Chapter 18 Besiana
Besiana
The restaurant sits on a crowded sidewalk in the middle of Manhattan. It's exactly the kind of place that promises privacy and delivers spectacle. Domenico ignored our table by the window as much as possible during dinner. He’s not ignoring it now.
He presses me against it, kissing me hard. I'm light-headed from the kiss. My dress, white and indecent, has twisted up my legs, and the look in his eyes is doing the same to the rest of me.
I say, “Let’s go home.”
He pulls back a little, only a little, and I already miss him.
“I have a better idea,” he says.
Dom’s hand grips mine, possessive and urgent, as he leads me down the block.
There’s so much noise and light—yellow taxis splashing through puddles, red taillights stopped in a line, and the flash of traffic signals as they change.
The air has a chill that I can feel through my dress, but my skin is hot, electric.
The city smells like leather and asphalt and power, and the sidewalk is packed with men in suits, women in heels.
The women stare as Dom cuts a path through the crowd.
He’s used to this; I’m used to this. But tonight I don’t like it.
I don’t want to share him with their eyes.
Not tonight. Not after he just kissed me like that.
“What’s this amazing idea?” I ask, teasing, feeling lighter than ever.
“You’ll see, cara.”
We’re two doors down before I realize where we’re headed. A sleek black awning. A lobby full of granite and glass. A discreet brass sign over a doorman in a green wool coat: the Aman Hotel.
Domenico strides to the front desk. A gold band sparkles on the wrist of a girl with a ballerina bun and a French accent. She knows who we are.
“You have a reservation, Mister Rosetti?”
“Domenico,” I say, shifting my weight and crossing my arms. “You made a reservation?” My voice has a cool edge, but really I am a little in awe. In this place, last-minute means next month. Not for us, apparently.
He pulls me against him, my back to his chest, his hands on my hips. It’s not an answer to my question, but it’s better than one. “No reservation. But I’ll take the penthouse suite.”
“Monsieur, the penthouse is already booked—”
“Now,” he says, pulling a thick stack of bills from his wallet. The girl in the bun smiles professionally, but her eyes light up.
“Let me get the key for you right away.”
I try not to shiver as the chill from the street settles back into my skin. I try not to gasp as his breath, warm, flares against the side of my neck. It’s a small sound, but he hears it and pulls me tighter.
The elevator doors close on us. The lobby vanishes, then the second floor, then the third.
I’m done with teasing. I pull his face to mine.
I want more. He gives me more, lifting me against him, tasting me, tasting the side of my neck, right where he knows he’ll make me crazy.
My legs wrap around him, tight. His hands tangle in my hair. I’m losing my mind.
I imagine the suite will be nice, but the elevator is nicer.
It’s my favorite place we’ve ever been. I press against him and think I might die.
I’ve wanted this forever, and I’m finally going to have it.
He has no idea what he’s done, how dangerous I am.
The rules have changed. He can’t touch me like this and expect to keep his clothes.
I slide a hand between us and unbutton his jacket, then push it over his shoulders and onto the elevator floor.
His shirt is next, but not patiently. I’ve wanted to put my lips on his chest every night we’ve been sharing a bed—platonically, by mutual agreement, which just seems fucking ridiculous now—and I’m not about to wait a moment longer.
I pop the buttons with my fingers and teeth, ripping it open and pressing my mouth, open and hot, against his skin.
“Besiana,” he says, rough, hoarse. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him like that.
The elevator dings, and he pulls back, only for a second.
He shrugs the ruined shirt from his shoulders and grins in a way that would scare anyone else.
But I’m not anyone else. I love it, and he knows I love it, and I’m sick of trying to hide myself.
Finally, it feels like I’ve found someone I don’t need to hide from.
I’m so absorbed in his body, that I almost miss the whole penthouse thing as we spill into it.
Dom’s bare chest, all lean muscle and skin, is as perfect as I’ve always imagined.
Every time I’ve thought of it has been exactly like this.
His ruined shirt is puddled on the floor, white and crisp and tailored and torn, and I can’t believe I did that, except I can, because it’s how I feel right now.
