Chapter Seventeen #2
I take him again, opening my throat so he can use me to get what he wants, what he needs.
He continues to move, his hips moving rhythmically, his hands in my hair, guiding my movements.
He is close. I can feel it in the tensing of his muscles, in the desperate sounds he's making.
He pulls back, and I can feel the loss of him like a physical blow.
I whimper at the loss, my eyes finding his. I lean forward to take him in again, but he holds fast to my hair.
He's looking down at me, a dark, possessive look in his eyes.
"Roberto," I say, breathless. "More."
"You want more?" he asks hungrily.
I nod.
"Come here," he says, pulling me up to a sitting position.
I think he's going to flip us around and take me, but he doesn't. He guides me onto my back, so my neck is supported by the arm of the sofa.
He gets off the couch and walks around to the side of it, looking down at me with my head hanging off of it.
His hard cock is jutting out above me, making my mouth water.
"You want more?" he asks again. He wraps a hand around the base of himself, pumping himself.
"I want everything," I say.
"Tap three times if you need me to stop," he says.
I don't process his words at first.
"Olivia, look at me," he says seriously.
I do.
"Did you hear me?"
I nod.
"Repeat my words."
"Umm." I'm breathing hard, but I manage to get them out. "Tap three times if I need you to stop."
"Good girl," he says.
Understanding dawns on me. He's going to take what he wants.
I'm so wet, I can't stop squirming and rubbing my thighs together.
He touches the tip of his cock to my lips.
"Open."
I do. Eagerly.
He slides himself into my mouth, and he is the one who sets the pace. He doesn't thrust, not at first, letting me adjust to the new angle, to the new depth.
My hands go to the sofa cushions, gripping the fabric so hard my knuckles are white.
"Relax," he murmurs, stroking my throat gently.
I take a deep breath, trying to obey. To trust him.
He pushes in a little deeper, and I have to fight the urge to gag. He stops, giving me a moment to adjust.
"You okay?" he asks.
I can't speak. Not with him in my throat. But I can answer. I relax my jaw, a silent signal that I'm okay.
He seems to understand. He pulls back slightly, then pushes in again, a little deeper this time.
He continues this slow, steady invasion, pushing my limits, testing my boundaries. I can feel the tension in him, the control he's exerting to keep from losing himself completely.
He's watching me, his eyes dark and intense. He's looking for any sign of distress, any sign that I want him to stop.
He won't find one.
I'm more than okay. I'm soaring. There's a freedom in this surrender, a pleasure in giving up control.
My tongue darts out, swirling around him, tasting him. I can feel a fresh wave of wetness between my legs. I'm so turned on I can barely think.
He pushes in a little deeper, and this time, he's blocked my airway completely. I can feel the head of his cock deep in my throat.
I can't breathe.
Panic flares in my chest, hot and bright.
Roberto holds himself there for a long, terrifying moment. He groans, a raw, primal sound that is pure pleasure. It encourages me to hold out a little longer.
Then he pulls out, and I drag in a desperate, ragged breath.
"Breathe easy," he says gently. "You're doing so well."
I preen under his praise.
He slides into my mouth again, not as deep this time, letting me catch my breath.
"Again?" he asks.
I nod, my body trembling.
I try to relax my body and throat for him as he pushes in again, a little deeper this time. Then he pulls out, not quite giving me what I want.
He continues this rhythm, a slow, steady pump that is both a torture and a pleasure.
I tilt back, hanging my head farther off the sofa, indicating I want more. I want him to use me again, take control.
He doesn't hesitate.
He pushes in, deeper and deeper, until he's buried in my throat again. I can feel the stretch, the burn, the glorious, overwhelming fullness.
I can feel the last of my control shattering. I'm a vessel for his pleasure, a toy for him to play with. And I love it. I want more. I want everything.
He holds himself there for a moment, then pulls out.
He doesn't give me much of a chance to catch my breath.
He slides back in, a slow, deliberate invasion. I'm relaxed now, my body accepting him.
He begins to move in earnest, a steady, powerful rhythm that has my head spinning. He's taking what he wants, using my throat the way he used my pussy.
And I love it.
He pushes a thumb into my mouth alongside himself, forcing my jaw open wider.
"Tap three times if you want me to stop," he reminds me.
I would never. I want this. I want him.
He pushes even deeper, so deep that nothing else matters.
