Chapter 6
Chapter six
Ginni
Isit up and lick my lips. Sending my tongue to capture any lingering drops of Carlo’s cum. He tastes delicious. Just like I knew he would.
“You taste like caviar and love,” I sigh happily.
Carlo stares up at me. His expression is a little alarming. He’s not having a heart attack is he? He’s not a young man.
I bend down again and press my ear to his chest.
“What are you doing!” he exclaims, sounding a little frantic. As if having my head pressed to his naked skin is too much for him to bear. A step too far.
“Shhh. I’m checking you aren’t having a heart attack. A man of your age can’t be too careful.”
“What the fuck? I’m fucking thirty-four, not sixty!” he yells.
I ignore him and concentrate on the sound of his heartbeat. Strong. Steady. A little too fast perhaps, but I did just give him a lovely blowjob. I think he is fine.
I sit back up. Carlo glares at me. His face is all flushed and sweaty. His eyes are still dark with arousal. He has never looked more handsome.
But he does look quite grumpy. My poor love. I understand. I have been asking a lot of him.
I move off the bed and go to the bedside table. I open the drawer and pull out the brand new packet of cigarettes.
“I’m sorry I made you quit cold turkey. But you can have one now. Maybe one every day until we can break the habit.”
I unwrap the cellophane and pull out a cigarette. Nasty things. But their smell has become entwined with Carlo in my mind, and so I can’t resist having a long sniff all along its length. Filling my lungs with Carlo, just like my tummy is filled with his cum.
I rouse myself with a shake and place the cigarette between Carlo’s lips. Allowing my fingers to brush against his soft flesh.
He is back to looking conflicted again. He wants the cigarette, I can tell. But he is embarrassed by being served like this. My poor baby. He will get used to being spoiled and taken care of. I am determined he will.
I pull the lighter out of the drawer and bring it to the end of Carlo’s cigarette. It clicks and the flame lights. Carlo lifts his head a little, reaching towards me, and the flame and the intimacy of it makes me giddy.
I put the lighter away and watch Carlo puff on his gift. Gently, I reach forward and take the cigarette so he can exhale. He glares at me, but he complies.
We settle into a beautiful rhythm. Puff. Remove. Exhale. Return. The two of us working together in perfect harmony. The way it is meant to be because we were made for each other.
“Finished?”
He nods.
I dump the butt into the crystal ashtray hidden tastefully in the drawer.
“Feeling better now?” I ask.
His gorgeous eyes narrow, but he looks a lot more relaxed. The tension has gone from his shoulders. The nicotine has done the trick.
I pick up a bottle of water. “Thirsty?”
Emotions flow across his expressive face. I can see him arguing with himself. Thinking about being difficult. Considering demanding to be unchained so he can do it himself.
He nods.
My heart skips several beats. My love is such a fast learner. He is already getting the hang of this. I knew he would come around eventually, but this is even quicker than I dared to hope for.
Carefully, I slide my hand under his head. I cradle it and lift it up as I bring the bottle to his lips. He is perfectly capable of lifting his own head, he is not sick. But this is so much better.
His Adam’s apple bobs as he gulps down the water, and I cannot tear my eyes away. The olive skin of his neck moving. So thin. So fragile. So very mesmerizing.
He finishes drinking, and I remove the bottle from his lips. Reluctantly, I lower his head and extract my hand from the feel of his soft hair and firm skull.
He looks sleepy now. A lovely orgasm, a smoke and a drink of water, have made his body all content. Nevermind the delicious breakfast I fed him earlier.
I’m so good at taking care of him. I knew I would be. And I’m not going to let him nap like this, all sweaty and dirty.
“Time for your bed bath!” I beam.
The look he gives me is positively ferocious. It’s making him look so very dangerous and murderous. An alpha male, all naked and tied to my bed just for me.
It’s giving me butterflies in my tummy.
I skip off happily to the bathroom to fetch a bowl of warm water, towels, washcloths and soap.
I take my time selecting the perfect temperature, testing it against my wrist the way I’ve seen mothers do for babies in films. Not that Carlo is a baby, but he deserves the same level of care and attention.
