Elio Marchetti. Head of a criminal empire. In his white shirt with small crimson crescents on his shoulder from whereI scratched him. Kneeling before me on the marble floor of a private dining room. Looking up at me with worship in his dark eyes.
His hands slide up my thighs. Push my skirt to my waist. Hook the waistband of my panties.
“Tell me to stop,tesoro.” His voice is hoarse. Strained. “I’ll stop if you say the word.”
My hand tangles in his hair.
“We shouldn’t—” No conviction at all.
“Not stop.” His eyes hold mine as he drags my panties down. “Still not stop.”
His mouth descends.
Nothing prepares me for this.
His tongue is relentless. Circling, flicking, pressing. He eats me like he’s starving for it, like I’m the first meal he’s had in years. When I try to close my thighs, his hands hold them open. When I try to pull away, he growls against my pussy and the vibration makes me scream.
“Too much—” I’m crying now, actually crying, tears streaming down my face. “I can’t?—”
“You can.” His mouth doesn’t stop. “Give me another one.”
Fingers slide inside me again. Thrusting while his tongue works my clit. The dual sensation is too much. Too good. Tooeverything.
Pressure builds. Different from before. Deeper. Like something’s winding tight inside me, coiling toward release.
“Wait—” I try to push him away. “Something’s—I need to?—”
It feels wrong. Like I need to pee. Like something’s building that shouldn’t be there. The same way it felt when he made me orgasm in the courtyard. Oh god. No. Not again.
He growls against me. “Let go. I want all of it.”
The orgasm crashes through me hard.
I scream as my whole body contracts then releases.
Wetness floods from me, squirting against his mouth, his face, soaking through his shirt. I try to pull away, mortified, but my hands are gripping his hair and pulling himcloser, hips grinding against his face, chasing what’s already too much.
He doesn’t stop. Drinks me down like he’s dying of thirst. Wrings every shudder from my body until I’m boneless, sobbing, completely destroyed.
When he finally pulls back, his face glistens, and his shirt is soaked. Hair wrecked where my fingers clawed through it. Eyes black with need.
He stands and smiles, satisfied, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand but doesn’t clean the rest, wearing the evidence of what he’s done to me like a badge. Like proof of something he’s been dying to prove.
I try to speak. “Elio?—”
“No.” His voice is destroyed. Rough. “Not yet.”
He adjusts himself. The outline of his cock strains against his trousers—hard, suffering, and he’s not going to do anything about it.
“When you stop lying.” He steps back. Releases me. “When you stop saying ‘we shouldn’t’ while you drench my face. When you admit what you want without hiding—then.”
I stare at him.
Dress at my waist. Panties on the floor. Evidence of what just happened soaking his clothes, dripping down my thighs.
He walks toward the door.
“The guard will take you back.”
