Chapter Eleven
Victoria
My mind is a fog. A warm, hazy, blissful fog.
My body is heavy and languid.
I have never felt so... relaxed.
So... sated.
I have never had an orgasm like that.
Scratch that. I have never had two orgasms like that.
I've had orgasms before. Good orgasms. Even great orgasms.
But this...
This was something else entirely.
This was a nuclear bomb.
My body detonating from the inside out, leaving nothing but a soft, glowing, pulsing afterglow.
And the man responsible for it is currently looking down at me with an expression that tells me he isn't nearly done yet.
The dark hunger in his eyes hasn’t been slaked. At all.
If anything, it’s been sharpened.
"You have a dangerous smile," he says.
My lips curve up into a wider smile.
I can't help it.
I feel... powerful.
A feeling I am not used to feeling in bed with a man.
A feeling I definitely wouldn’t have expected in bed with this man.
"Do I?" I ask, my own voice a husky whisper.
He leans down and brushes his lips against mine. "You do."
I shift my legs, a subtle invitation. He is still pressed between them, heavy and hot and so, so hard.
I want him.
I want all of him.
"Then I should be careful," I murmur against his lips. "I wouldn't want to give you the wrong idea."
He laughs, a low, rumbling sound that vibrates through my entire body.
"I think we are well past that, cara," he says. "And I am a man who knows exactly what he wants."
I like the way he says that, the way he calls me cara.
"Say something in Italian," I say softly.
I do not know where this request comes from. It is a whim, a sudden, desperate need to hear him speak in that beautiful, musical language.
He looks down at me, a slow, wicked smile spreading across his face.
“Sei bellissima così,” he murmurs.
The words roll over my skin, leaving shivers in their wake.
I do not know what they mean.
But my body reacts anyway.
A shiver moves through me, deep and uncontrollable, and he feels it. His mouth curves against my ear.
“That,” I whisper, “was completely unfair.”
“It means you are beautiful like this.”
Oh.
My throat tightens.
Not because it is poetic or soft or romantic.
Though it is.
No, it’s because he’s not just flattering me.
He is simply telling the truth. That is how he works.
I turn my face toward his, and his mouth hovers a breath from mine.
“More,” I breathe.
“Voglio sentirti supplicare.”
The words feel like a hand between my thighs.
I suck in a sharp breath. “What does that mean?”
His mouth brushes the shell of my ear.
“I want to hear you beg.”
Oh God.
My entire body clenches.
A low sound rumbles in his chest, and his hand slides down my side, over my hip, gripping me just hard enough to make me arch beneath him.
His mouth moves lower, to my jaw, to my throat, where my pulse is beating far too fast.
“Voglio sentire la tua fica stringersi intorno a me.”
I have no idea what he said.
But the words, spoken in that deep, melodic voice, wash over me, a caress hotter than any touch.
I am panting again, my body already responding to the promise in his tone, even if I don't know the words.
My hands slide into his hair, the strands soft and thick. I guide his mouth back to mine, and I kiss him with a desperation that is almost frightening.
I am not a woman who begs.
But for this… for him… I think I could be anything.
I feel the blunt head of his cock press against the entrance to my pussy, and we both still.
He is hot, hard, and impossibly big.
My breath catches in my throat.
He is looking down at me, his eyes dark and intense, searching mine.
There is no smugness in his expression now.
None of the arrogance I have come to expect.
There is only a raw, naked need that mirrors my own.
He grips my thigh and wraps it around his waist, opening me wider.
But he doesn't push inside. He just waits.
My body is screaming for him to move, to fill me, to end this sweet, terrible ache.
But I want to savor this moment.
This final, fragile second before the end of the world.
I look up at him.
His dark hair is falling over his forehead. His jaw is tight, the muscles in his throat working as he swallows. His eyes are fixed on mine, and in their depths, I see a hunger that is almost frightening.
I see myself reflected in them—flushed and wanton, my eyes dark with a matching desire.
My hands slide up his arms, over the hard muscles of his shoulders, and into the soft, thick hair at the nape of his neck.
I know what he wants, what he’s waiting for.
He told me himself. In Italian and English.
“Please,” I whisper.
It is not the desperate plea from before.
This is a choice. A willful surrender. A gift.
“Ancora,” he says with a low growl.
I don't need the translation.
I see it in his eyes.
Again.
“Please, Mario,” I say, my voice stronger now. “I need you.”
It's the truth.
I have never needed anyone.
I have never allowed myself to.
But with this man, I have no choice.
My body knows what it wants. What it needs.