The soap I choose is my most expensive one, imported from France and scented with bergamot and sandalwood. Carlo is worth every penny. I’ve been saving it for a special occasion, and what could be more special than this?
When I return, Carlo’s eyes track my every movement as I set up my supplies on the nightstand. I arrange everything with the precision of a surgeon preparing for an operation. The water bowl in easy reach, the washcloths folded just so, the towels soft and ready.
“This isn’t necessary,” Carlo grumbles, but his voice lacks its usual bite. There’s something almost resigned in his tone, like he’s finally beginning to understand that resistance is futile.
“Of course it is,” I say cheerfully, dipping the washcloth in the warm water and wringing it out carefully. “You’re all sweaty and sticky. I can’t have my man uncomfortable.”
I start with his face, gently dabbing at his forehead and temples.
The cloth is just the right temperature, not too hot, not too cool.
His eyes flutter closed despite himself, and I can see him trying to fight the relaxation that wants to take over.
It’s adorable how he struggles against simple pleasure.
The warm cloth traces along his jawline, following the strong line of his bone structure. When I reach the corner of his mouth, he parts his lips slightly in an unconscious gesture that makes my heart skip. Such a natural response to gentle care.
“There,” I murmur softly, my voice barely above a whisper. “Doesn’t that feel better?”
He doesn’t answer, but his breathing has deepened, becoming slower and more regular. The fight is going out of him, replaced by something that looks almost like contentment.
I move to his neck next, washing away the salt and musk with careful, reverent strokes.
His pulse jumps under my touch, a rapid flutter against his throat that tells me exactly how affected he is by my ministrations.
When I reach the sensitive spot just below his ear, I can’t resist pressing a gentle kiss to the clean skin.
He shudders, a full-body tremor that sends heat racing through my veins.
“Ginni,” he warns, but there’s no real heat in it. Just breathless awareness.
“I’m just being thorough,” I assure him innocently, rinsing the washcloth before continuing my careful exploration of his body.
I work my way across his broad shoulders, marveling at the play of muscle under his skin.
Every ridge and valley deserves attention, deserves to be treated with the reverence it commands.
Down his arms I go, taking special care with the places where the restraints have left faint marks on his wrists.
I massage those spots gently, apologetically, my fingers working to soothe any lingering soreness.
When I reach his hands, I take extra time with each finger, washing and massaging them with dedicated focus.
He has beautiful hands, I’ve always thought so.
Strong and manly, with broad fingers that are equally capable of violence and tenderness.
The thought of what else these hands might do, given the chance, makes me dizzy.
“You have such beautiful hands,” I murmur, lowering my lips to his palm for just a moment. “Perfect for touching.”
Carlo’s breath hitches, and his fingers curl slightly against my cheek before he catches himself and forces them to relax.
Moving to his chest, I let the warm cloth trail through the dark hair there, watching as droplets of water catch the artificial light.
His nipples tighten when I pass over them with deliberate slowness, and I file that reaction away for future reference.
Everything about his responses is precious data, information I can use to bring him more pleasure later.
“You’re enjoying this,” I observe with deep satisfaction, watching the way his chest rises and falls with increasingly unsteady breaths.
“I’m tolerating it,” he corrects, but his voice is rougher now, gravelly with suppressed desire.
I laugh softly, the sound intimate in the quiet room. “My stubborn man. You don’t have to pretend with me.”
I take my time with his abdomen, tracing each ridge of muscle with the cloth.
He’s so perfectly defined, so beautifully made.
The result of years of discipline and care that I find absolutely captivating.
I could spend hours just cataloguing every detail of his body, memorizing the map of scars that tell the story of his dangerous life, and the way his skin responds to my careful touch.
There’s a particularly fascinating scar just below his ribs, thin and precise like a blade wound. I trace it gently with the cloth, then with my finger, imagining the story behind it. How young was he when it happened? Did it hurt? Was he afraid, or was he already the fearless man I know him to be?
“Stop staring,” he mutters, but there’s no real annoyance in his voice.
“I can’t help it,” I admit honestly. “You’re so beautiful. Every part of you tells a story, and I want to know them all. All the missing puzzle pieces of the parts you’ve never told me.”