Open mouths melded together, tongues battling and devouring, hands gripping tight. I had never been kissed with so much intent.
Angelo welded his mouth to mine and kissed me harshly, deeply, like he was trying to extricate the mean words out of me.
I kissed him just as furiously, as if I were conquering something that I couldn’t have otherwise, or wring as much as I could out of this moment, of him, of his taste and those low groans that emanated from his throat and chest. I kissed him to extinguish the need he had created in me, a need I’d never felt before. I couldn’t live with that yearning. I had to satiate it.
Instead, it grew with every stroke of our tongues, every finger that Angelo threaded in my hair as he held me against him, every groan from him that pulsated between my legs.
He backed me up against the bathroom vanity. His hands trekked my body, from my face and neck down to my breasts and abdomen and thighs, wrapping one around him while pushing me to half-sit on the countertop. His fingers on my skin were calloused from the strings of all the guitars he’d ever played.
I wasn’t wasting time, either. I smoothed my hands over his arms and chest, the muscles that had taunted me for days. I gripped the hem of his shirt, pushed my palms inside, and touched the warm, solid plains of his abdomen and chest. I pulled his shirt up, and Angelo took it off and threw it to the floor.
I kissed his neck, brushed my palms and tongue over his clavicle, my fingers delineating the silver chain, my palms raking down to his pecs, the chest hair between them, and that line that led down to his belt and disappeared inside his jeans. I couldn’t stop touching his chest, his arms, his back that I had fantasized about. The scent of his body and his taste became one in my dazzled senses.
Angelo pushed the hardness in his jeans against me while I fumbled with the buckle to open the front of his pants. It took me time because he was kissing my neck and licking down my throat, forcing me to throw my head back in my longing for more.
He brought his mouth back to mine, and we were kissing fervently again while he slid my unzipped hoodie from my shoulders, letting it freefall to the floor. He then grabbed my cropped tank top with its built-in bra and pulled it up. I raised my arms to help him as he nearly ripped it from me.
He cupped my naked breasts, his eyes on mine, then leaned in and kissed me deeply while rubbing his palms up and down, pebbling my already hardened nipples until the throb between my legs became unbearable. My knees were ready to buckle under me.
Angelo gripped my biceps and made me turn around, my back against his chest, my ass against his pelvis, his hard-on pressing into me from behind.
Our eyes met in the mirror that hung above the sink. My mouth was a circle, I was caught off-guard, gazing at my naked torso in the mirror.
Angelo trailed his hands from holding my biceps to smooth along my neck, over my shoulders, then down to my breasts. “Look how beautiful you are,” he rasped.
He was touching me like he touched that guitar, and all the while, his eyes flickered between looking at his own hands on my body and bringing them back to meet mine in the mirror, as if ensuring I was following.
Oh, I was. The glint of the wedding ring on his hand that was cupping my breast didn’t escape me.
Kneading my breasts in his palms and making me watch, took my breath away. I felt dizzy when he kissed his way up my neck then brought his lips to rasp in my ear.
“You treat your body like a temple, but a body is not to be worshiped. Worshiping is from afar. In Italy, you worship the Pope. Your body needs to be ravaged, licked,” he emphasized the last word, dipped his head, and trailed his tongue and lips along my neck. “Made to sweat,” he said, raising his eyes in the mirror to meet mine while he licked the salt off my skin and chafed one of his palms down the valley between my breasts that was slick with rivulets of sweat. He chafed that hand down my abdomen and under the waistband of my leggings. “And wet,” he graveled into my ear again, his palm sliding into the front of my panties.
I pulsated everywhere.
My chest in the mirror was heaving from the gravel of his voice in my ear, from his eyes on me, and his hands, and awaiting his touch farther down.
I could see myself losing my breath in the mirror, pushing my body further back into his chest, my mouth open as if I were drowning in desire.
At the feel of his fingers at the top of my core, my eyes fluttered nearly shut. He pushed them farther down, cupping me, his middle finger sliding along my slit, up and down, soaking in it. His other palm closed on my breast.
“You can moan now. I know you want to,” he graveled in my ear.
I whimpered.
“Let go, June,” he rasped again, his fingers submerging in the wetness, stroking, rubbing, eliciting sweet torment that increased with every stroke.
I moaned, again and again, unable to control the sound or the rhythm my pelvis developed in accordance with Angelo’s right hand that moved between my thighs while pushing me further against his hardness.
With his left hand, he yanked down the waistband of my pants to my hips. I felt the fabric of his open jeans against my half-bare backside, and that hardness was much more imminent now.
Oh, my God, I was going to come right here in front of the mirror, with him watching me.
I closed my eyes.
He brought his left hand back up to cup my breast and continued stroking and grazing me with his right, teasing but never pushing a finger into me, leaving me yearning for him to be inside me.
I felt his breath in my ear. “June, open your eyes. See what I see.”
