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I’m so close to coming. Placing my cross between my lips, I clench my jaw, staving off my impending orgasm. My nostrils flare with every deliberate breath. The taste of Sia’s pussy dances along my lips, my necklace an ode to the generous way she fucked my face in a way I’d only fantasized about. Her plump tits bounce with every thrust, and I long to see the way they move when I can let loose and fuck her hard and rough. I want to wrap my cock up in their heavy sway and fuck them furiously enough to spray her neck and chin with cum and massage it into her perfect skin like a perfume.
Sliding my hands over her body, I lose myself in every exquisite bump and curve. “Fuck, you’re pretty,” I murmur.
She moans, and I want to hear it again.
Pressing my thumb against her clit, she bucks against the unexpected touch. “Fuck.”
I drive in and out of her cunt, my thumb massaging her clit. She moans again.
“Sia, baby. I’m gonna come.”
“Yesss,” she breathes.
It sends me over the edge, and I come hard enough that my body buckles, falling over hers. My elbows hit the mattress, and my lips immediately seek out hers. She kisses me through the orgasm that rips through my body, my final movements jerky and unpracticed as I christen her pussy with a load of cum that will be leaking out of her for days, reminding her of who she sacrificed her virginity to in a deed of ownership that I shouldn’t be so eager to claim.
CHAPTERTWENTY-ONE
ALESSIA
Ican’t sleep.
Not a wink.
Diego passed out relatively quickly, which is surprising, considering he only woke up a few hours ago. But pleasantly sated, he looked drunk when he fell beside me after he came, roaring my name like a blood oath. He lay quietly, stroking my naked body until his even breathing took hold, and his hand stopped, draped over my hip.
I take the stolen moment to admire him.
He’s a beautiful man. Enigmatically polarizing but not cold enough to be frightening. Not to me, anyway. Even in sleep, he looks as though the weight of the world rests on his broad shoulders. My husband is a thinker and a planner, and when things take him by surprise, I’ve learned very quickly that agitation wraps itself around him in outward violence and seething rage.
The men we killed allowed him to channel his shock into something seemingly productive.
My blindside has stripped away his power, and I know he’s struggling to rationalize how he takes it back without force.
I slip from the bed, careful not to disturb him. Grabbing an oversized shirt from my dresser, I throw it on and move silently through the house. I check the numerous screens Diego has set up, but no alerts or notifications have arisen in the time we spent wrapped up in one another.
Pouring myself a wine, I grab my glass and the bottle and move into my courtyard. Depositing my wine, I walk into my study, picking up some charcoal and my sketchbook.
The stars shine brightly in the sky, and I take a moment to look at them when I’ve settled into one of the two chairs in the small space I claim for my art. My brother has asked me countless times why I don’t convert the guest bedroom into a studio, but the truth is, I don’t think I’d feel inspired. When I sketch, I like to sit outside with a fresh breeze on my face and the sound of life passing me by. When I paint, I like to do that with others. I’ve found a studio I like downtown, and when the mood hits me, they welcome me to sit with a canvas and explore with color.
Lifting my feet onto the chair, I tuck them against my backside, resting my shins against the curve of the table. Balancing my sketchpad on my thighs, I take a sip of wine before letting my hand wander over the page.
The angle of his jaw comes into focus first, the shadowed line of my charcoal moving in sharp lines to capture the severity of his features. The knowledge that I’m drawing him would likely creep him out. He’d believe I’m every cliché come to life—the virgin falling head over heels with their first lover. But I don’t care. The perfection of Diego’s face is coming to life on my page, and I can’t stop.
My hand cramps and my fingers are black from the material smudge on the paper.
“Sia.”
“Hmm.”
“Sia.”
“One second.”
I finish the downward turn of his lips, smiling at how realistic they look.
When I lift my head, the real-life version of my art leans against the doorframe, dressed only in a pair of boxers.
“What are you doing?”
