His gaze travels over me slowly, thorough, hungry.
“The mirror,” he says, nodding toward the massive mirror leaning against the wall near the closet. “Stand in front of it.”
“Why?”
“Because I want you to see what I see.”
I move toward the mirror on trembling legs. He follows, standing behind me, his hands settling on my waist.
“Look.”
I force myself to meet my own gaze, to see what he sees.
Flushed skin. Swollen lips. Eyes dark with want. My body—curves and softness, and everything I’ve spent years, decades even, feeling ashamed of—on full display.
“You see her?” Gabriel’s hands slide up, cupping my breasts through the lace. “This woman. She’s fucking perfect. Every curve. Every inch.”
“Gabriel—”
“Say it. Say you’re perfect.”
“I can’t.”
His hand moves to my throat. Not squeezing, just holding, possessive. “Say it.”
“I’m—” I swallow hard. “I’m perfect.”
“Brava ragazza.” He unhooks my bra, lets it fall. His hands cover my breasts, thumbs circling my nipples, and I arch back against him. “Look how beautiful you are when you surrender.”
He’s right.
The woman in the mirror—head tilted back, mouth open, body pliant under his hands—she’s not the invisible maid who scrubbed floors and apologized for existing. She’s powerful. Desired.
His.
He turns me around, lifting me easily and carrying me over to the bed. There, he lays me out like a feast, sprawled across the dark sheets, my hair fanned around my head. He strips, and then he’s kneeling between my thighs, hooking his fingers in my underwear.
“Tell me what you want.”
“You.” My voice is barely a whisper. “I want you.”
He drags my panties down my legs, tosses them aside. Then he spreads my thighs wide and lowers his mouth to me.
His lips touch my pussy, and I cry out, my hands flying to this thick hair.
He devours me like he’s starving, tongue and lips working with devastating precision. When I try to close my legs, overwhelmed, he forces them open, his hands gripping my thighs hard enough to bruise.
“Gabriel. I can’t?—”
“Yes, you can.” He adds his fingers, curling them inside me. “Come for me, Thea. Let me feel it.”
His tongue finds my clit, and he makes slow circles around it, pushing me to a new level of pleasure. I moan, my hips bucking against him. The orgasm approaches quickly, the intensity more than I can stand.
“I’m…fuck!”
The climax rips through me, sharp and brutal. I’m crying out his name, my body shaking. He doesn’t stop licking me until I’m panting, the trembling subsiding.
Then he’s over me, braced on his forearms, his eyes locked on mine. I glance down and take in the sight of his cock, the size, the precum on the tip. I shift, moaning, taking sweet pleasure in how hard I make him.
