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Tongue sharp, he skates it over my clit, figure eights carving into my most sensitive flesh. I want to watch him. I want to be able to meet his eyes as he slays me so thoroughly. But the pleasure coursing through my body is so heavy that my eyes struggle to open.
I can feel my excitement dripping down, dampening the cushion beneath me and dripping between my ass cheeks. I’m soaked. My flesh is addicted to his torture.
He deviates between licking and sucking, being able to read my needs before I know them myself. He builds me higher and higher. My cries are unabashed. My pussy throbs. It pulsates in time with my heartbeat, racing toward a release I’m positive will kill me.
“Come on my face, Bianca,” he hums against me. “Be a good little slut and dirty me up.”
I come on a loud shout, his lecherous words tipping me over the edge, and I do exactly as he asked. I come against his face. My release incapacitates me, and I fall against the armchair, chest heaving, soft moans following every aftershock.
My world is spinning, and I don’t register that I’m in his arms until he places me back on my feet in the bathroom. He turns on the shower and holds his hand under the spray until he’s comfortable it’s warm enough. I watch him through lust-filled eyes, my legs still shaky.
“Hop in,dolcezza,” he murmurs.
The warm rain of water touches my skin, and I groan aloud. I close my eyes, letting the water wash over me, only opening them when I feel his touch.
He stands just outside the shower, washcloth in his hand, wiping delicately over my face, removing the dried remnants of his climax from my skin.
I watch him intently. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” he says, eyes never leaving his task.
He washes my entire body, fully clothed, unperturbed by the splashes of water that dampen his clothes.
“Turn off the shower,” he instructs, and I do as he says.
Wrapping me in a towel, he dries my body. I’m both confused and elated at the disparity in his character and the gentle touch he approaches me with.
Confident I’m dry, he throws the towel over the shower screen. “Hop into bed, Bianca. Sleep. I have work to do.”
I want to argue. I want to ask him to join me. I want his touch. But I follow his command, crawling into bed, my eyes closing almost immediately in blissful exhaustion.
nine
Istretch awake, groaning at the relief in my body as my muscles extend.
“Good sleep?”
I grunt in surprise. “You have got to stop doing that.”
“Doing what?”
I move up onto my elbows, the sheet dancing precariously over my boobs. Vincent sits in the heavy armchair in the corner of the room, his right hand cupping a steaming mug of coffee.
Three of his five fingers sport heavy metal rings. I’ve never seen him without them. Each ring is thick, intricately designed, and a stark contrast to the olive touch of his skin.
He’s shirtless, and I take my time soaking up the view. It’s the first time I’ve seen him in anything but a suit, and my mouth runs dry.
He’s perfect. Tanned skin and defined muscles. A scattering of hair brushes his upper chest. The lines of his abdominal muscles are visible even as he sits, and a dark line of hair trails from his belly button into his pants. The sculpted curve of his pectorals are finished with small red nipples. I’ve never seen anything quite like him. A magazine spread come to life; open for my perusal, and the claim ofhusbandshooting through my body in possessiveness.
The shadow of dark ink is scattered along his side, and I twist my head, working to see better. “You have a tattoo,” I say.
He takes a sip of coffee.
“What is it?”
“Barbed wire,” he says.
I let my eyes drift over the grooves of his arms, pausing over the arresting veins of his forearms. I pull my perusal back to his face. “Barbed wire,” I repeat, wishing he had removed his shirt last night so I could’ve felt the heat of his skin.
