"Patience," I murmur.
I love the little frustrated whimper she makes.
She is so used to being in control. So used to having all the answers.
Not here.
Not with me.
I move to her other thigh, mirroring the movements, my lips and tongue teasing, tormenting.
She is writhing now, but unable to go anywhere under my firm grip.
I am enjoying this too much.
The sight of her, lost to pleasure, completely at my mercy, is the most erotic thing I have ever seen.
But my own control is starting to fray.
The need to be inside her, to claim her, to make her mine, is a primal urge that is getting harder and harder to ignore.
I look at the scrap of lace that is the only thing separating me from her. The fabric is nearly black now, soaked with her arousal.
I lean in and press my open mouth against her through the lace.
She cries out helplessly.
I taste her. Even through the fabric, I can taste her. Salty and sweet and uniquely Victoria.
I nuzzle her, my lips pressing against her clit, and she bucks against my face.
"Mario, please," she sobs.
She is panting, her hands clenched in the sheets. Her body is no longer flat on the bed but curved in an arch as she fights my grip on her hips. She tries to pull away and push closer at the same time.
That is the moment I know the teasing has done its job.
I want to push her further, just to see what she would do.
I grip the fabric of her panties.
I don't take them off.
I rip them.
The sound of lace tearing is loud in the quiet room, a final, definitive act.
She gasps, her eyes flying to mine, shocked.
I don't give her a chance to recover.
I lower my head and finally, finally put my mouth on her.
I lick a long, slow stripe up her slick folds.
Her taste explodes on my tongue, and I groan, a deep, guttural sound of pure satisfaction.
This is what I wanted.