It’s how I’ve felt ever since he pushed me to my knees to punish me with his cock in my mouth.
He traps me against the nearest wall, his eyes as fierce and hard as his cock.
His mouth is soft, wet, everywhere, then he’s trailing kisses along my collarbone, then he’s at my thighs.
My wicked, sharp heels fall off my feet and onto the floor.
He slides his hands up my legs, pushing my skirt up, up, up.
He kisses a line up my leg, a deliberate line of fire, and my head falls back against the wall.
My eyes shut, and I lose track of everything.
“Dom,” I say, arching, the wall hard and cool against my shoulders. “Dom.”
He doesn’t answer. His face is level with my core.
The fabric of my panties shifts aside, and his fingers slide inside me, working me until I can’t stand it.
Until I can’t stand. I clutch at his hair, pulling it in great handfuls, pulling him in tighter.
His other hand presses against my hip, bruising, insistent.
He wants me still. But I’m shaking, wild.
I never thought it could be like this. I’ve never let it be like this with anyone before, so wild and reckless.
“More,” I say because I am weak and greedy and can’t think of any reason not to ask.
His fingers thrust inside me, harder and faster, until my whole world tilts and spins.
I’m breathless and helpless, clinging to him and catching around him, and I’m so close to shattering I’m scared he might stop.
But he doesn't stop. He pushes me further, my body so tight around his fingers, bringing me higher, closer, my mind a wild, dizzy blur.
Then he’s pulling his fingers out of me. Pulling out slowly enough to drive me insane, slowly enough that I think I might die from it.
And then he’s standing, tall and broad and perfect, his eyes fierce as they meet mine. He holds my gaze, unreadable, then brings his fingers to my lips.
I part them, wet and wanting, taking him in, tasting myself. He watches me, intense but silent, as I wrap my tongue around his skin.
Then his mouth is on mine again, his tongue slipping against the tips of his own fingers, a wicked, delicious tangle that leaves me breathless.
“Down you go, husband,” I tell him, exerting gentle pressure on his shoulders and, to my surprise, he obeys.
In a moment, he’s on his knees again, right where I need him.
His mouth is where his fingers were, a slow stroke of fire that consumes me.
He licks my clit, toys with it, not giving me enough pressure until my hands bury themselves in his hair and push.
There. His fingers join his tongue, vibrating against me.
My back arches and lifts from the wall. And I’m burning and lost and alive.
He flicks his tongue, rough and precise, and my world is him.
He’s greedy for me, I can tell by his moans, greedy for the way I shudder and come undone, for the way I can’t help but call his name. I shatter again and again and again, and he loves it, I love it, and I love that I love it.
It’s almost too much, the way he works me.
The way he wins. The way I let him. He pulls away and looks at me, shaking and raw.
There’s no distance, not now. Not anymore.
He’s under my skin, and he knows it, and he’s so damn pleased I almost want to cry.
Keeping my distance from him has been like fighting to breathe.
I’ve never been allowed to be this way—reckless and wanting and loved. But now, with him, I am. I’m free.
He's up on his feet in a flash, pulling me into his arms and nuzzling my neck with that stubble of his. His lips trail fire along my skin, and I whimper a little, still sensitive from my climax. He chuckles, low and intimate.
"Can you handle more?" he whispers against my earlobe. I shudder.
His hands go to the small of my back, sliding the zipper of my dress down ever so slowly, letting it pool around my feet.
Now I'm bare to him except for my lace panties.
The tension is deliciously unbearable; every second that goes by makes me want him even more.
And he knows it; he's taking his sweet time on purpose.
His fingers trace the curve of my hips before he hooks a thumb into the waistband and tugs them down.
"Beautiful," he murmurs against my lips, his body a hard wall of muscle against mine.
I unclasp his pants, pushing them down along with his briefs, all in one hurried motion. His hardness springs free, and I gasp at the sight of him, standing tall and proud before me. He’s beautiful in a way that’s almost sinful.
