"God," she whimpers. Her fingers drag across my close-cropped hair. She scrapes her nails against my scalp. She holds me to her chest. "Don't stop. Please."
I shift to the other breast. I bite the nipple gently. I soothe it with the wet heat of my mouth. I drag my open mouth down the center of her chest, mapping the valley between her breasts, leaving a trail of hot saliva on her skin.
The need to bury myself inside her is a physical violence in my blood. I want to rip the denim off her body. I want to spread her thighs and drive my cock so deep into her pussy she forgets the name of every other man who ever existed.
But I cannot.
Taking her here, covered in dust, fueled by the adrenaline of a death trap, is not enough. When I claim her, it will be absolute. It will be the total restructuring of her reality. She needs to understand that I am not a temporary shelter. I am the permanent fortress.
Restraint. The word is tearing me apart.
My hands drop from her breasts to the waistband of her jeans.
I grind my hips forward.
The rigid ridge of my cock presses directly against her center through the layers of denim. The friction is a blinding flash of heat.
Imani whimpers. Her hips rock forward instinctively. She grinds her pussy against my hardened erection.
A low, animal sound tears out of my throat. My jaw locks. The veins in my neck bulge against the strain. I spread my stance, trapping her between my thighs.
I grip her hips. I force her to hold still. Then I thrust my hips forward. A slow, agonizingly deliberate grind of denim against denim.
She gasps. Her head falls back against the metal rack. Her eyes squeeze shut.
I roll my hips. I drag the thick, aching length of my cock directly over the seam of her jeans. The pressure hits the cluster of nerves at her center.
"Vincenzo," she sobs. Her hands grip my shoulders. Her nails dig into the black cotton.
"You like that?" I bite the shell of her ear. I grind my hips again. Harder. Steeper. "You like the way I feel against you?"
"Yes." The word is a broken sob. "Please."
"You are so wet," I murmur. The scent of her arousal is overwhelming. The musky fragrance of slick, hot pussy saturates the space between us. It is driving me past the wire. "I can smell how ready you are. I can smell my woman flooding for me.Fanculo."
I slide my hand down her stomach. I pop the metal button of her jeans. The zipper slides down with a loud, metallic rasp.
I slip my hand past the denim. My fingers slide past the damp lace of her panties.
She is dripping. The slick, hot wetness coats her folds. The heat is scalding.
I find her clit.
The swollen, ultra-sensitive nub is drenched in her slick. I press my thumb against it.
Imani screams into my mouth as I capture her lips again. The sound shudders over my tongue. Her hips buck violently off the metal rack.
I stroke her. Two fingers parting the wet, slick folds. My thumb rubbing slow, agonizing circles over her clit. The friction is relentless. I coat her own wetness over the swollen peak. I drag my fingers down, testing the tight entrance of her pussy, tracing the slick rim.
The urge to shove my fingers inside and stretch those walls is blinding. The urge to replace my fingers with my cock is absolute torture.
I do not breach her.
I keep my touch focused on the outside. I rub her clit. I press the pad of my thumb against the rigid little pearl and shake my hand fast against it.
"Ah!" She thrashes against me. Her hands fly to my wrist. She tries to push my hand harder against her center. "Please. I need it. I need you inside."
"Not yet." I kiss her jaw. I bite the side of her neck. "You belong to me. This belongs to me. I am going to break you apart from the outside first."
