He leans back on his elbows, his gaze sweeping over me, a slow, appreciative perusal that makes my skin flush. I can see the outline of his cock, hard and ready, straining against the fabric of his jeans.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, and for a moment, I forget to be afraid. I feel beautiful. Desired. Seen.
Then he stands, and I'm reminded of the power dynamic between us. He's fully clothed, while I'm almost naked. He's in control, while I'm at his mercy.
"Turn around," he says.
I do, my back to him, my front facing the street far below, but still very visible. My heart pounds in my chest.
"Hands on the tree."
The tree's bark is rough against my palms, the cool night air a shock against my heated skin. I can hear him moving behind me, the soft rustle of clothes, the snap of a button.
I close my eyes, bracing myself.
His hands are on my hips, hot and possessive. He pulls me back against him, and I can feel the hard, thick length of him against my ass. He’s still wearing his jeans, the denim a rough, delicious friction against my bare skin.
“You’re trembling,” he says, his voice a low rumble against my ear.
I am. I’m trembling with fear, with anticipation, with a need so intense it's painful.
“Don’t be afraid, mia,” he whispers, his breath warm against my neck. “I’ve got you.”
He slides a hand around my front, down my belly, into my panties. His fingers find my clit, and I cry out, my hips bucking against him.
“So wet for me,” he growls, his fingers circling, teasing, driving me wild.
I’m a mess of sensations—the rough bark against my hands, the cool night air on my skin, the hard press of his cock against my ass, the delicious friction of his fingers on my clit.
I’m so close, teetering on the edge, when he stops.
I whimper in protest, my head falling back against his shoulder.
“Please,” I beg.
“Not yet,” he says, and I can hear the smug smile in his voice.
He slides my panties down my legs, and I step out of them, now completely naked, exposed, at his mercy. The cool air makes my nipples tighten into hard, aching points.
Then he presses his leg between mine, forcing them apart, and I feel the rough denim of his jeans against my sensitive inner thighs. It's a delicious, torturous friction that makes me want to weep with need.
"Hold the tree," he orders, placing my hands on the trunk.
My breath hitches. I’ve never done this before, never been this vulnerable, this exposed. But the thought of it, of him seeing all of me, of taking me in this way, sends a fresh wave of desire through me.
“Good girl,” he praises, and the words send a surge of pleasure through me.
I feel the heat of his breath a second before his tongue leaves a slow, deliberate stripe between my lips.
I cry out, my body jolting with a pleasure so intense it’s almost painful.
He does it again, and again, his tongue exploring, tasting, driving me to the brink of madness.
My hands fall from the tree, my cheek pressed against the rough bark, my legs trembling so badly I’m afraid they’ll give out.
"Hold the tree," he says, voice firm.
"I can't," I pant. "Gio, please."
