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This isn’t close enough for me either.
With a quick movement, I hook my hands under her arms and drag her up into my lap. She doesn’t weigh that much, but even just doing that makes my right hand throb and my side explode with pain. I breathe it in, drink that agony down, let it hone and sharpen the life-halting ecstasy of Deirdre settling in my lap. She straddles me, her pussy settling against my cock. She cries out at the contact, dropping the sweater from her mouth, cringing away from me and shifting her weight onto her knees.
“That hurts,” she says, and it sounds kind of defensive, like she needs an excuse for the sound she just made.
It hurts because I hurt her last night. And made her come. All at the same time.
I lick the fragrant silk of her throat, tasting the rapid pulse there. My injured right hand is at her back. My other slides between her legs – not too far, not to the place it hurts. I circle the front, feeling for her clit through her leggings.
“What hurts?” I rasp against the quivering flesh of her earlobe. “This little virgin pussy you gave to me last night?” I capture that taunting lobe between my teeth. I bite the slip of skin until she gasps, then give a long, soothing suck before I let go. “Want me to kiss it better?”
“You’re the one who’s seriously hurt,” she moans, squirming in my lap. All that wiggling sends delightfully catastrophic friction against my hard-on. My heart hammers wildly, and I distantly hope I’m not actually bleeding too much internally, because my racing pulse is only going to speed up the process if I am.
“Fine,” I pant as I drag my mouth from beneath her jaw to her mouth. “You can kiss me better, then.”
I kiss her, and it’s not the innocent little closed-mouth smooch I gave her earlier. This is hard. Punishing. Unforgiving. It demands things from her, from us both, and she must sense it the same way I do, because she opens her mouth against the onslaught of that hunger instantly.
I rub her clit faster. Her leggings are so stretchy and tight it’s like they’re moulded right to her body. I can feel every detail through the teasingly thin material. I can feel her panties, feel the liner in there. Feel the hot swollen nub of her needy clit. Deirdre’s hips hitch against my fingers, seeking the pressure of my touch as my tongue slides through the scorching satin of her mouth.
Deirdre moans into my mouth. Tension prickles along her thighs, making her twitch and flinch in my lap, her hips curling forward. Fuck, she’s about to come. I snatch my mouth from hers, planting heated kisses everywhere. Her cheeks, the delicate hollows beneath her eyes, her chin. I want to taste every fucking freckle on her while she reaches climax.
“Oh… Oh…” Little cries tumble from between Deirdre’s swollen lips.
It’s so fucking cute the way she keeps saying, “Oh.” Like she’s actually trying to say, “Oh, no,” but can’t quite manage it under the mind-melting pressure of the orgasm building inside her.
“Oh, yes,” I supply for her, because as her husband I’m nothing if not helpful as fuck. I crush my mouth to her temple as I work her swollen clit greedily. “Yes, you are going to come. Shh. It’s alright. Don’t fight it, Songbird. Don’t fight me. I already told you, you can’t win.”
She shudders, making a sobbing sound and clinging to me. Her eyes are scrunched shut, but mine are wide fucking open. There will never be enough of seeing her like this. Seeing her beautiful face crumple in sensual, erotic resignation, submitting to the aching pleasure only I pull out of her.
If I were an artist, I would fucking paint her like this.
Instead, I’ll just have to memorize her.
“Ohh,” she says again, but this time it’s not an adorably worried little hiccup of sound, but rather a drawn-out groan. She’s right fucking there.
A loud knock at the door that leads into the hallway makes us both freeze. Deirdre’s eyes fly open, and she tries to clamber off my lap, but I fuse my arm to her back like a bar of iron.
“Who is it?” I bite out. There aren’t many people who’d be brave enough to knock on my bedroom door.
The answer drifts through the door in Italian.
“It’s Morelli. Curse says you need me.”
Fuck. Fuck.
I mean, I probably do need him. But right fucking now?
Deirdre looks mortified, cheeks bright red, eyes huge. That look of petrified humiliation strikes a greedy chord inside me. I start rubbing her clit again in hard, relentless strokes.
“I still expect you to come for me,” I whisper.
She yanks a hand from my shoulder, clapping her palm over her mouth to quiet her sounds. She holds herself very, very still, her eyes pleading silently, but I honestly can’t tell if they’re begging me to stop or to keep going.
I don’t think that she knows, either.
“Elio?” Morelli calls through the door.
Deirdre squeaks behind her hand.
