Page 115 of The Ache That Stayed

I licked again, reverent and feral in equal measure, pushing a finger in her. Her walls clenched around me with surprising tightness. Then I pushed another, stretching her, scissoring in and out as my mouth worked her clit.

The sound of her wetness was like music to my ears. Her breathing hitched against me—uneven, out of sync, and I liked it. As soon as I found her walls clenching around my fingers, I pulled away and kissed her thigh, just shy of her pussy. She let out a frustrated cry.

“Look at you,” I muttered, voice rough. “Already falling apart.”

I wasn’t letting this end too quickly. Not after waiting this long and denying myself her for years.

I’d just found my new favourite flavour. And it was her.

And I was going to draw this out for as long as I could, even if it meant denying her an orgasm. Because I wanted to own every second of this. To stretch it. To build it. To make sure she never forgot. To make her feel every second of it.

Her hips moved, chasing my lips. Demanding more.

And the dark monster in me thrived on that.

Let her chase. Let her need it. Let her finally understand how deep this went.

My hand came down again, sharp against her pussy, pink blooming beautifully on her skin, making her wetter.

“Don’t rush this,” I rasped, voice low, dangerous. “I’ve waited far too long for this to be over in a few minutes.”

Her lips parted, breath uneven, frustration written all over her face. And fuck, I loved it.

I wanted her on edge. I wanted her restless. Aching. Needing.

Wanted her feeling even a fraction of what I’d lived with for years.

“Asshole,” she muttered.

I smirked. Because she wasn’t pushing me away. She was still here. Choosing this. Wanting it as much as I did. And I loved that she trusted me enough to give herself over to it.

I knew she hated it. Hated how easily her body betrayed her—and hated that it was me doing it.

Hell, I’d spent three goddamn years fighting the same battle.

I smiled against her pussy, savouring the sight of her trembling as I slowly nibbled her clit.

“I’m going to take my time, Volpi,” I said, voice guttural. “Every second. Every taste. Until you understand what you mean to me.”

I’d watched her exist just out of reach for years. I’d starved for this. And now—I was going to take my time. I wanted all of it. The tremble in her thighs. The sounds she tried to swallow. The pieces she’d spent years hiding.

I wanted her to remember this. To remember me.

To understand she couldn’t keep running from what existed between us.

I pushed my tongue in her. Her hips jerked, fingernails scraping my scalp and tugging at my hair, and I welcomed the sting as my hand moved higher. I slid my hand over her breast, palming, squeezing.

“You can’t ask a starving man to rush through his meal.”

Her legs instantly closed on me, but I dug my fingers in deeper, holding her in place. Her body began to tense and shake, and I found myself drinking in every broken sound she gave me.

Drinking her in.

“Shatter for me,” I whispered against her. “Drench me. Let me feel every piece of you break against me.”

I pushed two fingers in her and sucked on her clit, until she was writhing and moaning my name.

“Ahh… Santi… noooo.”