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Gianna
Ididn’t watch him this time, but I heard him. I think anyone on the upper floor heard him—I was halfway down the hall when I heard the strangled groan that I recognize now. I felt that answering ache between my thighs, imagining him in front of the fire, his cock in his hand as he frantically touched it, thinking of me.
Hemusthave been thinking of me. Just as I’m sure now that he must have been watching me that day in his office, while I was out by the pool. It gives me a wicked, delicious thrill to think of turning him on like that, making him lose control. It makes me wonder what he would do if he caught me watching him. Would he punish me? What would he do for a punishment if he did?
My fevered imagination runs wild when I go to bed, as he instructed me, confusion warring with what I now recognize as my own arousal.It turned me on when he told me to go to bed. What does that mean? Is that wrong? Is it bad? Why—
I could ask him, I realize. The next time we have a “lesson,” I could ask him why that aroused me. Although, of course, that would mean admitting that it had.
Is that so bad?I bite my lip as I slip out of my leggings and into bed, wearing just my tank top and panties. They’re damp—I can feel them clinging between my thighs, and I squeeze my legs together, trying to ease the ache.Maybe letting him know he turns you on would tempt him—
I shouldn’t be tempting him. Alessio made it very clear why he thinks he shouldn’t marry me. But at least part of that is him thinking thatIcan’t possibly know what I want—trying to make my decisions for me. And while the idea of that doesn’t decrease the ache between my thighs, it also frustrates me in other ways.
If he would marry me, teach me, be my husband—I wouldn’t have to marry a stranger. I wouldn’t have to wonder what some other man would be like in bed, if he’ll be patient or not, gentle or rough, if he’ll care about my pleasure.
If he’s a good lover, he will.Alessio’s voice echoes through my head, and I shiver, imagining Alessio leaning over me, gently spreading my thighs apart, drawing my panties down with infinite, teasing slowness. I can imagine his hands under my knees, opening me for him, gazing down between my thighs in a way that would arouse me and embarrass me all at once—and the idea of that turns me on even more. I feel that heat between my legs intensify, my panties clinging wetly, and before I can stop myself, I slide my hand underneath them, fingers searching through the dark, wet curls of my pubic hair to find that spot that felt so good before.
Alessio would find it with his tongue. I know he would. My fingers slip against my swollen flesh, my cheeks heating with embarrassment as I feel how wet I am, even alone with no one else to know. I canhearmy fingers moving, that slick, wet sound, and I imagine it’s Alessio’s mouth instead, his lips kissing me there the way he kissed my mouth for a moment, rubbing and sucking as his tongue finds the spot that my fingers sought out.
The thought of it feels vulnerable and scary, and immensely arousing all at once. I stroke faster, wondering what his tongue would feel like. He made it sound as if it would feel so good, better than my fingers, even—and I can’t imagine how that’s possible. My thighs are already tightening, my muscles tense as I feel that throbbing, building pressure low in my abdomen, the pleasure intensifying until I have to turn my face into my pillow to muffle the cry that I let out as the sensation sweeps over me in a sudden burst before I can get further in my fantasy. My thighs clutch around my hand, rocking, arching as I rub and rub, making small tight circles around the swollen, pulsing spot where all the pleasure feels as if it's radiating from.
I’m almost in tears from the intensity of it when I start to come down, my entire body trembling. I feel strange all over, like I want someone there with me, someone to hold and touch me, stroke my hair and skin, and ease me down from the pleasure. I want warmth and safety, the heat of another body, and it takes everything in me not to get up and go down the hall, to crawl into Alessio’s bed and his arms. I wanthim, desperately, and the tears of pleasure turn to tears of frustration as I think of the dinner party next week, and the men that I’ll meet.
Men who I don’t have the slightest interest in, and don’t want to marry.
But it seems that I’m not really being given a choice.
—
I’d expected to be allowed to leave the house to go out shopping for the dinner party—the first time I would have left since the funeral. Instead, when I broach the topic at breakfast the next morning, Alessio firmly tells me no, that it’s not possible. He says it’s too dangerous, that he’ll have a selection of dresses picked out by a personal shopper, and sent to the house for me to choose from.
I don’t know whether to be frustrated that I’m not being allowed out, or aroused by his authority. All I do know is that when he says no, sternly, I feel that ache between my thighs again—along with a strong urge to rebel and see what happens.
But if I argue with him, he might stop the lessons, and I don’t want that to happen.
Over the course of the next week, though, there are no more lessons. Alessio keeps to his office, mostly appearing only for meals and occasionally to spend some time with me, playing a card game or watching a movie, though he keeps his distance. The one time that I do start to bring up the possibility of going up to the library for another “lesson,” he cuts me off, citing work that he still needs to do, and disappears.
Which leaves me frustrated and bereft the night of the dinner party, staring at the dress hanging in front of my closet with no little resentment.
I’d been tempted to choose a black dress out of sheer rebellion, just to make my feelings about all of it abundantly clear. The fact that black has never been particularly flattering on me only made it all the more tempting. Still, in the end, I chose a navy blue dress so dark that italmostlooks black, just so I can’t be accused of being difficult.
Although—I can’t stop thinking about what Alessio might do if Iwas.
Would he spank me?I bite my lip, thinking about it, feeling intensely as if I’m not supposed to be aroused by the thought, and at the same time, wondering if I even care.DoI care that I might be turned on by the idea? I imagine defying him in some way tonight and him reaching for my elbow, steering me out of the dining room or parlor into some side room, pulling me down over his lap on a couch, and his hands sliding the silk of my dress up over my thighs—
I suck in a breath, forcing the fantasy away as I feel the pulse of desire between my legs. I don’t have time—
But maybe I do. I’m wearing nothing but my panties—the black silk thong that won’t show underneath the clinging silk of the dress—and a black strapless bra cut low enough in the front that it won’t show underneath the dress either. I feel that throb of arousal again, imagining Alessio coming up to check on me, finding me—
Finding me how?The thought thrills me, and before I can stop myself, I sink down on my knees onto the rug in front of my full-length mirror, curiously tugging the front of my thong aside. I’ve never looked between my legs before, and there’s a certain lewdness to the way my dark curls are already damp that makes heat swirl in my belly, my fingers scissoring between my folds to slowly spread myself open so that I can see more.
He could catch me like this. Looking at myself in the mirror—touching myself. He’d tell me how bad I was, how good girls don’t do this—
My breath catches in my throat, coming faster now, and I feel a trickle of wetness over my hand as I slowly rub my fingers back and forth, spreading myself open a little wider. My skin is flushed and swollen, and I see that spot that feels so good when I touch it, a swollen bud of flesh that is peeking out. I trail my fingertip over it, swirling some of that slick arousal, and I gasp, my hips bucking up into my hand as I do.
I imagine Alessio standing in the doorway.If you’re going to touch yourself, then spread your legs wider. Good girl. Show yourself off to me. Don’t stop now.
I feel certain that I shouldn’t be doing this. But Ican’tstop. It feels so good, and I force myself to keep my legs open instead of clenching them shut as I feel myself about to come, wanting tosee, to learn what it looks like when that pleasure overtakes me.
