I lift my chin, meeting his eyes. We’re a breath apart, practically on top of each other.
Somehow—and for the life of me, I don’t know how—we end up tearing each other’s clothes off.
I rip his shirt open, a few buttons skittering across the floor. He does the same, rending my blouse down the sleeve so my breasts fall out.
A part of my brain registers that we’re very exposed in the sitting room. The French doors are thrown open and I can hear the faint churn of the lawnmower as Mario tends to the grass. Light filters in through the open windows. The smell of lunch rolls in from the kitchen.
But it doesn’t stop Misha from lifting me on top of the grand piano and pushing my skirt up.
He doesn’t even bother taking my panties off; he just pushes them to the side and shoves his tongue into
