CHAPTER 80: TI VOGLIO

CHAPTER 80: TI VOGLIO
KRISTIAN

I don't get a warning; all I get is the desperate press of lips against lips.

Luca swallows my gasp as his hands dig into my shoulders, pulling me flush against him. He tastes of salt and acrylic.

All the paint must have gone into my head, poisoned my brain cells so terribly, and fried the entirety of my common sense.

That is the only sensible explanation I can give for allowing myself to kiss Luca Moretti after weeks of fighting the attraction between us.

Five minutes ago, I'd been uncomfortable with the texture of paint on my skin, but now, I can barely notice it.

The paint cracks across my collarbones, falling between us. We're a flurry of paint-streaked flesh. Luca pulls me out of the bathroom, and we stumble into the room together. He pushes me roughly against the dresser, his mouth hot and insistent.

Maybe it's the adrenaline still singing in my veins from the paint fight or the memory of Luca holding a paintball, giving me a Cheshire grin right before he pelted me with a shower of paint. 

Maybe it's the feeling of being 1,800 kilometers from Stockholm's gilded cages, or maybe it's just him. I don't know what it is that makes me finally give in to this torrent of desire.

I'll dissect it later; my brain is too scrambled to focus on anything else at the moment.

“Sei così rigido, principino,” Luca murmurs against my lips. Me? Tense? His teeth catch my lower lip before coasting down to my neck. “Rilassati.”

I gasp at the feel of his tongue in my clavicle. He raises his head to swallow the sound. How the fuck can I relax when he’s sending all my nerve endings haywire?

His hands slide over my skin, fingers dragging through drying paint. “Guarda che pasticcio,” he tuts, pulling back just enough to survey the damage—his thumb smearing yellow across my ribs. He’s right—what a mess.

Between his kisses and how fast he's speaking, my rudimentary Italian can’t keep up.

“Parla svedese?” I demand. 

Luca's grin is all teeth. “Nej.”

Then his mouth is on my throat, biting just hard enough to sting, and I forget about languages altogether. The dresser rattles with the force of our weight as he presses closer. A bottle of cologne shatters, but we don't stop to inspect the damage. Neither of us cares; we've waited too long to get here for a measly bottle to distract us.

I bite his lower lip, and he moans.

“Ti voglio,” he breathes into my skin. Fuck, I want him, too.

I slip my hand past where it's been wanting to go for months, down Luca's shirt and through the waistband of his briefs.

Instead of going straight for the star attraction, I trace the seam of his underwear, then pass my hand over the fabric, outlining the shape of him through the silk.

Luca gasps into my mouth, grabbing the back of my neck and kissing me harder. The sound that tears from my lips is tortured when he runs his hand down my front and returns the favor.

He moves again, pushing me into a nearby armchair. I fall into it without resistance, my legs feeling like those of a baby deer.

He bolts the door and pushes me into a nearby armchair, securing my arms to the back of the chair with his ruined shirt. I can only watch, drunk on desire, as Luca lowers himself to his knees in front of me.

Helvete. Does he want to…?

He grabs the edge of my briefs, pulling them down low enough to free me from their constraints. Then he sits back on his knees, running a hand over his lips as he looks at me—really looks—for the first time.

I'm so needy that I'm terrified I'm going to come apart just from the heat of his gaze.

“I've wanted to taste you from the very first moment I saw you, Caro,” he whispers, something like reverence in his voice. “I might die if you tell me to stop.” The confession makes my heart—and my cock—ache. 

I want to tell him that I feel the same, too, but I can't form the words. Instead, I nod intensely, watching him with bated breath as he slowly lowers his head and takes me into his mouth.

My hips buck off the chair of their own accord, and I let out a sound that can only be described as a mating call. Stars and bursts of color explode behind my eyes. 

“Shh, Kristian,” Luca murmurs, pulling away slightly. “The walls aren't soundproof.” But I can barely focus on the words when his mouth is covered with the evidence of my desire.

“I'm trying,” I groan softly.

He finds the tie I planned to wear that evening and shoves it in my mouth while he lowers his head and goes back to sucking me off like he's trying to harvest my soul.

The pleasure of it all is made even more intense by the fact that I cannot move or scream. All I can do is sit there and take it all. All I can do is endure while Luca devours me.

He slows down just when I'm about to come undone, making me beg in undignified, unprincely language unfit for civilized company.

When he finally lets me come, I'm a wet, slobbering, begging mess. He milks the orgasm for what it's worth, sucking me off till the aftershocks have me too sensitive to keep still.

Then he raises his head and kisses me hard on the mouth so I can taste myself on him. Then he hums softly and presses his thumb down on my bottom lip.

I swallow, looking every bit as lost as I feel. How do I go back to normalcy after this? How can I be Kristian Lindholm, Kronprins av Sverige, honorable, disciplined, duty-bound after this? 

I'm ruined.


Sei così rigido, principino (Italian) – You’re so stiff, little prince
Rilassati (Italian) – Relax
Guarda che pasticcio (Italian) – Look at the mess
Parla svedese? (Italian) – Do you speak Swedish?
Nej (Swedish) – No
Ti voglio (Italian) – I want you
Helvete (Swedish) – Hell
Caro (Italian) – Dear
Kronprins av Sverige (Swedish)- Crown Prince of Sweden