“I know.”
I slide on top of him.
His arms go around me and he’s already hard against my thigh, but I don’t want to rush. I want to really get to know his body this time.
It’s different in the dark. More honest, somehow, as though our bodies can tell each other what we really want without all that messy stuff in the background like his father and my father and the auction and the basement…
If I wanted to, I could pretend I was with someone else. But I don’t want to. I want to know that this is Damiano Orsini whose arms are around me, pulling my head to one side so he can suck at my neck. He can’t help being controlling, even now, even when I’m stretched out on top of him. But I’ll let him.
Because I like it.
His lips move up to my ear, my cheek, getting closer to my mouth—but then he stops, pulls my head to the other side, and continues licking down the other side of my neck.
I take a gamble. I pull back and then force the issue, trying to angle my mouth toward his. He pushes my face aside.
He’s not going to kiss me.
Well, that’s fine. Not where I really want his mouth, anyway, is it? I rock against him, slow, languid, a tease of friction. I feel how hard he is, how hot, how much he wants this.
I want it, too. I start speeding up.
“You like that, don’t you?” he mutters against my neck. “You like grinding on my cock like a little bitch in heat.”
The words are ugly, but they make me harder. “Maybe,” I breathe back. “Or maybe I’m getting bored.”
His hands tighten on my hips. Then he rolls me right off him, onto my belly, and pins me beneath him. I gasp at the sudden change in position, at the solid weight of him. In the total blackness, all my other senses are heightened—the shift of our clothes, the smell of him, the hard press of his cock against the back of my thigh.
He shoves my pajama pants down, and I kick them off my ankles. The bed shudders and shakes as he moves about, ripping his own briefs off too, I guess. “Hands and knees,” he tells me.
I scramble to comply, my ass in the air. A wave of heat goes through me as I wait for him to move between my legs, slapping my thighs until I widen them, my asshole clenching with anticipation.
This is it. He’s going to fuck me.Finally.
His hands close around my hips and yank them higher and higher, until I’m almost balanced on my toes. He spreads my asscheeks open and I feel his breath just a moment before his tongue finds my hole.
I choke down a groan, but he keeps licking all over me, his stubble scraping as he rubs his face into me. I push backshamelessly, wanting more, deeper, harder. I’ve been wanting this again since that night of the opera, to feel his tonguethereagain, to have him work me open with his fingers, too, get me desperate for him.
I’ll even beg for it again, if that’s what he wants. As long as he gives it to me. This virginity of mine, no matter how technical it might be, has become a burden. Something he can weaponize against me. I want to get rid of it, remove at least one of those pain points he likes to press into.
And maybe I just want to know how it feels. If having this man’s monster cock inside me will finally quiet down all my Family’s ghosts. Exorcise the ones hauntinghim.
And, hell, maybe I just want to fuck. To know what it’s like to have someone else’s body filling up my own.
All I know is, I’m in a fever of need. Whatever he does to me, I crave it, need it like oxygen. So I press back against his face, begging silently with my body. His spit runs down between my legs, trickling over my balls and making me moan as much as the sensation of his tongue?—
He eases me back down, letting me get my balance on hands and knees again before pulling my back flush against his chest. His muscular thighs bracket mine, keeping my legs locked tight, and this has to be it, right? He’s finally going to do it.
I hear him spitting into his palm to slick himself up, and panic zips through me. I assumed there’d be lube, not just?—
But then I feel his thick head pressing not between my cheeks, but lower, pushing between my clenched thighs, gliding over the sensitive flesh of my perineum and nudging up against my balls. His cock is a hot, hard bar of flesh sliding back and forth, thefriction against my skin maddening. “Stay still,” he hisses when I wriggle around, trying to help him find what he must be looking for, because surely?—
He reaches up to grab a handful of my hair. Not hard, just a warning. “Stay. Still.”
And he keeps doing exactly what he was doing, fucking into the spit-soaked junction of my ass and thighs. I feel every ridge, every bump, as he slides back and forth, his cockhead even teasing my hole now and then, but never more than that.
His fist loosens in my hair, trails down my chest, my stomach, and finds my dick, just as hard as his, and jacks me in the same rhythm as he thrusts. My hips jerk, seeking more of both sensations. His hand. His cock.
“That’s better,” he pants, and the pride in his voice soothes my disappointment. Because I know, now. He’s not going to kiss me. He’s not going to fuck me. He’s not going to give me a single ounce of power that he doesn’t have to.
