Salvatore

11. Ivy

11

IVY

I tense every muscle, fighting against the heavenly shudder attempting to take over my body. He’s right—I am trying to seduce him. But it wasn’t entirely for information. The alcohol is seriously meddling with my libido and having a blatant disregard for my safety.

“Do you want to be fucked, troublemaker?”

I clench my legs against the throb between my thighs.

“Because I will fuck you,” he bites out, “but it won’t help your cause. I’m not a man that can be ruled by my dick.”

I believe him.

I can see it in his eyes. In his tightly wound composure. Sleeping with him won’t help win me any favors. It will probably do the exact opposite. So why the hell is my body amped to proceed?

I clamp my mouth shut, my teeth digging into my bottom lip.

I don’t want to fuck him. Well, I don’t want to want to fuck him. If that’s even a thing. Goddamn it, I definitely went too hard on the liquor.

If Gabriel knew I was here, with his enemy, he’d kill me. The man who was supposed to be my main source of protection would happily take my life. He’s been wanting an excuse for years. And here I am, cementing the death sentence.

“Cat got your tongue?” Salvatore’s hand finds my jaw, holding me hostage, his calloused palm grazing my skin. “We both know you’re not the silent type.”

He’s right. I’m not.

My head is filled with a million things I itch to blurt. Hundreds of insults and snarky retorts. But there are compliments, too. I want to tell him how good his fingers feel. How his gaze melts through me.

“I think you should back away slowly.” I swallow over the ache in my throat. “You’ve got game, but there’s no way you could live up to the vibe you’re projecting.”

“You’re challenging me now?”

“I’m attempting to save your ego. I’m not a shy critiquer.”

“I don’t get complaints.”

“I’m not surprised. It’d be difficult for any woman to give feedback when they were bound, gagged, and praying for you to spare their life.”

His free hand grips my knee, slightly widening the stance of my legs, testing the limits of my dress. “I think you keep telling yourself I force women because it makes you feel better about how much you want me. You need to convince yourself I’m tricking you somehow. That you’re not in control. But you can scoot off that bench at any time, mi bella reina . I won’t stop you.”

I keep my expression impassive as he glides the roughened pad of his thumb over my bottom lip, slow, deliberate.

It feels dirty, and wrong, and I don’t want it to stop. The urge to latch on and suck is cloying. Bone deep.

“You only want me because I’m your enemy’s daughter,” I counter. “It’s a power play.”

“I wanted you well before I discovered your unfortunate lineage.”

“Well, the feeling isn’t mutual.” I sit taller, confident in my lie.

“Is that the response you’re sticking with?” He remains in place, that thumb still slowly sweeping my lower lip in an agonizing tease as his dark eyes murmur sordid promises. “If that’s the way you want to play it…”

He lowers his hand and steps back.

My heart nosedives, the withdrawal of contact leaving me bereft.

What the hell is he doing to me? My pulse races. My chest tightens.

I shouldn’t be doing this. Wanting this.

It’s wrong. Dangerous. Stupid. But I grab his suit lapels before he can take another retreating step and pull him back toward me. “Just kiss me already.”

A ghost of a devilish smile curves his lips.

I yank harder, dragging him against my shins. He’s all masculine confidence and egotistical arrogance. And I hate it. I loathe that he’s won. That I couldn’t let him walk away without having a taste. I’ve never lost the upper hand with a man before. But then he leans in, tempting me with what I need, the tip of his nose nuzzling mine as his whiskey-scented breath adds to my intoxication.

“As you wish, mi bella reina .” He plasters his mouth upon mine—hard, hot, unyielding—and absolute rapture washes away my humiliation.

His hands claim my knees while he parts my lips with his tongue, demanding entry I wish I could deny but more than willingly give. He slides his palms upward, raising the hem of my dress, creeping close to a part of me he shouldn’t have an effect on, yet slays like the most relentless tyrant.

I can’t help the whimper that escapes me.

His grip tightens at the sound, those sliding fingers forging a more possessive trail, his kiss becoming frantic.

