Chapter 25 #2
He answers my plea by increasing the pace, the speed, the force, each thrust a new, mind-blowing sensation. I'm lost, adrift in a sea of pleasure, my body a vessel for his desire, my mind a blank slate.
He shifts, changing the angle, and he hits that spot deep inside my pussy, the one he found with his fingers downstairs, the one that sends a jolt of pure, unadulterated pleasure through me.
I cry out, my body arching, my inner muscles clenching around him.
"That's it," he growls, his pace relentless as my body welcomes his thick cock over and over as he pounds into me.
I wrap my legs around his waist, my heels digging into his back, pulling him deeper, wanting more, needing more.
He gives me what I want, what I need. His thrusts become harder, faster, more demanding, driving me to the edge, to the brink of something so huge, so powerful, it’s terrifying.
I’m lost. Lost in the feel of him inside me, in the scent of him, in the sound of my name on his lips. And I wouldn't have it any other way.
He shifts his angle, sliding along my clit with each thrust. I cry out, my body tensing, my muscles clenching, my breath catching in my throat.
"You feel so good," I cry out, meeting him thrust for thrust.
"You like being fucked like this? Huh?" His teeth catch my earlobe and he bites, just a bit too hard.
I can only moan.
"Tell me," he urges as he drives in again.
"God, yes," I gasp. "I love it."
"Who does this tight little cunt belong to?"
His words are filthy, delicious, and send a fresh wave of heat through me.
"Say it," he demands.
"You," I gasp. "It belongs to you."
"That's not right," he scolds, driving into me harder.
I cry out, my body arching, my inner muscles clenching around him as the pleasure mounts to an impossible peak. I'm so close, so close.
"Say it!" he barks.
"You," I manage. "This cunt belongs to you!"
He makes a strangled, satisfied noise, a deep, guttural sound that sends a shiver down my spine. He gives me what I want, what I need. His thrusts become harder, faster, more demanding, driving me toward the precipice.
He lets go of my wrist, and my hands fly to his back, my nails digging in, a desperate, aching need to mark him, to claim him as he's claiming me.
The growl of pleasure rumbles through his chest and straight through me. His pace is relentless, possessive.
Big, hard hands move to my thighs, lifting my legs and hooking my knees over his elbows, spreading me wide. The new angle is intense, almost too much, the pleasure a sharp, exquisite ache.
He's fucking me into the mattress, a raw, primal act that leaves me breathless, aching for more.
Giovanni kisses me, a hungry, demanding kiss that I return with a desperate need of my own.
My world narrows to him. His body, his scent, the feel of him inside me. Nothing else exists. Nothing else matters.
He brings a hand between us, rubbing my clit as he continues to pound into me.
That’s it. That’s all it takes.
I scream as I come, a violent, convulsive orgasm that rips through me. The world shatters, a kaleidoscope of color and light and sound. My body convulses, my inner muscles clamping down on him, wave after wave of pleasure crashing over me, leaving me a boneless, breathless mess.
I’m no longer a person. I’m a body. I’m a vessel. I am being well and truly fucked.
Through the haze, he's still moving, still thrusting, still chasing his own release. He's close, I can feel it in the tension in his body, in the way his breath hitches, in the desperate, hungry thrusts of his hips.
He looks down at me with intense eyes. "Mia," he growls.
The word sends shivers through me. Mine.
"Come for me, Gio," I breathe against his lips. "Come inside me."
With a guttural cry, he thrusts into me one last time, a deep, powerful surge that buries him to the hilt. He stills, a shudder running through him, and then he’s coming, a hot, pulsing rush that fills me, marks me, claims me as his.
He collapses on top of me, his body a heavy, welcome weight, his breath a warm, ragged gust against my neck. I wrap my arms around him, my legs still locked around his waist, holding him close, not wanting to let him go.
We lie tangled in the sheets, our bodies slick with sweat, our hearts beating a wild, erratic rhythm against our ribs.
Slowly, our breathing slows, and his weight is getting a little too heavy.
As if he can read my mind, he stirs, rolling onto his side, pulling me with him. His arms drape over my waist, his leg thrown possessively over mine.
I snuggle into him, my head on his chest, listening to the steady, comforting rhythm of his heart. His fingers trace lazy patterns on my back, a slow, soothing caress.
The exhaustion hits me all at once, a wave so intense it's a struggle to keep my eyes open.
The bedroom door is ajar, letting in the afternoon light, and I can see the dust motes dancing in its golden beams. The air is thick with the scent of sex, a sweet, musky aroma that's both arousing and comforting.
Giovanni's arm tightens around me, pulling me closer, and a wave of contentment washes over me.
This is where I'm supposed to be.
This is home.
A thought, unwelcome and intrusive, pops into my head.
Dinner.
My eyes fly open. I bolt upright, a gasp of horror escaping my lips.
"The lamb!"
Giovani startles. "What?"
"The lamb, the beans," I say, my heart thudding against my ribs. "How long have they been in the oven?"
He stares at me, a look of confusion on his face, then understanding dawns. A slow, lazy grin spreads across his face.
"They'll be fine," he says.
I am not convinced. "I have to check on them."
"It's lamb. It's forgiving," he says, trying to pull me back down.
"I am not serving a half-assed lamb with a sangiovese," I say firmly, finally breaking free from his arms. "No amount of sex can change that."
"I'm willing to take that bet," he says, reaching for me again.
I scramble out of bed before he can pull me back in—especially since he definitely can distract me with sex—and grab the discarded clothes off the floor. It takes a moment to realize they’re not mine. I look around, confused, before remembering that they’re scattered all over the kitchen.
My face heats.
"I'm not going down there naked," I say, looking around.
"I don't see a problem with that," he says, reclined on the pillow, his hands behind his head, a predatory smile on his face.
A shirt is draped over a chair. I grab it. It's his, and it's huge on me. But it smells like him. I pull it on, the hem falling to my mid-thigh, and button a few before marching out of the room.
Behind me, I hear, “che donna” in an exasperated tone and have to stifle a laugh.