“I thought about you,” I say, my gaze dropping to her mouth again, “with that lipstick smeared all over my cock.”
She makes a sound, a little helpless whine, and her hands come up to my shoulders, nails digging in through my shirt.
I still don't kiss her.
"Are you still thinking about it?" she whispers.
My lips graze her ear, and she shudders.
"Oh, I'm way past thinking about it," I murmur, my breath ghosting over her skin. "I'm going to make good on every single one of those thoughts."
Her knees buckle slightly, and I press closer, holding her up with my body. I press myself fully against her, so she can feel exactly what she’s done to me. How hard I am. How badly I want her.
“Please,” she whispers.
“Please what?” I ask. “Please take it off you? Please ruinyou?”
“Please, Antonio,” she says again, her hands sliding up my neck, fingers tangling in my hair as she tries to pull me in. “Please, please, please.”
“Is this what you want?” I murmur, my voice rough as gravel. “Is that why you bought this dress? So I could look at you and want to fuck you so badly I can’t see straight?” I trace her collarbone with my thumb. “So I could make you mine. Ruin you for any other man.”
"You did," she whispers. "You ruined me."
I finally give in and kiss her. It’s not gentle. It’s not sweet. I pour all the frustration, all the fear from the last few days, all the possessive, protective rage that still simmers beneath my skin into it. I take her mouth, my tongue delving deep, tasting her. Tasting the lipstick, the need, the surrender.
She kisses me back just as desperately, her tongue tangling with mine, her fingers tightening in my hair. Her body arches against mine, a silent plea for more.
I pull back, both of us breathing hard. Her lipstick is a mess, a beautiful, smeared, red mess that I want to see everywhere.
"I am going to fuck you slow and hard," I whisper, my voice low and rough, my eyes locked on hers. "So hard you'll feel me for days. You're going to forget what it's like not having my cock inside that tight cunt."
Her breath hitches, and I can see the raw, unbridled need in her eyes. She's not playing anymore. She's as lost in this as I am.
Her hips roll against me, desperately seeking relief. I pull my hips back, denying her the friction she craves.
"Patience, Elsa," I murmur, a smirk playing on my lips.
"What are you waiting for?" she demands. "I thought you were going to fuck me so hard I'd feel you for days. So take me. Right here. Right now."
My grin is feral.
I can’t help it. She’s so demanding. So perfect. I love this side of her. The side that’s not afraid to ask for what she wants. To take what she needs.
My hand drifts over her breasts, and I can feel the frantic, desperate beat of her heart against my palm.
"Oh, I am," I say.
My thumb circles her nipple through the fabric of her dress.
Her back arches.
"But a man's gotta eat, amore mio." My grin widens. "And I am starving."
She makes a whining, needy sound in her throat. "Antonio..."
"My sweet Elsa," I murmur, my lips tracing the line of her jaw. "I've told you, haven't I? If you're going to play games, sporcacciona, you have to be prepared to lose."
Her breath catches, her body going rigid withanticipation.
