“That’s right, Francesca. You’re mine.” Because he couldn’t live without her. He couldn’t ever again come back to one of his houses without her in it.

He moved up her body, keeping her thighs wide, bending one leg at the knee to curve it around his body, wanting her to lock him up tight. He did the same to the other leg so that her body cradled his and her legs circled his thighs, ankles crossed to hold him to her.

He brushed at her hair, and took her mouth again. He’d never be able to resist her mouth. He loved everything about it. How soft. Like velvet. Full lips. Her smile took his breath every time. She had the cutest little dimple, barely there, that came and went when she smiled. Her taste was exquisite. Addicting. He kissed his way down her chin and took a small bite. Felt her body shudder beneath his in reaction.

Her neck was next. He loved the way she arched, giving him access, even when he bit her that little bit too hard. It was impossible not to sink his teeth into her. She was just too—perfect. Just too his. Everything he could imagine he would want in a woman and so much more.

Her hands stroked his back, fingernails bit deep into his shoulders. His cock jerked, his balls tightened. She was perfect. Fucking perfect. He worshiped her breasts, taking his time, even when she tried to impale herself on him. He loved that. Loved the way she needed him. Her eyes had that glazed look he was hungry to see. The look that said she was so far gone he could do anything to her and she’d let him, because she was every bit as wild for him as he was for her.

He guided her legs higher, so that they wrapped around his waist, exposing that soft center of hers. A flower. He lodged the head of his cock there, feeling the burn. So slick with welcome. He loved that too. How wet she got for him. How responsive she was to him. She was everything. When a man had nothing for his entire damn life, there was no mistaking the real thing when she walked unexpectedly into his world.

He pushed slowly into her. Inch by scorching-hot inch. Watching as she took him in. Watching as her body swallowed his. It was beautiful. Fucking perfection. His gaze on hers, he threaded his fingers through hers and pressed their joined hands into the mattress.

He’d never felt anything so intense as he did right in that moment. The clasp of her sheath strangling his cock, a vise made of breathing silk, the tunnel so hot and tight it took his breath. He moved slowly. He didn’t want to. He wanted to fuck her hard, but right then, he couldn’t. He was helpless, caught in her spell. Mesmerized by her beauty—by the beauty of her body and what it could do to his. Mesmerized by her heart, the heart that belonged to him.

He found himself hypnotized by the small noises Francesca made in her throat that always drove him wild. The way her eyes darkened as lust overtook her. He was acutely aware of every detail, every movement. The way she tilted her pelvis to take him deeper. The way she lifted to meet him, matching his rhythm exactly. Accepting whatever pace he set. Hard. Slow. Gentle. Fast. She gave herself completely into his keeping.

“That’s right, dolce cuore,” he whispered, feeling it build in her, coiling and burning. She was close. The hitch in her breathing, the raw carnal need etched into her face. So beautiful. All his. “Give it to me now.” He pushed command into his voice, wanting to feel the pulse of her body, that tight grip milking at him. The scorching friction and searing heat she surrounded him with. He wasn’t yet ready to let her take him over the edge. He wanted more. Much, much more.

She gasped as the climax took her, her gaze never wavering from his. Her eyes went wide with a kind of dazed shock and her body shuddered and rippled with a powerful orgasm. He kept moving in her, picking up the pace, pounding through her climax, prolonging it.

He couldn’t help himself. He drove deeper, lifting her hips to him, fingers digging into her perfect little heart-shaped bottom. Fucking her hard. Really hard. She belonged to him. Every inch of her. Her orgasms belonged to him. Her silken sheath, so tight he thought he might not live through every time she surrounded him—that belonged to him. He buried himself in her over and over. Taking her. Owning her. Savoring her. Her scent. The feel of her. Dio. Her taste, so exquisite he was addicted and woke every fucking morning with her on his tongue.

He wrapped her hair around his fist, just because he fucking owned her hair, too. She let him, even when he jerked, pulling hard, turning her head to force her to keep watching his face. He reveled in the sight of her under him, pinned there, unable to move, her legs wrapped around his waist, locking them together while he rode her hard.

He belonged there inside of her. She was . . . la sua casa—his home. Home wasn’t a place with four walls. Home was a scorching-hot, tight sheath made of silk. Home was blue eyes he could drown in. Home was soft skin and an eager mouth, hands that stroked and caressed, nails that bit deep in passion. She was home. Francesca.