Well, thank you, Harvard.
It stuck.Westuck. He kept asking for me and I kept dropping everything for him, and now here we are at the culmination of all those little breaches of my law firm’s protocols that are supposed to keep the Morellis and the Bianchis at arm’s length: Nick Fontana’s donkey dick is working its way into my greedy little hole.
Fuck, he’s big. Every time I somehow forgethowbig, and he enjoys reminding me. He’s between my thighs, holding himself up on just one of those impressive goddamn arms of his like it’s nothing at all, his other hand helping his cock into my ass. “Come on, Harvard, open up,” he mutters, and looks straight at me. He forces a gasp out of me as his cockhead drives in, and I clutch at his shoulders. His jaw clenches as he waits for me to adjust, but the last thing I want is his kindness.
“The fuck are you waiting for?” I grit out, and despite the fact that I’m covered in sweat and shaking from the intensity of it all, I challenge him with a raised, questioning eyebrow.
He takes his hand off his dick and grabs my face, squeezing my cheeks hard, his gaze flicking all over my face while he works his way into me. He likes it this way, watching the quiver of my eyelashes, the knitting of my brow, the clench of my teeth… I think he likes to know it’s really affecting me, that every quarter inch of him can force a reaction out of me. And just when I think I can’t take it another second, when I think I’m going to split right open, I feel the fuzzy tufts of his hair grazing my flesh. My hole is burning and aching around his dick, and when he flexes low in my gut it makes me whimper, makes me pull him closer.
His fingers relax on my cheeks and he buries his nose below my ear, breathing hard. “Come on,” I hiss out. “Don’t tell me you’re done already, Nicky?”
He nips at my shoulder for that, more playful than painful, but he starts to move, starts to rock on top of me, making sure my ass can take it, making sure my breathing evens out and turns from gasps to sighs. He’s a thoughtful lover, for such a big guy.
I’m still burning up, the fire in my asshole radiating out all over me, but it’s agoodhurt, the right side of the pain/pleasure line, the kind that keeps me coming back to him. And it’s not just that, it’s the way he’s right there with me every time we do this, his face an inch away from mine and studying me like he’s only getting pleasure from giving it.
He runs a hand across my wet brow, his fingers through my damp hair, and presses his mouth to my cheekbone. Words rumble out of him: “Fuck, you feel good.” He builds up speed when my hips urge him on, and I wrap my legs around him, high as I can, help him nail my own prostate with every thrust, open my mouth wide on his shoulder so I can suck the sweat off him. He’s a workhorse, and even though I’m underneath him it still feels like I’m riding him, the steady and reliable pace between us giving my ass exactly what it wants, and so much better than the plug could ever be.
I stuff my hand down between us and he shifts, lifts his belly so I can stroke myself. There’s so much sweat and pre-cum coating my cock that my hand slaps up and down easily, a slick squelching matched to the rhythm of the pounding in my ass, moving faster and faster as Nick does, too. I can’t stop talking, needling him, telling him to fuck me harder, I can take it, fuck me like he actually means it, until I’m right there at the edge—
“Come on, you little shit,” Nick chuckles breathlessly, as my body arches up into him, my legs clamping around his hips. “Spill it out for me.”
I do. God, I shoot so hard my vision goes white for a second, an overexposed photograph of Nicky’s grinning face as I empty like a hose between our bodies. With one last twist of my hips and hard squeeze of my ass I wipe the smirk off Nick’s face, milk his load out of him and make him curse me out.
I’m only dimly aware when he pulls out of me, my asshole still clutching at him, trying to drag him back in. I should get up, clean up, but I’m so cum-drunk I just lie there instead until Nick quits padding around the room and rejoins me, slings one heavy arm across my hot, wet chest, and we sleep.
* * *
I wakewho knows how long later, disturbed by the buzzing of a phone on the nightstand.
“Not mine,” I grunt, because it’s too far away to be mine. Mine is always in reach.
“Shit,” Nick snaps, rolling over and grabbing up his phone.
“Emergency?” I mumble.
He checks the message, mutters a quietFuck, and gives me a distracted look. “No, but I’ve been herewaytoo long.”
“Time just seems to fly by when we’re together.” I stretch luxuriously with a loud, appreciative moan.
“Yeah, well not all of us can lie around and do nothing and still charge by the hour.”
At that, I prop myself up on my elbows, intrigued. I never take people snarling at me personally, because most people end up taking that tone with me eventually. I prefer it that way. At least you know where you stand when their irritation is up front like that. “There really is some shit going down, isn’t there?”
“You want to keep your nose clean, Bianchi. Don’t think your daddy’d like it if you keep sticking it into Morelli business.”
He’s dressing while he stares at me, and before I can even really sit up on the bed, he’s at the door, about to leave.
“Thanks,” he says briefly.
“We aim to please,” I tell him sardonically, crossing one ankle over the other. He doesn’t even glance back at me, just slides out the door—well, as much as a big man like Nick Fontana can slide anywhere. I wonder again how he does with stealth operations. Do the Morellis even bother with stealth these days? Luca D’Amato’s power in New York is almost unrivaled now, and they have plenty of legitimate businesses making almost as much money for them as the shadier ones. Having to work in the dark might be a thing of the past for them.
I need to go clean out my ass, but first I check my own phone. Nothing. I’m missed by no one, not even my father, but I know he must have left Villa Alessi by now, gone back to the beach house down the end of the compound where the Alessis stashed all the less-important guests—except me. It’s late, even for me, but I give in to the urge to check my work emails on my phone. Predictably, I’m quickly caught up in them, my stinging ass and gurgling gut a mere afterthought, but then I hear the door opening again.
“Back for round two already?” I ask, looking past my phone with a smirk, but the guy barging into my room is not Nick Fontana.
It’s the groom, Ray Gatti.
Shit.
