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He lets go, and this time, his hands are there. One on my right thigh, the other at my clit, resting there.
“Nicolo, please . . .”
He laughs against me and pushes his tongue into me, making me squeal as he starts to tongue fuck me. The hand on my clit moves, the other sliding to my pussy, below his mouth, and he starts to torture me, stroking my clit light. His fingers toy with my folds as his tongue invades.
I want more. He’s bringing me to another edge, but this one is lower, broader, and made up of nerve endings begging to release waves of pleasure. If only I could get him to do that, to help.
Each time I try and move, he doesn’t let me. He just keeps up that divine assault, a slow rhythm that adjusts and shifts to make me whimper louder, moan, and when I’m quivering, his finger also pushed into me, His fingers on my clit pull and stroke, and it’s all with the beat he found to drive me insane, and then it happens.
Those nerve endings bloom. I’m just flooded with a band of pleasure that swells and swells into big, slow-rolling waves that grow in intensity until I shatter into filaments. I come like nothing before, like each orgasm is connected to culminate into this.
And in that moment, time stops. It’s just Nicolo and this and him in me and the waves.
When I finally come down, he withdraws, pulls me into his arms, and whispers one word.
“Mine.”
* * *
I’m still flying high, body trembling, and he draws patterns on my sweat-slicked stomach.
I didn’t know sex could be like that.
Mind-blowing.
Bone meltingly good.
And for the first time?
Insane.
Then he ate me out and made me come all over again. Three times, and I think I’m greedy because I want more. More and more and more.
With Nicolo.
I’m smiling, and I know it’s goofy. I don’t care as I fly, probably too high, and I know there’s a crash coming.
But selfishly, I want to stay here and hold off on that crash, create a bubble of sex, and—
“You okay?”
I nod. “I . . .”
“Did I hurt you, Avah?” He goes up on one elbow, those tiger eyes concerned and tinged with male satisfaction. “I should have taken you fucking here, not in that shower. I should—”
I turn. “Only in the best way. I want to do it again. With you.”
“Jesus,Tesoro.” He half smiles, and then it fades.
I look down because I know sex isn’t solving whatever this thing is inside me. What was said on the phone before the attack, the fact I’m sure he’s into what my father does, and how I don’t know what to do with that. But he guides my chin back up.
“Talk?”
I breathe out. “This thing . . . with you and me, I know it’s not forever. It can’t be because . . .”
“Not a white picket fence guy.”
I know that. I nod.
