But I don’t get to finish because he’s already moving, spinning me around and bending me over the counter with one hand between my shoulder blades. My cheek presses against the cool surface as he yanks my leggings and panties down over my ass in one savage motion.
“I know you better than you think, Sophia,” he growls in my ear. “You want your pussy filled, don’t you?”
Then he does something I never would have expected in 1000 years: he rips my panties off me and, before I can process what’s happening, he’s pushing the balled-up lace into my pussy, stuffing me full. I gasp and arch my back, gripping the counter.
His voice is pure sin. “That’s what you wanted right, princess? You got your wish.”
Oh. My. Gosh.
My whole body is rigid with shock, but underneath the shock is something utterly shameless. The sensation is bizarre, overwhelming, the cotton-lace blend of my panties stretching me, the knowledge of what he’s done making me feel exposed and owned and—
“Vin—”
“That’s right.” I hear him working his belt, the zipper of his jeans. “Say my name while I use this fat perfect ass.”
He enters me roughly, no prep beyond the oil he douses my ass with first, and I cry out at the burning stretch. But he doesn’t stop, doesn’t give me time to adjust. He just drives into me again and again, one hand gripping my hip hard while the other keeps me pinned.
The panties shift inside me with each brutal thrust, creating a maddening friction that has me gasping, my hands slipping out from under me.
“You like that?” he grunts, punctuating each word with a thrust. “You like feeling stuffed full while I ruin this ass?”
“Yes,” I sob, because it’s true, because my body is already climbing toward something impossible, something I’ve never reached before. “Yes,signore, yes—”
He comes fast, with a roar, his fingers digging into my flesh as he buries himself deep. I feel him pulsing inside me, feel the heat of him, and I collapse on the counter, heaving in breaths. So close.
He pulls out and I hear him moving away, hear the refrigerator open and close, the hiss of a beer bottle opening. My legs are shaking too badly to stand, so I stay bent over the counter, feeling his cum leak out of my ass, feeling the strange fullness of my panties still stuffed inside me.
“Come here.”
The command is casual, almost lazy. I push myself upright, my arms trembling, and see him sprawled on the couch, beer in hand, legs spread wide, his jeans unzipped and cock out.
He takes a long pull from his beer and clicks on the TV, his eyes on me. “Clean me up, princess.”
My pulse jumps, and I move to the sink, wetting a cloth with warm water. When I start walking toward him, though, something stops me. Maintaining eye contact, I drop to all fours, the cloth between my teeth. I crawl to him.
The distance from the kitchen to the couch isn’t more than 15 feet, but I can feel the weight of his stare. My bare knees press into the worn hardwood then the threadbare rug. I keep my eyes lowered, submissive, until I reach him then risk a glance up.
His beer bottle is halfway to his mouth. He’s staring at me like he’s never seen me before, and he swallows hard.
“Fuck, Sophie,” he breathes.
I release the cloth from my teeth onto his softening cock then wipe him clean with gentle, reverent strokes. He’s still sensitive and he hisses when I work over the head, but he doesn’t stop me. When he’s clean, I sit back on my heels between his spread knees, waiting.
He sets the beer on the side table with a clink then pats the couch next to him. “Come here.”
I do as he says, kneeling beside him, facing him, on the couch. He threads his fingers through the back of my hair and guides me forward with gentle pressure.
“Put it in your mouth,” he says softly, and I do. He groans softly then taps my lower back. “Ass up, princess.”
I arch my back and lift my ass for him. Gently, he works my soaked panties free from my pussy and I groan, everything still so sensitive and swollen. He tosses them to the side, then reaches for the blanket draped over the back of the couch and pulls it over me, tucking it around my shoulders.
Then his hand returns to my hair, stroking rhythmically, his fingers working with surprising gentleness, massaging my scalp in small circles.
Heaven. This is heaven.
This simple aftercare is better than sex, sweet but wrapped in Vin’s signature gruff demeanor. The weight of his hand in my hair, the taste of him on my tongue—there’s nothing better than this.
As soon as the thought is complete, he proves me wrong. Taking the warm cloth I used on him, he moves the blanket aside, and cleans me with the same care I showed him.
