Page 120 of Lovely Venom

“You like showing me what a good girl you are, don’t you, gattina?”

I moan around him, sucking deep and hard as his grip on me tightens reflexively.

“You take it so fucking well.”

His rough praise heats my blood and urges me on.

My thoughts dissolve as he scrapes his fingers through my hair, lighting up every nerve in my body. It feels so good, I surrender to it completely. But when my eyes fall shut, he halts me.

He pulls his dick from my mouth and nods at my nightgown when I glance up at him in question.

“Take it off.”

I push the material up over my head and toss it aside, leaving me bare.

He lets out a low sound of approval as he palms my breast and feeds his cock back into my mouth.

“Now keep your eyes on me, principessa.” His accent deepens. “I want you to watch me wreck that pretty mouth.”

Those words flood my brain with a dizzying rush of chemicals as he takes control, winding my hair around his fist.

He fucks my mouth as he praises me, alternating between gentle and rough. It gets me high and makes me so wet, I feel a visceral ache between my legs.

As the tension in his body reaches the tipping point of agony, his muscles contract and his breathing shallows. But just as I’m prepared to swallow what he gives me, he drags his cock from my mouth.

Stroking himself, he soaks up every detail of my body with a drunken gaze.

“Show me where you want me to come,” he rasps.

That question sparks between us, awakening a baser desire within me.

I want him to mark me as his property, no matter how temporary it may be.

Easing myself back, I offer up my body as his canvas.

An undercurrent of possession darkens his voice as he issues me one final directive.

“Finish me.”

Taking him into my hand, I stroke his cock as his fingers caress my face.

Like everything he does, it’s a bit of a mind fuck. Not only does he get the pleasure of watching, he’s made me complicit in carrying out this claim. As I edge him toward climax, I’m the one reinforcing that I belong to him.

I’m not sure what he likes more—his psychological warfare, or the end result.

A guttural sound of pleasure bleeds up his throat as I bring him to completion, soaking my breasts with his release. There’s something so feral about watching his cum drip down my body, but this is what he’s turned me into.

When I’ve milked him dry and wrung out every last shudder, I dip my tongue into his slit and lap up the last bit of liquid.

He murmurs something in Italian, petting my face as his heavy gaze sweeps over me.

“Touch yourself,” he orders softly, nudging his shoe between my legs and spreading them apart.

Drawing my fingers through his release, I paint it across my breasts, then slide my hand between my thighs. When I push my cum-soaked fingers inside myself, a primal claim flickers in the depths of his eyes.

He tips my head back, gripping my face as he drags his thumb across my lips. When they part for him, he sinks two fingers into my mouth, and I take them deeper while I hold his gaze.

We linger in that moment as he slowly fucks his fingers in and out of my mouth, and I echo his rhythm where I need him the most.