While I snake my tongue around the tip, he tangles his fingers in my hair and uses the hold to guide my movements, controlling the pace and depth.
It’s surprisingly thrilling to surrender this control to him, to let him use my mouth while still maintaining enough gentleness that I never feel overwhelmed.
The muscles in his thighs are rock-hard beneath my palms, his abdomen contracting with each thrust.
“I’m close,” he warns, his voice tight with restraint.
I want to ask what he’s close to, but before I can give voice to such a stupid question, the meaning dawns on me.
Before I can decide how I feel about him finishing in my mouth, he pulls me back, his hand firm in my hair as he guides me upright to kneel facing him again. His other hand wraps around himself, stroking rapidly.
I can’t look away from his face as pleasure overtakes him. His jaw clenches, and his eyes—usually so controlled and calculating—grow unfocused for just a moment before locking back on mine with an intensity that steals my breath.
The vulnerability in that brief moment of surrender makes my heart stutter.
Hot pulses of his release land on my stomach in thick ropes, marking my skin. There’s something primal about it—something possessive that should frighten me but instead sends heat pooling between my thighs.
“Mine,” he groans, his hand slowing as the last drops spill onto my skin.
Raffaele’s breathing gradually steadies, but his eyes remain dark with desire as he looks at me. After a moment, he swipes his fingers through the sticky evidence of his pleasure on my stomach.
“Perfect,” he murmurs, before his hand moves lower, fingers sliding through my folds, spreading his release along my most sensitive flesh.
The sensation of his touch combined with the slick warmth of his seed makes me gasp. He circles my clit with deliberate pressure, never dipping inside me as promised, but the stimulation is enough to make my hips buck against his hand.
“Raffaele,” I whimper, my body responding instantly. After watching him come undone, I’m already wound tight, ready to follow him over the edge again.
“You like this,” he observes, his voice rough with satisfaction. “You like being marked by me.”
It’s not a question, but I nod anyway, unable to deny the truth. There’s something about the claiming—the raw ownership in his gesture—that speaks to a part of me I never knew existed.
His fingers continue their skilled manipulation, spreading his release between my thighs as he works me toward another peak. My hands grip his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as the pleasure builds.
“Look at you,” he says, his voice filled with dark wonder. “So responsive. So perfect.”
The praise washes over me as his touch becomes more insistent, circling my clit with precise, knowing pressure. My body tenses, teetering on the edge.
“Let go for me,” he commands, and my body obeys, convulsing with pleasure as I cry out his name.
As the waves of my climax subside, I collapse against his chest, my breathing erratic, my mind hazy with satisfaction. His arms wrap around me, holding me close as we kneel together on the bedroom floor, our bodies sticky with sweat and the evidence of our mutual pleasure.
“That was…” I trail off, unable to find words for what just happened between us.
“Just the beginning,” he finishes, pressing his lips to my forehead in a gesture that feels oddly tender after such raw intimacy.
The warm spray of the shower washes over us as Raffaele guides me under the water, his hands steady on my waist. There’s something startlingly intimate about this—more so than what we just did on his bedroom floor.
Sex, or what we did that resembled it, has a certain expected intimacy. But this—his fingers gently working shampoo throughmy hair, his eyes softening as he watches suds cascade down my body—feels dangerously close to tenderness.
And somehow that’s more frightening than his darkest desires.
“Turn,” he instructs, voice gentler than I’ve ever heard it.
I obey, presenting my back to him. His hands work methodically, massaging my scalp with just the right amount of pressure. I can’t help but let my eyes drift closed, leaning into his touch.
“You’re enjoying this,” he observes, amusement coloring his tone.
“Mhmm,” I agree, not bothering to deny it. “It feels nice.”
