I take another drink, finish the glass, and set it down on the floor beside me as I kneel between her thighs.
She stays exactly how I left her—legs wide, hands braced back on the mattress, waiting.
My hands slide up her stomach, to her breasts. I palm them both—rougher than I need to be—rolling her nipples between my fingers until she gasps.
“You should get these pierced,” I murmur, watching the peaks swell under my touch.
She smirks. “If I ever do… your mouth gets them first.”
I growl and reach for the chain.
The first piece is a black leather collar—sleek, elegant, laced with dark silver hardware. I wrap it around her neck and pull it snug, letting her feel the slow drag of control before I fasten it.
“How’s that?” I ask, voice low.
“Good,” she breathes. “Tighter.”
I smirk and pull just enough. I take one last sip of the bourbon, then let the glass hang in my hand for a second. The two remaining cubes glisten, half-melted in the amber. An idea forms.
I set the glass beside me and lean in, mouth claiming her breast again. I lick around the nipple, then suck it between my lips—hard and slow. She gasps, arching into me.
I reach down, pluck one of the cubes from the glass, and roll it gently around her nipple. The reaction is immediate—her back bows, her hips jerk, a moan breaking free.
I follow it with my mouth again, warming her with my tongue, before trailing to the other breast. I repeat the motion—mouth, ice, mouth again—until she’s trembling beneath me, skin pebbled, breath erratic.
When I know she’s on the edge of begging, I reach for the clamps.
But I pause.
Hold one between my fingers.
“You’ll tell me if it’s too much,” I say.
She nods, lips parted.
“Words, piccola.”
“Yes,” she breathes. “I’ll tell you.”
I let that sit for a moment, watching her eyes. Then I attach the first clamp. She lets out a high whimper, a shudder racing through her. The second follows, and her hands fist into the sheets.
A delicate chain sways between them, connecting nipple to nipple, each movement making her bite her lip as sensation hums through her body.
Her chest is flushed. Her thighs are slick. And her pussy is soaking the edge of my bed.
“Lay back,” I tell her, voice rough. “Keep your legs spread. I want to see you gleam while you wear my chain.”
Dante lowers down my body like a man approaching worship.
Every brush of his stubble, every graze of his mouth down my stomach, makes the blood roar in my ears. His fingers stay curled around the insides of my thighs, spreading me wide like a gift he’s unwrapping just for himself.
When he reaches my center, he pauses.
And breathes me in.
A long, guttural inhale—nose nearly touching my clit, lips hovering—like he needs the scent of me the way other men need oxygen.
“Christ,” he murmurs, voice rough. “You smell like you’re already wrecked for me.”
