With a sigh of frustration, I take my wine glass in hand and sip on it slowly, no longer in the mood to eat anything else. My thoughts hold so much uncertainty they’ve ruined my appetite and soured my mood.
So deep in my tumultuous thoughts, I’m startled by the feel of someone touching my leg. I instantly freeze, in lieu of screaming, and briefly drop my gaze to find Tristano’s fingers splayed across my thigh. He sweeps his thumb back and forth in a caress, while listening to the conversation and participating when necessary. I hide the shock that’s sure to be on my face by lifting my glass and pretending to drink.
If he doesn’t stop touching me, I won’t need to fake it.
I shift in my seat to scoot away from him, but he clamps his fingers so tightly the pain of it wrenches a gasp from me. Tristano gives me a pointed look and then loosens his grip, resuming the languid strokes on my thigh.
That was a warning, plain and simple.
Indecision wars within me. Rebellion is quick to rear its head, yet the consequences of acting out are more than just physical discomfort. I’m not ready for everyone to know what’s transpired between us. Not only would it make for awkward dining conversation, but I can’t really put words to it. How am I supposed to tell my future in-laws—which includes Tristano—that I love him, but not only that, I have no idea if I’m pregnant or not. I won’t disclose anything until I obtain answers first.
Tristano lays his arm on the table and leans forward. To anyone else it would seem as if he’s engaged in whatever Maximus is saying, but in actuality that position gives him more leeway to touch me without having to reach very far. He gathers the material of my sundress in a fist and proceeds to slowly raise it until my entire leg is exposed under the tablecloth.
I grab his hand with both of mine in a silent demand for him to stop, yet it does nothing to deter him. Instead he dips his fingers between my thighs and runs his fingertips over the crotch of my panties. His gaze shoots to me when he finds it damp and I pointedly ignore him, staring straight ahead and digging my nails into his skin.
Tristano’s mouth lifts into a sensual smirk, one that has me wanting to simultaneously slap him and kiss him. How can he elicit so much anger and arousal in me all at once? Regardless, he blends the two by snaking his finger under my panties to rub my clit.
I inhale sharply and try my hardest to shove his hand away, but his strength isn’t something I can compete with. And after a few languid strokes, I’m gripping his hand with mine and pressing him closer instead of away. It takes every ounce of willpower I have to keep from closing my eyes in bliss or moaning from the pleasure he’s giving me.
My hips lift of their own accord, wanting more, and now I’m digging my nails into his skin for a different reason altogether. It’s because of my growing arousal and the effort it takes to appear calm when there’s a cyclone of titillation swirling round and round in my core. I bite the inside of my cheek to prevent any sounds from escaping and I remove my hands from his, clutching the armrests of the chair to anchor myself before euphoria sends me flying.
Tristano’s voice is like liquid sex whenever he speaks and it glides over me when he answers Rafael, bringing me closer to the edge. My need for relief causes my eyes to prick with tears and my legs to shake. The cadence of my breathing no longer holds a steady rhythm and I purposely breathe in and out from my nose to lessen the erratic sound. If I were to open my mouth, more than voice would pour from me; it’d be a full symphony of rapture and release.
When he lightly pinches my clit, I jerk in my chair, gaining the attention of my sister. I give her a weak smile and then take my fork in hand, thinking to stab Tristano with it. But then he increases the pressure of his touch and the speed of his strokes and it’s all I can do to hold still. I drop my gaze to the table and push around the food on my plate to hide the sensual storm that’s gaining strength within me.
“Violetta, what do you think?”
I whip my head up and stare at Tristano with my lips parted. His gaze is bright with his licentious intent and I swallow deep to wet my dry throat.
“I think the current mayor in office is competent, but I’m not sure if there isn’t a better candidate,” he says, clearly delighted with my bewildered state. “I asked you what’s your opinion on the upcoming mayoralelection.”
“I just want the best person for the position,” I say, my voice strained to my ears.
“My thoughts exactly.” His expression is full of triumph before he turns back to facing the others. “I agree, only the best should lead. Especially if they can anticipate the problems that are sure to becoming.”
Whether or not I imagined Tristano’s emphasis on that last word is irrelevant because my mind interpreted it as such and that mental trigger, plus the dangerous air of secrecy surrounding me, sends me over the edge.
Every muscle in my body tightens right before pleasure floods me, gathering in my sex and then rushing in all directions. The sensations stream through me like the blood in my veins, warm and fluid. I can’t hold back the small cry that’s nothing more than hum, but it has Tristano flicking his gaze in my direction. From my peripheral I can see his nostrils flare and his lips thin as he tries to maintain his blank expression. Knowing he’s affected by me, and that my reaction to coming impacts him so strongly, makes my orgasm all the more powerful.
He’s relentless in his strokes and when he pulls his fingers away I blow out a breath in relief, glad to have a reprieve. But it’s the calm before the storm. Tristano drives his fingers inside me and I bite my tongue so hard blood overwhelms my tastebuds. Anticipating the brutal thrust of his fingers, I’m surprised when he chooses to only massage the walls of my sex.
And he does it with the finesse of an artist, but with the force of a savage.
I orgasm again, never really having come down from the last high, and my vision blurs from the intensity of it. The pleasure surrounding me, completely taking over, renders me weak and I can only sit there as it shatters me.
Tristano leaves his fingers inside my body for a long time after I come, no doubt enjoying the way my sex continues to squeeze him after my orgasm has faded. When he finally removes his hand from between my legs, he reaches for a strawberry on his plate. I watch aghast as he rubs his damp fingertips all over the piece of fruit, coating it with the effects of my orgasm, and then bites into it. The low rumble from him after is for my ears only, too quiet for anyone else to hear.
I don’t blink, not wanting to miss the way he savors it or how he briefly closes his eyes before swallowing. My arousal skyrockets at the eroticism of that. I lay my fork down and slide my hand underneath the tablecloth, desperate to come again.
This time it’s Tristano who struggles to keep his composure.
He clears his throat more than once and fists his hands, one of them clutching a glass so tightly it could fracture and break. I want to drive him crazy like he did to me, but my orgasm is so close I don’t have the time to do more than reach over and grab his cock. It’s rock hard and twitches against my fingers as soon as they make contact.
Then I squeeze the fuck out of him when I come.
He stiffens in his seat and when he brings his hands to his armrests they’re shaking. The wood creaks under the strength of his grip and only when I retract my hand from his erection does he let go of the chair.
Now it’s my smile that’s full of mockery and triumph when I look at him.
