Chapter 14 - Emma #2
He works me with his tongue, alternating between broad strokes and targeted flicks against my swollen clit. Two fingers slide inside me without warning, curling forward to find that spot that makes me see stars. The wet sounds echo off the marble walls, obscene, unmistakable.
"Listen to how wet you are," he murmurs, pumping his fingers faster. "This pussy is fucking soaked for me. Dripping down my hand. You're going to come all over my face, aren't you?"
"Alessandro, please."
"Please what?" He sucks my clit between his lips, making me cry out. "Please make you forget you were ever anyone but mine? Please fuck you with my tongue until you scream? Please show you exactly what you're worth?"
The lock rattles. Someone trying to get in.
"Occupied," Alessandro snarls, never lifting his mouth from my pussy. "Fuck off."
The footsteps retreat, but the reminder of where we are, what we're doing, sends a dark thrill through me. My pussy clenches around his fingers, and he groans against me.
"You like that," he observes, adding a third finger, stretching me. "Like knowing anyone could hear you getting tongue-fucked by your husband. Like being claimed where anyone could catch us."
His tongue finds my clit again while his fingers pump deeper, harder. The dual sensation builds something explosive in my core. My thighs shake, my breath comes in pants, my fingers tighten in his hair hard enough to hurt.
"That's it," he encourages. "Use me. Ride my face. Take what you need from me."
I roll my hips against his mouth, chasing my first release. He lets me control the pace, lets me grind against his tongue while his fingers curl inside me, exploring places no one has ever touched. The pressure builds and builds.
"Come," he commands against my clit. "Come on my tongue. Let me taste how perfect you are."
My orgasm crashes through me like lightning. I bite my lip hard enough to taste blood, trying not to scream as waves of pleasure wrack my body. My pussy pulses around his fingers, clenching and releasing as he works me through it.
"Good girl," he murmurs, lapping up every drop of my release. "My perfect, beautiful wife. Coming so hard for me."
He doesn't stop. His tongue keeps working my oversensitive clit, his fingers still pumping slowly.
"Too much," I gasp, trying to pull away.
"Never too much." He holds me in place easily. "You're going to come again. Going to soak my face properly. Show me what this pussy can do."
His mouth is relentless, worshipping every inch of my pussy with devoted attention. He traces patterns with his tongue, spells his name against my clit, claims me with every stroke. My legs shake so hard I can barely stand, but he holds me up, holds me open, holds me exactly where he wants me.
"I can feel you getting close again," he says, voice rough with arousal. "This pussy is clenching around my fingers, begging for my cock. But you're going to come on my tongue first. Going to scream for me."
"Someone will hear."
"Let them." He curves his fingers just right, and my vision goes white. "Let them all know that Alessandro Rosetti worships his wife's pussy. That I'd rather be on my knees for you than standing above anyone else."
The second orgasm builds slower, deeper. He reads my body perfectly, adjusting his rhythm to match my needs. When I'm right on the edge, he pulls back slightly, making me whimper.
"Tell me your name," he demands.
"Emma," I gasp.
"And what are you?"
"A Rosetti. I'm a Rosetti."
"That's right." His mouth returns to my clit with renewed vigor. "You're Emma Rosetti. My wife. My obsession. My perfect fucking everything."
This orgasm destroys me. I come so hard my knees give out completely, only his strength keeping me upright as I shake and pulse and soak his face. He groans against me like my pleasure is his own, lapping up everything I give him.
When the aftershocks finally fade, he rises slowly, keeping me pressed against the wall.
His face glistens with my arousal, and he doesn't wipe it away.
Instead, he kisses me deep, letting me taste myself on his tongue.
I can feel his cock straining against his pants, rock hard and pressing against my stomach.
"You are not nobody," he says against my lips, grinding his erection against me. "You're Emma Rosetti. The woman who makes me so fucking hard I can't think straight. The woman I would destroy anyone for."
"Alessandro."
"I need to be inside you," he growls. "Need to feel this pussy gripping my cock."
But footsteps approach the door again, multiple sets this time.
