“We can’t—” I try again. Body arching toward him. Betraying every word.
His hands cup my breasts. Thumbs brush over my nipples.
“Please don’t—” Broken. Desperate. I don’t know what I’m begging for.
He pulls back. Just enough to see me. Takes in my bare breasts, my swollen lips, the flush spreading down my chest. His expression is reverent. Hungry. Like he’s looking at something he’s been starving for.
“Tell me to stop,” he says again. “Just say the word.”
I can’t.
Can’t speak. Can’t think. Can only whimper when his mouth drops to my breast, tongue circling my nipple before his lips close around it and suck.
Sensation shoots between my legs. Hot and devastating.
My hands fly to his hair, pullingcloser, not away. Fingers tangling in the dark strands, holding him against me while his mouth does unspeakable things.
His hand slides under my skirt. Beneath my panties. Finds me soaking through the thin fabric.
“Still pretending,” he murmurs against my breast. “Still lying to yourself while you drench my hand.”
His fingers find my clit, and circle it precisely, making my knees buckle.
He catches me. Presses me harder against the wall. One hand on my hip, holding me up. The other between my legs, touching me exactly how I touched myself this morning. Like he knows. Like he watched.
His mouth moves to my other breast. Teeth scraping over sensitive flesh. Tongue soothing the sting.
Fingers slide inside me.
I cry out. Two fingers, stretching me, curling. His palm grinds against my clit with every thrust.
“We shouldn’t—” My hips roll against his hand. Betraying me. “Oh god, we shouldn’t?—”
“Push me away.” His voice is rough. Wrecked. “Tell me no and mean it.”
I can’t.
Can only grip his shoulders and hold on while he fucks me with his fingers, while his mouth devours my breast, while every nerve in my body screams for release.
The orgasm is violent.
“Elio.” His name breaks from my throat while I come on his fingers, my whole body clenching around him, pulsing with pleasure that makes it hard to stand. My nails dig into his shoulders. Through the fabric of his shirt. Deep enough to draw blood.
He doesn’t stop.
Works me through every wave. Relentless. Drawing out the sensation until I’m sobbing with it, oversensitive, shaking apart in his arms.
When it finally ends, my legs won’t hold me.
He withdraws his fingers slowly. Brings them to his mouth. Sucks them clean while watching me with those dark, endless eyes.
“I could taste you for the rest of my life,” he says, “and it wouldn’t be enough.”
Before I can respond, before I can think, he lifts me. Sets me on the table. Dishes crash to the floor. Wine glasses shatter. Something wet—sauce, wine, I don’t know—smears against my thigh. He doesn’t care. Just sweeps everything aside and spreads me out like I’m the only course that matters.
Then he drops to his knees.
The visual destroys me.