I can't breathe. But I don't panic. Not this time.
I trust him.
My body is humming with a current that is both terrifying and exhilarating. I'm floating, my mind quiet, my body a slave to the pleasure he's giving me. The pleasure he’s taking from me.
He's moving faster now, his hips driving into me.
My hands find my breasts, my fingers tweaking my nipples. The sensation is a shock, a jolt of pleasure that is almost painful.
I slide one hand down my stomach, between my legs. I'm so wet I can feel it on my thighs. I rub my clit, a slow, steady circle that has me arching off the sofa.
He notices. Of course, he notices.
He pulls back slightly, just enough to breathe lightly.
"Did I say you could touch yourself?" he asks.
I don't stop. I can't.
He pulls out fully, leaving me gasping.
"No—" I start, protesting the sudden emptiness.
"Naughty girl," he says, a dark, possessive glint in his eyes.
He comes around to stand in front of the sofa and grabs me, forcing me up to my knees, spreading my legs wide. My hands are gripping the back of the sofa as I prepare for him to thrust into me.
But he doesn't.
Instead, I feel a sharp sting on my ass. He's spanked me. The pain is a shock, but it's followed by a wave of pleasure that is so intense, I immediately come.
I cry out, my body convulsing, my vision going white.
He spanks me again, harder this time, driving my pleasure higher.
I'm lost in a haze of pleasure and pain, my body a slave to the sensations.
Then I feel his fingers at my entrance. He sinks one finger into me, then another. He curls them, finding that spot that makes me see stars.
He brings me to the edge again, then pulls back.
"Please, Roberto," I sob. "Please."
"Please what?" he asks.
"Let me come. Please, let me come," I beg.
He pulls me up, my back against his chest.
"You just came, didn't you? From a little spanking," he whispers in my ear.
"I want more," I say, my voice hoarse.
I am shameless. I am desperate.
"Is that what you want?" he asks. He grabs me by the hair. "You want me to fuck you?"
I nod, unable to speak.
He pushes me back down onto the sofa, this time on my hands and knees. He enters me from behind in one smooth, powerful stroke.
I cry out, my hands fisting in the sofa cushions.
He sets a punishing pace, his hips driving into me with a force that has the sofa sliding and slamming into the wall with each thrust. The sound is a raw, primal rhythm that echoes in the quiet room.
"You're mine," he growls. "Say it."
"I'm yours," I sob. "Only yours. Mark me again."
He reaches around and finds my clit. He rubs it in time with his thrusts, pushing me closer and closer to the edge.
"Come for me," he demands. "Now."
I shatter, a violent, shattering orgasm that rips through me. A scream tears from my throat.
My body convulses, my vision going black. I can feel my pussy clenching around him, trying to milk him for all he's worth.
He continues to thrust, drawing out my pleasure until I'm a boneless mess.
I feel him pull out. I make a sound of protest, but it's cut short when he flips me onto my back.
He kneels over me, his hand on his cock, pumping himself. He's looking down at me, a dark, possessive look in his eyes.
"You want me to mark you? Claim you?" he asks.
"Yes," I say hoarsely.
He's looking at my breasts, my stomach, the mark already blooming on my side. He's looking for a place to leave another one.
He's going to come on me.
The thought sends a fresh wave of arousal through me.
He positions himself over me, his hand moving faster.
"Look at me," he commands.
I do. My gaze locks with his. I can see the desire in his eyes, the hunger. The need to possess me, to claim me, to make me his.
He jerks his cock faster now, his breathing more ragged. He's close.
Impossibly, my body responds with fresh desire, a wave of heat washing over me.
He's watching me. He's watching the desire in my eyes.
"Please," I whimper, my body arching towards him, silently begging for his release. "Please, Roberto."
He groans, a raw, primal sound that is pure pleasure. His body goes taut, a string pulled tight.
He comes.
The hot, sticky ropes of his release land on my breasts, my stomach, my pussy.
I cry out, my body arching as a smaller, but no less intense, orgasm rips through me. It feels like a blessing.
He collapses beside me, both of us breathing heavily. The room is silent except for the sound of our ragged breaths.
He's looking at me, an unreadable expression on his face. He reaches out and wipes a drop of his come from my breast. He brings it to my lips, and I open my mouth, sucking it off his finger.
I'm covered in him and feel utterly, completely claimed.
