“Oh god,” I whimpered, as a different kind of pressure began to build. “What are you doing to me?”
He didn’t answer, just continued that maddening massage while pressing soft kisses to my inner thighs. Then he was moving up my body, his fingers still working that magic inside me, until his mouth found mine.
I tasted myself on his lips as he kissed me deeply, swallowing my moans as his fingers continued doing what they did best. The slow laziness of his movements, against that perfect spot, pushed me toward a second peak faster than I thought possible.
“That’s it,” he murmured against my lips. “You’re getting firmer. You’re going to come again for me, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” I gasped, no longer caring how desperate I sounded. “Please, yes.”
My hands scrabbled at his shoulders, then down his chest, until I reached the waistband of his shorts. I needed to feel him, to touch him, to know he was just as affected as I was.
“Help me,” I begged, tugging at the elastic. “Please.”
With his free hand, he helped me push his shorts and boxers down his hips, freeing his erection. My hand wrapped around him immediately, feeling the hot, velvet skin stretched over steel. He was so hard, the tip already dripping, and knowingI did that to him made my inner muscles clench around his fingers.
“Fuck, that feels good,” he hissed, his hips jerking into my grip. “Just like that, baby.”
I stroked him in time with the movement of his fingers inside me, my thumb circling his head the way I remembered he liked. His breathing grew ragged, his rhythm faltering slightly as pleasure overtook him.
“Does this feel good?” I asked, squeezing him gently.
“God, yes,” he groaned, his forehead dropping to rest against mine. “So fucking good.”
We moved together like that, his fingers inside me, my hand around him, our breaths mingling as we pushed each other toward the edge. When his thumb found my clit again, pressing circles in time with the curling of his fingers, I felt that familiar tightening at my core.
“I’m going to come again,” I warned, my voice breaking on a moan.
“Me too,” he admitted, his hips thrusting into my hand. “Fuck, Alisa, don’t stop.”
My second orgasm hit me like a punch to the gut, less explosive but somehow deeper than the first. I cried out against his mouth, my body clenching rhythmically around his fingers as the high travelled up my spine again.
“Oh my god,” I moaned and tightened my grip on his cock, now jerking him off faster, harder. My entire arm hurt, but I didn’t care. The high he gave me fueled me on, and I massaged the base of his cock, right above his balls, with the palm of one hand while the other buzzed up a speed so fast my hand went numb.
“Fuck, Alisa!” he screamed and dropped his head against my neck, groaning as he did. And that’s when I felt him pulse, his cock alive in my hand as he came in hot spurts across my stomach.
For a long moment, we just lay there, breathing hard, his forehead pressed against mine, his fingers still buried inside me.
Then, ever so slowly, he pulled out of me and smiled. “Give me thirty, and I swear I can come again,” he grinned against my lips.
God, how good that sounded. Thirty more minutes, and I could have had so much more. I could have had him. All of him.
But just then, like plunging into an ice bath, the reality of what we’d just done began to seep in, replacing the haze of desire with something sharper, more complicated.
This was Dante. He had left me without reason four years ago after telling me he loved me. He’d pulled away from me on the couch just days before, like what I wanted didn’t matter.
What the hell was I doing?
Panic bloomed in my chest, pushing out the afterglow. I squirmed beneath him, suddenly desperate to put distance between us.
“I should go,” I said, my voice unnaturally high. “I just remembered I have a massage scheduled.”
Dante looked confused, but he gently withdrew his fingers. “A massage? Now?”
“Yes,” I insisted, wiggling out from under him and scrambling to grab my clothes. “I completely forgot. I booked it yesterday.”
I pulled on my panties and leggings with shaking hands, not looking at him as I searched for my sports bra and tank top. I could feel his eyes on me, tracking my frantic movements.
“Alisa,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “What are you doing?”
