One hand still gripped tightly in her hair, I use the other to gently stroke her throat.
"You're going to take it all," I growl. "You're going to take me deep and swallow every last drop. Understand?"
Her eyes roll back in her head as a soft moan escapes her lips, and her hips press harder into the mattress. And then she is coming, her body shuddering between my legs.
The sight of her, the feel of her pleasure, is the final push that sends me over the edge.
My hips buck as I come, a long, hard shudder of release. She stays with me, her lips and tongue milking me for all I'm worth as the orgasm blows through me.
I grip her hair hard as I press deep into her mouth and pour myself right into her throat, my whole body shuddering with the force of it.
I can feel her swallowing around me, taking all of me, and the thought is so dirty, so intimate, so Caterina, that it prolongs the pleasure until I'm a wrung-out, trembling mess.
I collapse back against the pillows, my chest heaving. My side is screaming now, a hot, sharp pain, but I can't bring myself to care.
She releases me slowly, her tongue swirling around my sensitive tip one last time before she lets my softening cock slip from her lips. I feel a pang of loss at the absence of her mouth, the warmth and wet that surrounded me.
She rests her cheek against my hip, her breathing as ragged as mine.
For a long while, we are both silent, the only sounds in the room our harsh breathing and the quiet hum of the house.
My mind is a blissful blank. For the first time in days, there is no threat. No target. No fear. There is only Caterina. The scent of her. The feel of her. The lingering taste of my pleasure in her mouth.
She looks up at me, her lips swollen and glistening. Her hair is a mess, her cheeks are flushed, and her eyes are bright with a triumphant, sated light.
She has never looked more beautiful.
"Wow," she whispers.
A slow grin spreads across my face. "Wow."
She rests her chin on my hip, her gaze searching mine. "Did I hurt you?"
My smile widens. "No."
"Are you sure? Your side..." Her expression is worried.
"It's fine. I promise," I say. It's a lie. It's a lot more than fine. It's hurting like hell, and she is going to be the death of me. But it's worth every bit of pain.
She doesn't look convinced.
"Adrian, you're bleeding," she says, her gaze dropping to the bandage.
I glance down. There is a small spot of red on the white dressing, no bigger than my thumbnail. From straining. From the tension. From her.
"It's fine," I say again. "Just a little strain. It's stopped already."
She pushes herself up and kneels beside me, her expression serious. "Let me see."
I want to argue. I want to pull her back down and kiss her until she forgets all about the damn wound and everything else that isn't me and her and this bed.
But I don't.
I let her look.
She examines the dressing with a focused, almost clinical intensity, her gentle fingers checking the edges, making sure it's still secure.
"You should have some pain medication," she says.
