Chapter 22 #2
But yeah, that piece of shit being with her, touching her, really bothers me.
I take her by the wrists and walk her back until she bumps against the bed. The momentum pushes her back, and she sits down abruptly.
“Christian!” she huffs out.
Her chest is rising and falling unsteadily. She’s not slapped me. Nor has she told me to fuck off.
“Just a little taste, Carmela. I deserve that.” I close my fingers around the front of her throat, feeling her pulse hammering as I press lightly into her flesh. Having my hands here, the way I dream of, sets them trembling.
“Oh God.”
Her words have a low, sultry edge.
She’s aroused.
“I’m not your husband,” I say. “And I’m not my brother.”
“I know that?—”
“Shut up.”
She does, her eyes wide and luminous as they stare up at me. I squeeze my fingers a little—a warning.
“I fucking despise you, Carmela. Just so that we’re clear. But I also want you. And tonight, I want to taste you because my brother told me you tasted sweet, and I want to find out for myself. If you don’t want that, then all you have to do is say stop.”
Her pulse picks up under my fingertips. I’m not squeezing her throat hard, just enough for her to feel the pressure and her vulnerability.
She also doesn’t tell me to stop.
My lips curl in a grin. Fucking game on. My tongue flicks across my lower lip, almost anticipating her taste. I drop to my knees and push her back.
She huffs out a heavy breath.
“Now this is nice. Sweet little princess, all spread out.” If I get the fucking message now that Ettore is on the way home, I’m going lose my damn mind.
No message notifications sound. Only silence broken by the whisper of her unsteady breathing.
CARMELA
His fingers leave my throat. I miss them and the erotic thrill of subjugation they represented. They slide downward, pausing between my breasts like he’s savoring the wild beat of my heart.
“All you have to do is say stop.”
Strangely, I believe him, that he would.
And I should tell him to stop—this is madness, and one of us needs to find our wits.
I don’t.
And I won’t.
I’ve disassociated before. This is not that. Instead, I remain willfully complicit as his palm slides over my stomach and thighs until it reaches the hem of my gown.
He pauses, waiting to see if I will tell him to stop.
My heart drums inside my ears, but my lips remain sealed.
He uses both hands to slide the silk material up over my knees before pushing them apart with a slow, deliberate movement that kicks off a sweet clench in my core. The material goes higher still, gliding over my thighs until it pools at my waist.
I’m drenched. Saturating the silk of my panties. Throbbing with arousal, heightened by the sense of danger and the taboo nature of what we do.
I’m still letting this happen— willfully complicit.
Here on my marital bed, I step out of time, floating in another plane of existence.
The darkened room.
The sound of my breathing.
His fingers pressing the silk of my panties against my heat sucks me back into my body.
He makes a tutting sound, rubbing lightly against the slick material.
“You’re very fucking wet for a married woman being touched by a mere soldier in your husband’s employ.
This is not for my eyes. He would kill me if he knew.
Slowly. Tell me, is that why you’re so filthy wet? Do you get off on violence, Mrs.—”
“Don’t say that name,” I hiss.
His teeth flash in a smirk. “Tell me to stop. I dare you.”
I shake my head frantically.
He continues his slow teasing torment, pressing his fingertips deeper into the entrance to my pussy, forcing the material a small way inside, sending my breathing choppy, and then tugging it away.
There is a moment of resistance as the material clings shamefully to me before it comes free.
“These are filthy, your ladyship. No choice now. They are going to need to come off.”
He peels them down my thighs, leaving a wet smear in their wake, and drops them carelessly to the floor.
I want to blame this on shock, but really, it’s not. He just told me bluntly that he hates me, and I believe him.
I want to hate him too, my jailer, the man my husband pays to ensure my life plays out to his exacting standards—the one whose brother rocked my world and then walked away.
Maybe I do hate him. Maybe I hate the way his rough knuckles glide over my thigh before he brushes them the length of my pussy.
That’s right. I hate this. I hate every glorious, heart-pounding moment that delivers me into joyful, destructive sin.
My breath catches in my throat.
Yes, I so hate this… every second of it… and more so when his fingers sink into me.