"But I won't let your first time be in a bathroom. Later," he promises, adjusting himself with a pained expression. "Tonight, I'm going to fuck you so hard you forget any name but mine."
He produces a handkerchief, of course he has one, and carefully cleans between my thighs, then his face. His touch is gentle but possessive, lingering longer than necessary.
"My panties."
"Are mine now." He tucks the lace into his pocket with a dark smile. "You'll spend the rest of this luncheon bare under your skirt, pussy still swollen from my mouth, knowing I can smell you on my lips."
The thought makes me clench around nothing, empty and aching.
He takes his time straightening my appearance. Smoothing my skirt, fixing my hair, wiping away smeared mascara. Each touch is deliberate, claiming, a reminder of what just happened.
"There," he says, stepping back. "Beautiful. Though you look properly fucked."
"I can't go back out there."
"You can and you will." He takes my hand, threading our fingers together. "With your head high. With your pussy bare and still throbbing from my mouth. Because you're not nobody, Emma. You're mine. And that makes you untouchable."
"What about Mrs. Rourke?"
His eyes go cold, though his cock still strains against his pants. "I told you. She'll never speak to you again. I promise you that."
He opens the door, keeping my hand firmly in his. The hallway stretches before us, and I'm hyperaware of my bare pussy under the skirt, of how swollen I still am, how one wrong move will reveal everything.
We enter the ballroom together. Heads turn immediately. Conversations stop mid-sentence. They all see it. My swollen lips, my flushed skin, the satisfied smile Alessandro can't quite hide. They know. They all know he just had his face buried between my thighs.
Mrs. Rourke still holds court at my abandoned table, no doubt sharing more poison about the nobody who married above her station.
Alessandro guides me directly to her.
"Mrs. Rourke," he says pleasantly, though his eyes promise violence. "I heard you had some observations about my wife."
She straightens, trying to maintain her composure. "Mr. Rosetti, I was simply."
"Simply being a dried-up old bitch who wouldn't recognize true beauty if it slapped her across her lifted face.
" His voice never rises above conversational, but the entire table goes silent.
"My wife's pussy tastes like heaven, by the way.
Something you'll never know. The devotion of someone who'd kneel for you. "
Several women gasp. Mrs. Rourke turns crimson.
"How dare you."
"How dare I?" He laughs, the sound sharp as breaking glass. "You made my wife cry. Do you know what I do to people who hurt what's mine?"
"Alex," I murmur, but secretly his crude defense makes my bare pussy clench.
"No, stellina. She needs to understand." He leans closer to Mrs. Rourke, voice dropping.
"Three phone calls. That's all it took. Your husband's contracts, your son's license, your daughter's husband's accounts.
All under review. That was just what I managed while making my wife come. Imagine what I'll do with real time."
The color drains from her face completely.
"But I'm feeling generous," Alessandro continues. "Apologize to my wife. My brilliant, beautiful, perfect wife. And I might reconsider."
"I… I apologize, Mrs. Rosetti." The words seem to physically pain her.
"Louder."
"I apologize, Mrs. Rosetti!" She nearly shouts it.
Alessandro's smile is all teeth. "Good. Now leave. And remember. I know exactly where you live."
Mrs. Rourke flees, practically running in her designer heels.
"Anyone else have observations about my wife?" Alessandro asks the room at large.
Silence.
"Excellent." He pulls out my chair with exaggerated courtesy. "Shall we finish lunch, stellina?"
I sit carefully, intensely aware of my bare pussy against the chair's fabric. Around me, women suddenly remember urgent compliments about my suit, my hair, my generous donation.
Under the table, Alessandro's hand finds my thigh, sliding higher until his fingers brush against my still-wet folds. I have to bite my lip to stay silent as he traces lazy circles, keeping me on edge.
"Thank you," I whisper.
"For what?"
"For seeing Emma and wanting her anyway."
His finger slides inside me under the table, making me grip my water glass. "I don't want you anyway," he murmurs. "I want you because you're Emma. One day, when you let me, I'm going to show you exactly how much."