I'm a mess. A sticky, sweaty, satisfied mess. And I've never felt more beautiful.
He raises himself up, looking down at the mess he's made of me. There's a dark, possessive satisfaction in his eyes.
"Mine," he says, his voice a low growl.
I can only nod, my throat too tight to form words. He leans down, and for a moment, I think he's going to kiss me.
But he doesn't.
He gets off the sofa, and my heart sinks.
Is he leaving?
But he walks to the small bar in the corner of the office. He comes back with a glass of water and a damp towel.
He cleans me gently, his touch soft now. The predator has retreated, leaving only the man.
My chest aches with a fierce, protective love. I want to wrap him up and keep him safe. I want to tell him that he doesn't have to be strong all the time. That he can lean on me.
But I know he won't. He's a man who carries his burdens alone. A man who has been taught that vulnerability is a weakness.
Again, it occurs to me that I should feel ashamed. I should feel used. I should feel regret.
I feel none of those things.
I feel safe.
Protected. Cherished.
He finishes cleaning me, then pulls his jacket back over me.
I reach out and grab his arm. "Don't go," I say.
He looks down at me with a conflict in his eyes that almost takes my breath away.
"I'm not going anywhere," he says softly. "I won't leave you alone tonight."
He pulls me into a sitting position, his hands gentle.
"Can you stand?" he asks.
I nod, and he helps me to my feet. My legs are shaky, and I lean against him for support.
My clothes are a mess, scattered on the floor. His are, too.
I look at my desk, at the papers scattered around it. There's a small stack of files still neatly arranged on one corner that I was going to get to before I left for the night.
It feels like a lifetime ago.
Roberto follows my gaze. "We should get you dressed," he says.
I nod, my throat too tight to speak. I feel a sudden, overwhelming rush of shyness. A blush rises on my cheeks, a stark contrast to the wanton woman who was begging him to mark her just moments ago.
Oddly, I want to tell him to turn around while I get dressed, which makes no sense.
He seems to sense my shyness, but he helps me get back into my jeans. I wince as the denim brushes the tender skin of my ass. He only spanked me a couple of times, but I think I'll have bruises tomorrow.
A reminder of our night together.
The thought sends a fresh wave of arousal through me.
I reach for my bra, but Roberto stops me.
"Let me," he says.
He stands in front of me, his gaze taking in my bare breasts. I can feel myself blushing again, but I don't cover myself. I let him look. His eyes slide over to the mark on my side, the one already starting to turn a shade of purple.
He reaches out and gently traces the outline of the mark with a finger. It sends a shiver down my spine.
"Did I hurt you?" he asks, his voice laced with concern.
I shake my head. "No," I say softly. "I liked it."
His eyes darken. "You liked being marked?"
I nod. "I liked being marked by you."
He seems to accept that. He leans down and presses a soft kiss to the mark, then another to my shoulder.
Instead of helping me put my bra on, he picks up my sweater and pulls it over my head. It's intimate, this act of getting dressed. Somehow more intimate than the primal sex we just had.
He's quiet as he helps me dress. He doesn't try to talk. He doesn't try to explain. He's just present, a steady, calming presence that is exactly what I need.
When I'm dressed, he picks up my shoes and kneels in front of me. He takes my foot in his hand, his thumb gently stroking my arch. He slides my shoe on, then repeats the process with the other foot.
My breath catches in my throat. This simple act of service, of devotion, is more powerful than any words he could say. My throat is tight with unshed tears.
I watch him as he gets dressed. He moves with an easy grace that is captivating. He's a predator, a man of power and influence, but in this moment, he's just a man. A man who is as affected by what happened between us as I am.
When he's dressed, he walks over to my desk and picks up the files I was looking at earlier. He puts them in my bag, along with my laptop and a few other things.
He turns back to me and must see the wetness in my eyes. He sets the bag down and comes to me.
"I know," he says reassuringly. "This is all very new to you, and it's going to feel like a lot. But I'm not going anywhere, okay?" He uses a finger to wipe away the tear I didn't know had fallen.
I nod, my breath hitching as I try to hold in my tears. I am overwhelmed by everything I am feeling for him. The attraction, the lust, the tenderness, the overwhelming need to be near him.
He picks up my bag and takes my hand. "Let's go home."
I put my hand in his, trusting him once again.