I arch up off the bed.
“Dripping,” he goads.
A strangled sob escapes me.
And still I don’t tell him to stop.
“Just one little word and this can all end,” he taunts.
He pumps his fingers slowly, like he has all the time in the world. Like my husband might not return at any moment and kill him slowly, exactly as he said.
I sink my nails into the soft bedding beneath me and my teeth into my lower lip, trying to stifle the whimpers that want to escape.
He chuckles.
I hate that smug sound, hate that he has every right to be. But I don’t hate what he’s doing to me. I don’t hate the way his slow caress makes nerve endings starburst into life.
Pleasure. I’m a slave to pleasure—a slave to any man who can bestow it upon me, Dante has already taught me that. His mere touch is a form of bitter poetry whispered against my skin.
“Lie for me.”
I lied for one brother. It only seems fair that I lie for the other one, too.
The slow, steady penetrations and the delectable stretch that accompanies them weave a magic spell over me.
His lips brush against my inner thigh, far too gentle for a man who is not gentle at all. I expected brutality because that’s what he is. Yet this teasing attentiveness is a form of heavenly hell.
More feather-light kisses.
The faint scrape of stubble.
A sharp, blooming ache as he sucks against the skin, tightens his hand over my thigh, and plunges his fingers deeper into me.
I jackknife. My pussy clamps down over his penetration. My fingers are in his hair, tangling, tugging.
He sucks harder.
“God, don’t!”
He doesn’t stop. It takes me several mindless moments to realize I haven’t asked him to—not in explicit terms anyway. He’s going to leave a mark right there on my upper, inner thigh, where it couldn’t possibly be blamed on an accident.
Not that Ettore would ever notice.
Christian knows my husband never gives me pleasure because I admitted as much.
The sharp, achy sensation pulls me under. I’m leaking arousal all the way to the bed, and my heart is hammering in my chest. He opens his mouth wider, shifting to fresh ground and sucks once again. His fingers begin to move inside me, making little come-hither motions.
My breathing is choppy. I’m like a tightly coiled spring in danger of snapping.
His lips move upward, closer to my core, until, finally, he buries his head between with a groan and devours me like he’s on the verge of dying for the taste.
My thoughts scatter like dust whipped up by a brisk breeze.
Common sense and rational thoughts elude me.
He’s still moving his fingers slow and purposeful inside me, but his lips and tongue moving over my pussy and swollen, impossibly sensitive clit are so pleasurable as to be almost painful.
I’m absolutely soaked, and his fingers make the most debauched, filthy, squelching sounds.
He uses his left hand to push my knee up and out, slides his arm underneath my thigh, and clamps his forearm over my waist.
He lifts his head briefly, pinning me with a hot look, leaving me throbbing, hanging onto the last threads of my sanity. “Just so we’re clear, you didn’t tell me to stop. And unless you tell me to stop, I don’t.”
His head lowers before I can formulate a reply.
It feels like the air is punched from my lung as he closes his lips over my pulsing clit and sucks.
I tighten my fingers over the covers. Explosions go off behind my tightly clenched eyes.
I can’t look at him, yet the image of his dark head between my spread thighs as he sucks lightly upon me remains starkly clear.
Sweat breaks out across the surface of my skin. I’m on fire for him, for what he does, the pleasure and tension cranking ever higher, my muscles locking tight as the quivering sensation manifests inside. Tighter and higher, the breath trapped in my lungs as my heart pounds.
“God, yes. Don’t stop. Please don’t.”
My climax slams into me, and stuttered sobs escape my lips as my body pitches into climactic waves, his arm tightens over my waist, pinning me still when I start to twitch and thrash.
A gush of release escapes me. He groans against me, his lips leaving my throbbing clit and poking into me right next to his fingers.
The hot waves keep coming, my body shuddering until oversensitivity takes the edge off the bliss.
He lifts his head and sucks his fingers clean, eyes closed like he is savoring the taste, and God help me, the vision sets off another mini spasm in my womb.
He opens his eyes slowly. “He was right.”
He? “What?”
“My brother. You do taste sweet.”