My mind is finally catching up.
"I need you inside me," I say, breathless and wanton. "Fuck me. I need you to finally fuck me. Please. I can't take any more."
The intense look on his face steals what little breath I have left.
“Brava ragazza,” he says, his voice rough.
“What does that mean?”
His mouth lowers until it hovers over mine.
“Good girl.”
My entire body goes liquid beneath him.
He doesn’t waste another second.
Mario reaches between us and grips, guiding his cock to my entrance. Then, he pushes inside. Just an inch.
And my entire world narrows to that single point of contact.
The stretch is exquisite.
A perfect, painful pleasure that steals the very air from my lungs.
He is still, giving my body time to adjust to him, watching my face intently, as if memorizing my every reaction.
And I am grateful because he is big.
So much bigger than I imagined.
And I have imagined.
A lot.
He starts to move again, pushing into me.
My hands tighten in his hair, my breath hitching with each inch he claims.
My body stretches to accommodate him, a slight burn that quickly melts into a deep, aching pleasure.
He pushes in deeper, then deeper still, until he is fully sheathed, buried to the hilt.
My breath escapes in a rush. The feeling of being so completely, utterly full is overwhelming.
I can feel him everywhere.
Inside me, around me, over me.
He is a part of me.
He holds still again, letting me adjust, letting my body accept the delicious invasion.
I am a trembling, quivering mess, conquered by this man and his cock.
He lowers his head and presses a soft, almost tender kiss to my forehead.
It is a surprisingly gentle gesture from a man who has been anything but.
“Such a perfect pussy. All tight and hot and wet. Just for me.”
His crude words make my inner walls clench around him.
He groans, a low, guttural sound, and I can feel the vibration of it deep inside me.
“Don't do that,” he warns, his voice a strained whisper. “Or this will be over before it begins.”
I can't help the smug smile that tugs at my lips.
A man who has absolute control in every other aspect of his life is feeling almost as desperate as I am right now.
It is intoxicating to know.
I clench around him again, deliberately this time.
He curses under his breath, a string of Italian words I do not understand.
His hands slide down to my hips, his grip tightening, an unspoken command.
I know what he wants.
He starts to move, slow and deep, each stroke a dragging friction that lights up every nerve ending in my body. Slowly at first, a shallow rocking motion that sends ripples of pleasure through my entire body.
My head falls back, my eyes closing as I focus on the sensation.
I have never felt so alive.
So... seen.
So... possessed.
I am no longer in control.
I am not in charge.
He is.
And it is the most liberating feeling in the world.
I give myself over to it completely. To him completely.
My hips lift to meet his, matching his rhythm, my body taking over where my mind has left off.
The pace is maddening.
It’s not enough.
I need more.
I need him to lose control.
I need him to take me with the same wild desperation that I am feeling.
"Please," I gasp. "More."
He doesn't answer.
He just starts to move faster.
His hips snap forward, burying himself deep inside me with a force that steals my breath.
I cry out, my back arching off the bed. My hands fly to his shoulders, my nails digging into his skin. I am no longer holding back.
I am writhing beneath him, my body moving with his in a primal, ancient dance.
My other leg wraps around his waist, opening myself to him completely, giving him everything.
"Harder," I gasp.
He growls and slams into me again.
The force of it jolts my entire body.
"Is this what you want?" he asks, his voice a dark, velvety command that sends a shiver down my spine. "Is this what you wished for in your dreams? To be fucked hard, fast, deep?"
I can only moan in response, my mind too fogged with pleasure to form a coherent sentence. He doesn't wait for an answer.
He continues to move inside me, deep, hard thrusts that push me closer and closer to the edge.
"Did you touch yourself, Victoria?" he asks.
My eyes fly open. I stare at him, my breath catching.
His thrusts slow for a beat, the movement clearly meant to punish.
"Tell me," he demands. "Did you touch yourself while you thought about me? While you laid in this bed at night? Did you think about my hands on you? My mouth?"
My face burns with shame, but there is something else there, too. Something dark and thrilling.
He wants to know.
He wants to hear it.
The thought is so arousing that I can feel my inner walls clench around him.
He stops.
I cry out in protest. "No. Don't stop."
"Tell me," he repeats, his voice dangerously calm. "I want to hear you say it."
"Yes," I gasp. "Yes."
"Yes, what?"
He starts moving again, but the pace is slow. Torturous. A deep, grinding that is more frustrating than not moving at all.
He is making me wait. Again.
How does he have so much willpower? I can't think. I can barely form a coherent thought, let alone string together a sentence.