When it breaks, I sob his name—Dante—the sound raw and broken and far too intimate.
Shame floods me instantly.I hate that I said it.I hate that my body gave it to him.
He withdraws his fingers slowly and brings them to his mouth.
As I watch transfixed, he licks them clean while holding my gaze, dark eyes steady, reading every flicker of emotion that crosses my face.No apology.No softness.Just the quiet certainty of a man who has finished the first part of the job he set out to do.
I lie there panting, skin damp, thighs slick, fury and humiliation twisting so tightly inside me I cannot separate them.
I hate him.
Yet my body still pulses with aftershocks, still aches for more.
He stands long enough to shed the rest of his clothes.The sight of him fully naked—broad shoulders, ridged abdomen, thick cock already hard and flushed—makes my breath catch.
Dear God.He’s fucking huge.
There’s absolutely no way that thing will fit inside me.
“Don’t worry, wife.I’ll make sure you’re ready for me.”
I shake my head.
“Trust me.”
Trust him?I clamp my legs together.The man is certifiable.
I freeze when he returns to the bed, but he relentlessly spreads my knees wide.
This time his mouth follows the path his fingers took.He kisses the inside of my thigh, then higher, breath hot against my soaked folds.
Desperately I try to close my legs again, but his palms keep them open.“You’re going to come on my tongue until you beg me to fuck you.”
“No,” I manage, voice hoarse.
He answers by licking me open in one long, slow stroke.
The sensation is electric.My hips jerk.And I scream.
He hooks his arms beneath my thighs, locking me in place, and sets to work with devastating skill—tongue circling my clit, then flattening to lap broad and slow, then spearing inside me.Every movement is deliberate, unhurried, designed to wring every drop of pleasure from a body that still insists it hates him.
I fight it as long as I can, biting my lip, digging my heels into the mattress, fisting the duvet.
But the orgasm builds anyway, ruthless and deep.When it breaks, I cry out again, thighs shaking around his shoulders, fingers finally—helplessly—threading into his hair.
Moretti doesn’t stop.
He sucks my clit gently through the aftershocks, then starts again, slower this time, drawing out every sensation until I’m writhing, sobbing, lost between fury and need.
Three more times he brings me over the edge with his mouth and fingers.Each climax leaves me more undone, more drenched, more furious with myself.My voice cracks on pleas I never meant to voice.“Please… I can’t…”
He lifts his head at last, lips glistening, eyes dark with triumph and something deeper, something that looks dangerously like tenderness.“Say it.”
I shake my head, tears slipping free.My body is trembling, empty, aching so badly; I feel hollow.
“Ask for my cock.”
Pride warring with desperation, I shake my head.
