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“O-okay.”
Her fingers move tentatively, rubbing along her slit, tracing her outer lips with a touch so light I can barely feel it through her hand.
“Is that how you touched yourself?” I ask, keeping my voice level.
“Yes,” she murmurs, the word coming out breathless.
“Did no one ever teach you the best ways to do it?”
She shakes her head, her hair brushing my collarbone. Her cheeks are flushed, and I can feel the heat of her embarrassment radiating through her back.
Covering her hand completely, I guide our joined fingers to her clit. The small bud is already swollen beneath the hood. I circle it with firm, deliberate pressure. Her hips jerk. A moan escapes her—soft and surprised, as if she didn’t mean to make the sound.
“Doesn’t that feel better?” I mutter against her ear.
She’s getting wetter by the second, her cunt slick against our fingers. Her ass presses against my cock, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from grinding into her. Her free hand grips the sheet beside her thigh, knuckles white with tension.
Releasing her hand, I say, “Don’t stop, Kira. Make yourself come.”
Nodding, she continues to circle her clit. But her rhythm stutters—fast, then slow, then faltering altogether. Her jaw tightens, her lips pressed into a thin line of frustration.
“I can’t do it,” she huffs.
I watch over her shoulder, my breath hot against her neck. “You’re rubbing your clit like you’re trying to start a fire with wet wood,” I chuckle.
This feels like watching a damn baby deer stumble on all four legs. There’s nothing sexy about the way she touches herself.
“You need to find the pressure and pace that feels good to you,” I tell her. “The clit isn’t a button you mash until something happens.”
She flinches, and her fingers slow. I can feel the embarrassment rolling off her in waves.
“Use your middle finger,” I command. “Light pressure. Circle it like this.” I cover her hand again and guide her, showing her the rhythm, the pressure.
Her body responds immediately—her breathing quickens, her hips rocking forward into the touch.
“That feels better,” she admits on a breathy sigh.
“Mmm, that’s good,” I groan. “Now use your other hand to play with your nipple. Pinch it. Roll it between your fingers.”
She obeys, her left hand moving to her breast, and the sound she makes when she squeezes her nipple is pure lust. A low, ragged moan that vibrates through her chest and into mine. Her ass rocks back against my cock.
Fuuuck, I have to clench my teeth to keep from bucking up into her.
“That’s it,” I rasp against her ear. “Keep going. Don’t stop.”
Her fingers work her clit with the rhythm I showed her, and her other hand twists her nipple, and the sounds she makes—fuck, the sounds—small whimpers building to moans, her hips grinding against her own hand, her thighs trembling against mine.
I watch her face from the side, the way her lips part, the flush spreading down her throat to her chest. Her eyes are half-closed, lashes dark against her cheeks. She’s beautiful like this—desperate and lost in sensation, her Catholic guilt momentarily suspended by the pleasure building inside her.
“Don’t you fucking stop,” I snarl when her rhythm falters. “Keep your fingers right there. You’re close. I can feel it.”
Her moans have turned into short, broken gasps. Her back arches, pressing harder against my chest, and her free hand grips my thigh like she’s drowning. But no matter how much she rubs her little clit, she can’t make herself come. Every time she’s close, she breaks the rhythm.
Needing her to come so I can feel and hear it, I take over. Pushing her hand away, I press my thumb against her clit while teasing her hole with my index finger. I don’t push it inside, just let the tip add pressure to her opening.
“God!” she moans. “Domenico, I-I can feel it.”
“Tell me what you feel,” I demand, my voice rough.
