Page 18 of Out of Control

My back arches as he thrusts his fingers deeper. My head falls to the side as he moves them around. My gasp falls out as his thumb adds friction to my clit with whatever skilled machinations he’s doing that are utter bliss. They’re like a palpable current charging through every part of me.

His biceps bulge with the action. The tendons in his neck are taut. His lips fall lax as his eyes take in what he’s doing to me.

The arousal dripping everywhere.

The pink of my swollen pussy.

The tensing of my thighs.

“You like that?” he murmurs as he pants with the motion. “I can’t decide what I want more. To taste you or to fuck you.”

“Rossi. You. This.” He switches the angle of his fingers. I don’t know what it is about them but . . . “God.” I draw the word out as my world turns black, then white, and then as the orgasm hits me like a tidal wave of pleasure, a gush of water soaks the bed beneath me.

My eyes shock open as Rossi kneels between my thighs, his own now wet, and before I can process what just happened or how it happened, he grabs my thighs with a bruising grip and pushes into me.

His groan fills the room. It’s feral and intoxicating and the only thing I can really focus on as my muscles pulse around him, squeeze him, and welcome the incredible fullness of him being inside me.

His hips jerk as he restrains himself but God, is he gorgeous. His head’s thrown back, his jaw’s clenched tight, and his fingers hold on to my hips possessively.

And then . . . then he begins to move.

Rossi sets a punishing pace—like a man on a mission to make sure I get what I need from him all while taking what he wants too.

He’s high praise and dirty words.

“Fuck me, Sofia. Fuck me like you’re desperate for my fucking cock.”

I’m powerless against the sensations coursing through me. It’s him and his actions controlling my body’s pleasure.

“Take it. Just like that. Take every goddamn inch of me until you can’t take any more.”

My breath becomes ragged, and I grip the sheets beneath me, my nails digging into the cotton as I try to hold on to some semblance of control. He leans forward, surging to blissful depths as his lips find my ear, his breath hot and heavy against it.

“Does this pretty pussy of yours want more? Tell me. I need to hear you say ‘fuck me, Rossi.’”

But he doesn’t give me any control. He continues to move. In, a grind against me to push even farther, out, to where he withdraws completely and slaps his cock against my clit. I yelp from surprise but then sink into the sting of it. I welcome the sensation.

“I love the way your tits bounce. The way you tighten around me. The way you’re begging for me to stop and keep going at the same time.”

He drives us both closer to the edge. The room fills with us. The slap of our skin against one another. The unmistakable smell of sex. The labored pants mixed with murmured mewls.

“Come for me, Bellissima. I’ll keep going until you do. Come for me like the fucking good girl you are.”

“Yes,” I cry out as I tip over that edge, straight into the arms of blinding pleasure that shakes me to my core. I ride the pleasure that surges through my every muscle, my every nerve, and allow it to own me. To sate me. To show me what could be.

I’ve never felt pleasure like this before.

It’s cliché and ridiculous but it’s inarguably true and, in the moment, I dare not think what that means for me.

And I can’t because gorgeous Rossi is a sight to behold as he braces his hands on either side of me. His olive skin is misted in sweat. His face is pulled tight with concentration. But his eyes . . . his eyes hold mine as he works himself to his own oblivion.

I’m his to use now.

His to chase his pleasure in.

And when he hits that peak, when he cries out something in Italian, I can’t tear my eyes away.

I don’t think I would though . . . even if I could.