I sucked in a deep breath when Raffa brushed his thumb down the center of my fabric-covered groin, pressing into the damp spot at the apex. When he pulled away, I almost protested, but my words died on my tongue when he pressed the tip of his damp thumb into his mouth and sucked it clean. “Hai un buon sapore come immaginavo,” he said. “You taste as good as I imagined.” “Like apricots?” I teased, surprised by the confidence I felt, half lying in my seat with my wet underwear exposed and my taste on Raffa’s lips. “Like sin,” he corrected. “It is addictive.”
