Free Wounded Beast (Gypsy Heroes Book 2) by Georgia le Carre

poured over the ice cream?’ I ask.
    He makes a face. ‘Seriously?’
    ‘Seriously,’ I insist.
    I pop myself on a high chrome stool—and, believe me, that’s some feat when you’re feeling the way I am—and I put my elbows on the gleaming surface of the island and watch him scoop the ice cream out. Gosh, the way he scoops ice cream is so yummy, I want to pour the melted stuff down his body and lick it off him. He picks up the bottle of grappa and looks at me.
    ‘You sure about this?’
    I wave my hand to indicate that he should continue with the task of pouring.
    He pours the ice-cold grappa over the ice cream and places it in front of me. He opens a drawer, finds a spoon and lays it beside the bowl. Actually, it looks quite delicious. I might have found a winning combination here.
    I take the spoon, dig it into the concoction and put it into my mouth. Ooooh! My eyes widen and my mouth starts moving sideways. Oh!
    His reaction is admirable. He shoves the bowl under my chin just as I spit it out.
    ‘Sorry,’ I apologize.
    ‘It was a vile combination,’ he concedes, handing me a paper towel.
    I wipe my mouth and tongue. ‘Oh dear, that was not very sexy, was it?’ I say weakly. How was I to know that gin and tonic ice cream with grappa poured over it would be so evil?
    ‘Actually,’ he says, his irises growing, ‘everything you do is sexy, sweet Ella. Can’t you tell? I’ve been wanting to fuck you for hours.’ He tilts his head. ‘My bedroom is that way.’ Slowly, I turn my head in the direction he’s indicated.
    ‘Get naked and sit on the edge of the bed,’ he commands.

TEN

    H er eyes flash with surprise, but she obeys me without a word. Desire is like the burning heat of a midday Sicilian sun on my skin as I watch her take swaying steps toward my bed. She stops at the bedroom door and looks around the room. A sigh escapes her. It is the wistful sigh of poor people the world over. Even though I have only stood at her front door and scanned the interior of her home, I know that my bedroom is bigger than her entire flat.
    If she weren’t so proud, I’d take her for my mistress. Set her up in a swanky apartment and shower her with gifts. Then I’d never have to feel guilty about using her.
    She goes into the dimly lit room and I wait a few minutes. I have something to do before I follow her. I walk up to the doorway to my bedroom and halt. 
    The bright light coming in from behind me falls on her naked body. There are two kinds of women: the very slim woman who looks better in clothes, and her more rounded counterpart who looks better, much better, naked. She is the latter.
    She’s a waking dream.
    Just like those great beauties that my granddad used to perve over. Even their names evoke a lost time—Brigitte Bardot, Marilyn Monroe, Raquel Welch.
    Ella Savage is curvy and creamy white. Her breasts are not the perfect silicone planets I’m used to, but they are deliciously full and round. The areolae are sweet pink, barely darker than her skin, upon which her nipples protrude like swollen buds. My gaze moves down to the wasp-waist and the gorgeously rounded hips. Her pubic bush, the same dark blonde as her hair, is neatly trimmed.
    I take a deep breath. The moment is surreal with silence and anticipation. It is as if I’m not part of it, but watching it happen on a movie screen.
    ‘Lean back and rest your weight on your hands,’ I order. Even to my ears my voice sounds harsh. Strange, because I don’t feel harsh at all. Inside, I’m melting like a marshmallow over a flame.
    I watch her arch her body back sensuously, her chest pushing out and up. Even so, she’s not flaunting it. She simply sits there and allows me to look at her.
    ‘Open your legs.’
    I watch her spread them, but it’s only a shy-open. There’s more to go. A lot more. Between the intriguing paleness of her thighs, full, luscious lips beg for a tongue to part them open. Taste them. Suck them. Fuck them. The desire to