selfish to begrudge her that.”

  “Couldn’t she come just to visit?”

  He shakes his head. “I can’t even tell you how often I’ve extended the invitation, but Sofia is very protective.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “I try to be thankful that she’s happy and healthy and leave it at that,” he says, his mouth twitching. “And fortunately, times have changed enough over there that having a child out of wedlock hasn’t completely ruined Sofia’s life.”

  “Is she married now or—?”

  “No, but she’s seeing some guy named Marco who seems nice enough.”

  “That can’t be easy for you.”

  “I just want her to be happy,” he says. “Both of them. And of course I like to think they would’ve been happy with me, but I don’t blame Sofia for wanting to stay. It’s scary enough getting pregnant so young, much less moving countries and trying to raise a baby without your family.”

  I slouch against the pillows and let the weight of Geo’s news wash over me. But no matter how hard I try to wrap my mind around the situation, it seems too big to comprehend.

  Too big for me, anyway.

  Sure, part of me wants to be supportive, but most of me wants to save myself from this mess, this drama, this pain he must feel all the time.

  Then again, I don’t know why I’m so surprised.

  I’ve known from the beginning that he was too good to be true.

  I just didn’t think the skeleton in his closet would be a living, breathing eight-year-old.