His mouth is hard and unforgiving. I taste salt and sulfur from the spring water on my own lips. He pulls me closer with the hand still fisted in my hair as his tongue pushes into my mouth and clashes with mine.
His other hand drags down my body. When his palm cups my breast through the soaked fabric, I arch into him automatically. The silk is so thin now it might as well not exist. His thumb finds my n****e and circles it, once, twice, then presses down with just enough pressure to make me moan into his mouth.
He swallows the sound. Takes it from me like he owns it. Hell, maybe he does.
Then he’s walking me backward, his grip relentless, his mouth never leaving mine. My shoulder blades hit bark—one of the olive trees ringing the grotto—and the impact knocks what little breath I have le
