He adds a finger, then two, curling them inside me while he keeps working. The stretch. The fullness. He finds the spot that makes my vision white out, and he presses. My head slams back against the wall and I stop trying to be quiet.
“That’s it.” The words come out muffled against me. “Let me hear you,tesoro. Every fucking sound.”
He sucks my clit and I shatter. The orgasm rips through me, my whole body clenching, my thighs squeezing around his head. He doesn’t stop, just slows, working me through every aftershock until I’m boneless and gasping and slack against the wall.
When he pulls back, his chin is wet, his gaze destroyed, his eyes wild. He’s looking at me like a man who just found God and lost his mind at once.
“Now,” he says, rising to his feet, dragging the back of his wrist across his jaw, “the dress comes off.”
He undresses me like he’s unwrapping something precious. He finds the zipper at my back and drags it down, tooth by tooth. The silk loosens, gaps away from my skin. He slides the straps off my shoulders, watching as the fabric pools at my feet.
I’m bare underneath. No bra. Just me.
“Cristo.” The word tears out of him. He goes still, and I watch his chest heave, his whole body taut with the effort of not reaching for me.
“Touch me,” I whisper.
He shakes his head. “Not yet.” His voice is stripped raw. His cock strains against his trousers, and the restraint is more devastating than any grab could be. “You’re going to ruin me. You know that.”
“Maybe I want to.”
His restraint snaps. Then his mouth is on my neck, my collarbone, the swell of my breast. His teeth graze my nipple andI arch into him, and he catches me, one arm banding around my waist while the other works his belt. I reach for his shirt buttons. Fumble. He doesn’t wait. He grips the front and pulls, and buttons scatter across the hardwood like dice.
I push the ruined shirt off his shoulders. Trace over his chest, his stomach, the trail of dark hair below his navel. He smells like the garden still, jasmine and champagne and cedar, the ceremony clinging to his warm skin. I press my face into the hollow of his throat and breathe him in.
He walks me backward toward the bed, shedding the rest between kisses. His trousers. His briefs. By the time the backs of my knees hit the mattress, there’s nothing between us.
I pull him down on top of me. The press of him, heavy and warm and solid. He smells like the night. Like ours. I wrap my arms around him and hold on.
His cock presses thick against me and I reach between us, wrapping my fingers around him. Velvet and steel. Hot in my palm. I stroke from root to tip and his hips jerk.
“Fuck.” He hisses through his teeth. “Cassia.”
“I want you inside me.”
“Look at me first.” He waits until my eyes find his. Dark. Blazing. “I’m watching your face when I fill you up.”
He notches himself at my entrance and pushes in. Inch by devastating inch. Watching my face the whole time. I feel every bit of him, the stretch, the fullness, every nerve ending singing. My back arches off the bed.
That first inch steals my breath. The second drives my nails into his shoulders. Halfway, and I’m trembling.
“Stay with me,” he grits out.
He pushes past the resistance and I whimper. Then he’s seated to the hilt and I can feel him everywhere. Pulse throbbing inside me, matching my own.
“Cazzo.” The curse grinds out between his teeth. His arms are shaking. “You’re so tight. So fucking perfect.”
He stays there. Forehead pressed to mine. Our breath mingling. I can feel his heartbeat inside me, or maybe it’s mine. I can’t tell where he ends and I begin.
“Move,” I whisper. “Please.”
He pulls out and drives back in with a force that makes me cry out. The sound seems to snap something loose in him. His hips piston harder, gripping my thigh, hitching it higher, changing the angle so he’s hitting a place inside me that sends white sparks across my vision.
“My wife,” he growls against my neck. Another punishing thrust. “My fucking wife.”
“Yes.” The word comes out broken. “Only you.”
“Say it again.”
