I open my eyes in time to watch him drag his tongue slowly—so slowly—up the length of my pussy. His moan vibrates into me, so deep I feel it in my ribcage.
My head falls back on instinct. “Oh, fuck.”
He doesn’t say anything at first, just keeps licking. Long, reverent strokes that part me, lap at me, claim me. His tongue is firm, deliberate, and when he circles my clit the first time, my hips jolt.
He growls, low. “Keep still,piccola. I haven’t even started.”
He shifts lower, tongue teasing my entrance, licking into me slow and wet. His hands tighten on my thighs. One shifts down to grip my ass; the other pulls gently on the chain between the clamps—and the added tension sends a jolt straight through my core.
I cry out.
“That’s it,” Dante murmurs, mouth wet against my cunt. “You want more, don’t you?”
“Yes—yes, Dante—more?—”
He sucks my clit into his mouth and flattens his tongue over it, flicking fast, merciless. It’s filthy and precise, and I swear I see stars behind my eyes. I’m panting, writhing, overwhelmed—but then he eases off, letting the tip of his tongue circle lazily.
“Sensitive already?” he taunts, voice smug. “I thought you said you needed this.”
I glare down at him, breath catching. “I do.”
His mouth is back on me in a second.
The pressure builds fast and tight—too tight—until I’m arching against the mattress, fingers in his hair, the chain tugging, and the clamps biting just enough to send everything over the edge.
I come with a sob, a curse, Dante’s name gasped from my throat like a prayer and a warning.
He groans like he’s the one climaxing, tongue softening but never stopping, riding out every twitch, every pulse of pleasure as I pant and shake beneath him.
When I finally collapse back into the bed, boneless and throbbing, he kisses my inner thigh.
Then, casually, darkly: “You taste even better when you come for me.”
I don’t have the breath to speak yet.
But I know I’ll be ready to answer him when he fucks me next.
“I’m going to eat this pussy so much tonight.”
My body’s still pulsing when Dante comes back up between my thighs. I don’t even have time to catch my breath before sharp, shocking cold glides over my clit.
“Fuck,” I gasp, hips bucking instinctively as my legs twitch to close.
But his hands are already there—firm on my thighs, spreading me wider.
“Easy,” he murmurs, voice like smoke. “You can take a little more.”
I open my eyes and see it: the cube between his fingers, melting slightly from the heat of his skin. Then his mouth joins it—hot tongue tracing the same place he just iced, a devastating contrast that makes me whimper.
He does it again. Ice. Tongue. Ice. Tongue.
My clit throbs, hypersensitive and aching, and just when I think I’m going to come again, he eases off with a dark chuckle.
“No,” he says softly. “Not yet.”
The word coils inside me like a command, because the bastard knows. Knows I’m right there—quivering on the edge—and he’s holding me back like it’s his favorite game.
I don’t have time to beg before he’s reaching for the small silver clip attached to the chain on my collar.
