His hand slides up my thigh, firm and possessive. “Look at you,” he murmurs. “All for me.MyRosalina.”
His fingertips find the edge of my white lace panties. He strokes the damp fabric, and I whimper, pushing against his hand. “Please.”
“Please what, darling?”
“Touch me.”
“Since you asked so nicely.”
He hooks a finger in the lace and pulls them aside. I’m completely bare to him now. He doesn’t look away from my face as his fingers find my slick, heated flesh. One long finger slides through my folds, gathering wetness. I buck against his hand, a strangled sound escaping my throat.
“So wet already,” he praises, his voice a dark caress. “So ready for your husband. Let me feel you.”
He slides one finger inside me, slowly, stretching a tight, virgin barrier. There’s a brief, sharp pinch, a fullness I’ve never known. He stills, letting me adjust, his eyes searching mine. “Okay?”
I nod, breathless. The pain is already fading, replaced by a deep, insistent need. “More.”
He crooks his finger, andoh god. A spark ignites deep inside, a shock of pure, undiluted pleasure. “There?” he asks, and I can only moan. He finds that spot again, rubbing it in a slow, devastating circle, while his thumb presses against the swollen bud of my clit.
The sensations are too much. They coil, tighten, a spring wound to its breaking point. My back arches off the leather seat. “Dante, I’m— I can’t?—”
“You can,” he commands softly. “Come for me. Let me feel my wife come on my fingers.”
His words are the final key. The world shatters into bright, blinding pieces. My body seizes, clenching around his finger as wave after wave of pleasure crashes through me. I cry out, a raw, unfiltered sound, my vision whiting out at the edges.
He holds me through it, his finger still inside me, his other arm wrapped around my shoulders. As the tremors subside, he brings his glistening fingers to his lips, his eyes locked on mine. He sucks them clean, a slow, deliberate pull. “Divine,” he says, his voice ragged. “But I need more.”
Before I can process it, he’s sliding down the seat, burying his face between my thighs. His tongue is a flat, hot stroke over my sensitive flesh. I scream, my hands fisting in his perfectly styled hair. He licks into me, deep and thorough, then zeroes in on my clit, sucking it into his mouth.
“No, it’s too much, I can’t—” I babble, oversensitive and shaking.
“You can,” he says, the vibration against me making my hips jerk. “You’ll come again. For me. My greedy girl.”
His tongue is relentless, a masterful, wicked instrument. He laps and sucks, one hand holding my hip down, the other sliding two fingers back inside me, stretching me further. The dual assault is unbearable. The pressure builds again, faster this time, deeper. It’s a tidal wave, rising from my core.
“Dante! Oh, right there, please. Please.” The warning is a sob.
He doesn’t let up. He drinks me in as I fall apart a second time, my body convulsing under his mouth, my cries echoing in the car’s plush interior.
I’m boneless, floating, when he moves back up, settling me onto his lap. My back is to his chest, my skirts a cloud around us. I can feel the hard, thick length of him straining against his slacks, pressed against the base of my spine. Need, sharp and fresh, pierces the haze.
I writhe against him, a slow, desperate grind. “Please,” I whisper, turning my head to nuzzle his jaw. “I need you. I need to feel you inside me.”
His arms tighten around me. His breath hitches. “No.”
The denial is a physical blow. “What? Why?”
“Because I said so,” he murmurs, his voice rough with restraint. He slips his hand between my legs from behind, his fingers sliding easily through my slickness. “You’re not ready for that yet. You need another one first.”
“I can’t,” I plead, even as my body betrays me, arching into his touch.
“You will.” He pushes two fingers back inside me, his palm pressing against my clit as he moves them. “Ride them. Show me how much you want it.”
He sets a slow, deep rhythm. I move on his hand, impaling myself on his fingers, the wool of his trousers rough against my inner thighs. He lowers his head, his mouth finding my bared breast, pulling my nipple into the wet heat of his mouth. He suckles hard, his tongue flicking, while his other hand comes around to rub tight, urgent circles on my clit.
The overstimulation is madness. Pleasure, sharp and almost painful, radiates from every point of contact—his mouth on my breast, his fingers inside me, his thumb on my clit. I’m sobbing, begging, my words incoherent.
“That’s it,” he groans against my skin. “Take what I give you. Come for me again. Be my good girl.”
