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“Then, ask me what you asked Ava,” he commands.
God, I can barely remember.
“I—I don’t know.”
Salvatore flicks his fingers hard against my clit. The sting is unexpected. I arch up, too open and vulnerable. It’s different now. When he pulled that move earlier, the foreplay had already set the tone. Now, it lands hard and kicks an uncomfortable feeling up into my guts. But even as Salvatore plays rough, a wanting stirs up an undercurrent in my belly, and that deep-seated desire to obey him keeps my legs open for his abuse.
“Ask me, Contessa.”
I wanted to know—what did I want to know?
It seems so inconsequential now.
When I don’t answer, he snaps his fingers against my cunt again, my cry muffled against my clenched molars.
“It hurts—”
“So why are you bucking into it?” he asks knowingly, flicking me again and again. “Tell me to stop.”
I don’t. I can’t. I don’t want him to.
I shake my head.
“Don’t,” I beg, the sensation confusing and overwhelming. My thighs tremble, milking the slightest pleasure out of the pain vibrating through me. Maybe I’m just that fucking desperate to feel something down there. I’ll take anything he gives me, pleasure or pain, heaven or hell.
All at once, the question comes back to me.
“I—I asked her—what you’re like. I wanted to know what kind of—what kind of man you are.”
He gets on the bed with me, pulls me up into his arms suddenly so that I sit against his hand. His other grip curls around my throat.
“Do you know what the answer is?” He whispers lowly. His soaked fingers have stopped their assault. He swirls soft circles around my battered clit—gently. Pleasure runs like an electric current into my belly, following the same path his brutal stimulation opened. The transition blows through me, my overworked little clit quaking from pain to intense, frenzied pleasure.
My toes curl, my feet numb, my pulse throbbing hard in my pussy as I practically buck into his touch. I moan without meaning to.
“I’m the kind of man that can make you come.”
I arch up, funneling the pleasure straight to my core.
“That’s it,” he urges. “So desperate, you just want to fuck yourself on my fingers, don’t you?” His touch draws out the pounding pleasure quaking in my cunt, his words hot on my ear.
“How long do you think it will be before you’re calling yourself my wife? Should we take bets?”
I can’t play his games and ride his fingers at the same time.
I whine wordlessly.
Please, I beg silently to myself, please let me come this time.
My hips stutter against his hands, my mouth falling open as he rewards my pussy.
I spread my hand over the back of his, as if I can keep it there, keep that pleasure pounding through me. Now knowing that he can and will take it away—the threat looms over me, more powerful than it should be.
With my legs spread on his lap, his hand around my throat, my hips grinding frantically against his touch—I hit that blinding peak, crying out as my thighs shudder and convulse. He holds me against him, keeping me steady as white-hot static pours through me. I dig my fingers into his thighs, but he doesn’t seem to care.
The moment comes and goes in a flash. A weak moan tumbles from my lips as I sink back against his chest, feeling him all around me, his huge arms and solid chest.
Breathy silence settles.
