When I run my hand down my body, my shoulders arch and my lashes flutter against the scratchy material of the blanket. My pantiesare soaked, and the rush of ecstasy from the dampness on my fingertips pools more wetness between my legs.
I only sleep in a shirt since the high setting of Dante’s apartment heating flaps the curtain separating our spaces throughout the night. It blasts my studio with humid, sticky air that grows more stifling when I roll my thumb over my clit.
My control snaps when my sawing breaths double the intensity of Dante’s scent. He smells close, like he’s hovering above me, ready to enter me.
Breathless, I stuff two fingers inside my pussy while using my other hand to massage my breasts. The stretch isn’t painful since my fingers are nowhere near as girthy as Dante’s, but it still feels incredible.
I move them in and out, and within seconds, moisture coats them more with every thrust.
Pleasure skims over my skin as the tension of the past two weeks slowly fades. I part my lips and release the faintest moan, but for the most part, I stay quiet while strumming my clit in time with the frantic thumps of my heart.
My nipples bud as goose bumps race across my skin, but no matter how many times I twang my clit and squeeze the walls of my vagina around my thrusting fingers, the crest I’m seeking never arrives.
It’s there, sitting on the edge, but it’s hard going back to cheap back-alley tricks when you’ve been bedded by a master.
I keep going, though, desperate for release.
My thigh muscles grow taut as I toy with my clit. The pressure on the nervy bud is perfect, better than I could hope, but still fraudulent.
Well, that is until I remember how amazing it felt when Dante’s tongue caressed it.
Sighing, I thrust my head back and close my eyes. Sparks hot enough to ignite a fire shoot from my midsection when I picture Dante hovering over me, watching every indecent stroke of my fingers. I imagine the front of his pants tenting as his teeth catch his lower lip. He’d battle not to take control, and his expression would be a mix of fury, pleasure, and unmistakable horniness.
“Please,” I murmur into the sticky, manufactured air when the thought of his desperateness has me pumping my fingers faster.
My clit throbs a dull, persistent ache of pleasure and heat, and I whimper. The sensation flowing through my core curls my toes and mists my skin with sweat. But the pressure feels wrong. The wave has formed but won’t crest no matter how hard I work my clit.
I groan as the ache between my legs fades, and the fantasy fueling my selfishness recedes with it. “No. Please. I need this. I’m close?—”
My lungs stop accepting air when a voice I’ll never forget asks, “How close?”
I rip the blanket off my head before turning my eyes toward Dante’s voice. Although the “walls” of my room are closed, the curtains don’t reach the floor. Tan leather shoes peek out the bottom, rising from a shadow that’s too broad and imposing to be hidden by a thin sheet of cotton.
“Don’t stop,” Dante demands when I attempt to remove my hand from my panties. “Keep going.” Heat pulses through my legs from the desperation in his voice. He needs this as much as I do, like making me come, even without touching me, is as vital to him as his next breath.
“I don’t know if I can. I’m not sure I can make myself come.”
“You can,” he denies, stepping closer until the sheet melds to his body, and I see the effect my self-preservation act has had on him.
He’s as hard as a steel rod.
“I’ll guide you.”
Heat radiates through my chest when the curtains part enough that I sneak a peek at him through the gap. Yep. His eyes blaze with lust, and his expression is an odd mix of anger and need.
I don’t know how long he’s been standing there, but the grooves of his teeth marks in his lower lip announce it has most likely been as long as I’ve tried to come.
“Try pinching your clit instead of rolling it. Your body responds well to small snippets of pain.”
I toss my head side to side, but after only one pinch, more than my head stills.
My entire body goes rigid.
A single pinch and I’m on the brink of bliss.
A brutal pulse throbs between my legs when Dante says, “Now return your fingers to your pussy. Slowly,angelo.” He only tacks on his last two words when my eagerness rushes a process that should be relished.
“Good girl,” he praises when I follow his instructions to the wire.