Finally, he stands before me completely naked. His body is a sculpture of lean muscle, every inch hard and smooth under my gaze. But it’s the way he looks at me that really undoes me.
His hands fall to his sides as he looks at me, eyes dark and heavy with desire. He's silent, just drinking me in, and a rush of adrenaline surges through my veins like a hit of the strongest drug. I revel in it, in him, in the power I hold over this man who dominates every room he enters.
Slowly, he steps towards me, his gaze never leaving mine. His hand comes up to cup my cheek while his thumb strokes my lower lip gently. The touch is light but it sends shivers down my spine making goosebumps rise on my skin.
I reach up to touch his face, tracing the sharp line of his jaw before moving down to the firm planes of his chest.
"Dom...." I gasp when his fingers trail down to my neck and then my collarbone, tracing each line and curve.
He chuckles at the sound of his name on my lips, the sound deep and resonant in the quiet room. "Patience, cara," he murmurs, dipping his head to capture my lips in a searing kiss.
His tongue brushes against mine in a slow dance that has me spiraling into a heady whirlpool of desire. The taste of him is intoxicating, and my fingers dig into his back, desperate for more contact.
He breaks away slowly, leaving me breathless and wanting. His hands roam over my body as he steps back, taking me in from head to toe. His eyes are lust-filled, his gaze devouring every inch of my exposed skin.
"You're exquisite," he confesses, his voice low and rough. "Mine."
His possessiveness sends a frisson of excitement through me. A small part of me is terrified by how much I love it, how much I want to be claimed by him. But the larger part, the part that's come alive in his arms tonight, revels in it.
His fingers trace over my curves with a reverence that takes my breath away.
Every touch is firm yet careful — as if he’s afraid that he might break me.
His hands continue their exploration, moving down my body, along my sides, over the curve of my waist. He’s taking his time, teasing me with every touch, every kiss.
His palm finds my breast and he strokes the hardened peak with his thumb, his touch feather-light and maddeningly slow.
I moan into his mouth until he dips his head to replace his thumb with his mouth. The sensation of his lips on my skin is electrifying and I can’t suppress the whimper that comes out of my mouth as he takes me in deeper.
He leads me towards the bedroom — a sprawling space dominated by an oversized four-poster bed beneath an ornate chandelier.
His hands grip my hips, lifting me up off the ground. I instinctively wrap my legs around his waist, pressing my body against his in a way that makes us both groan. He carries me over to the bed, laying me down gently before covering my body with his own.
The feeling of him against me is intoxicating. His hardness nudges at my entrance, making me whimper in need. But he remains still, capturing my gaze with his own. His eyes are so intense; they're nearly black with desire. And yet, there's a gentleness there that makes my heart stutter.
"I love you," he murmurs against my lips before thrusting into me.
The words hit me harder than I expect. I gasp at the intensity of them, at the intensity of him filling me completely. Tears prick at the corner of my eyes as I look up at him. The response is on my tongue, but it doesn’t flow out naturally, so I swallow him in another kiss.
And then he's moving again, and God, it's ecstasy.
He begins to move, the rhythm slow and measured at first. His thrusts are perfectly timed, each one sending a jolt of pleasure radiating through me.
The sensation of him inside me is dizzying — a delicious combination of pleasure and a hint of pain that has me tilting my head back in bliss.
His hand finds mine, our fingers entwining as he continues to move within me.
I move with him, my body arching up to meet his every thrust. He's buried inside of me, so deep that I can feel him in every nerve ending. My hands roam over his back, tracing the lines of his muscles as he moves.
His groans fill the room, the sound raw and desperate. He's holding nothing back now, his body hammering into mine as he chases his release. I can feel him unraveling, his movements growing erratic and wild. And then he's there, spilling into me with a harsh cry of my name.
His hand slips between our bodies, finding my sensitive nub. He toys with it, adding to the pleasure that's already threatening to consume me.
"Zemer," I moan out, the Albanian term slipping from me as I cling to him, my nails digging into the hard muscles of his back as every muscle in my body contracts.
Domenico is buried deep, lodged under my skin, and I never want him to leave.