"No one's ever looked at me like that."
"You should be looked at this way every day."
I flush hotter, and he steps closer, but I step back.
"Wait," I say again.
"Are you going to make me beg, Bellissima?"
I consider. "Maybe."
He makes another sound, a low, dangerous noise, and I step back.
"Touch yourself," I say, and watch him go still.
"What?"
"I want to see you touch yourself. Make yourself feel good."
I half-expect him to refuse. But instead, he wraps his hand around his cock and gives a long, slow stroke.
"Like this, hmm?"
I nod, watching him stroke, his grip firm and sure.
"Do you ever think about me?" I ask, and hear him groan.
"Yes."
"Do you imagine touching me?"
"Yes."
"Imagine me touching you. My hand."
"Yes." He strokes himself again, harder, his breath going ragged.
"What else do you think about?"
"This," he manages, his hips flexing. "Your mouth."
"You want to fuck my mouth, Luca?"
"Sì, yes, God."
"Say it."
"I want to fuck your mouth, Elena. I want to see you on your knees with my cock in your throat."
The image is so visceral, so intense, that I almost forget this is his fantasy.
"You think I'd let you come on my face?"
"Madonna," he whispers, and the word sounds like a prayer.
"Would you want that? Would you want to cover me in your cum?"
"God, yes. Fuck."