“Do that again,” he warns against my mouth, “and your panties will be off in a heartbeat.”

I fight the good fight not to concede, but I’m weakening, clinging to his jacket, scrambling for strength as another whimper claws at the back of my throat. “My panties will remain where they are until I deem you worthy of removing them.”

I’m gifted with a breath of a snicker. The slightest hint of his surging arrogance. “I’m curious to see how long that will take.” He reignites the kiss. Faster. Harder.

I’m at a loss over how quickly he unravels me. How efficiently.

Then his thumbs reach the elastic crotch of my underwear, skimming the outline, and the need I feel for him no longer feels like need at all. It’s far too chaotic. Much more than mere desire.

It’s violent desperation.

“Am I worthy yet?” His thumbs weave a torturous trail back and forth at the height of my inner thighs.

I force myself to shake my head, denying us both.

It’s been two minutes. I’m nobody’s ego stroke.

His sinister chuckle peppers my lips. “Do you realize how irresistible you are when stubborn?”

I tighten my grip on his lapels, praying another whimper doesn’t slip free.

“Or how fucking hard it makes me?” He nuzzles my nose, his thumbs continuing to craft that exquisite torment. “Are you sure I’m not worthy yet, bella reina ?” His voice is low, a maddening murmur.

Say no, Ivy. For the love of God, say no.

The whimper builds at the back of my throat as he kisses me again. My fingers ache with their painful grip on his clothing. And all the while those thumbs inch me closer to the precipice of hysteria.

I can’t fight it anymore.

I don’t want to.

“You’re worthy,” I whisper, eyes closed, vulnerability exposed.

“What was that?” he taunts. “I didn’t hear you.”

I stiffen, the humiliation excruciating as I pull back to glare at him. “Go to hell.”

He smirks. “Only if I can make a slight detour to heaven first.” He smashes his mouth back on mine as his hands delve farther under my dress, his possessive fingers latching onto the waistband of my panties.

He tugs down the material while I palm his cheeks, our lips remaining fused in a kiss to end all kisses while he strips me of my underwear.

“These are mine now.” He pockets the silken G-string.

“If you need a reminder of the time I slummed it, go for it, sweetie.” I snatch at his shirt, tugging, poking, maneuvering his buttons.

“You think I’m sweet?” His hand slides between my partially spread thighs, his knuckles grazing the counter as he moves and cups my sex.

I gasp, the heel of his palm applying direct pressure to my clit. “The sweetest.”

“Well, I didn’t take you for someone with a sweet tooth, troublemaker, but obviously I was wrong because this pussy is fucking drenched.”

The way he grates those words. Practically growls them. Dear fucking lord.

The men I usually take home aren’t like this. They’re fumblers. Pretenders.

But Salvatore isn’t playing a role. This is all him. The boldness. The self-assurance.

“I wish I could tell you you’re responsible,” I lie, “but my moisture output is entirely due to my imagination. In my head, I’m pretending you’re Michael B. Jordan.” I ignore his scoff of disbelief and undo the last of his shirt buttons, parting the fabric to reveal the injustice of his perfectly sculpted body.

I swallow.

Ache.

He’s moan-worthy, every last inch of his chiseled chest and stomach made up of sculpted lines and hardened plains that even Michelangelo couldn’t recreate.

And as sickeningly disturbing as it is, I feel myself wanting to claim him as my own.

I know it’s evolutionary impulse.

Basic human nature.

Women have instinctively sought strength and power in their partners since the dawn of time because it’s associated with safety and security. It’s obvious my body is all up in its primal phase.

The thing is, I don’t think I want it to stop.

“Feel free to start your critique.” His fingertips tease my pussy with delicate strokes. “Tell me what I need to improve.”

The facetious prick deserves an eye roll, because nothing in my line of sight would draw criticism from even the most critical person. But I’m not in the business of boosting egos.

“Well, for starters, one of your pecs looks more defined than the other. It’s really fucking with your symmetry.”

His lips twitch, the humor adamantly contained as two fingers slide inside me. “I’ll work on that.”

I bite my bottom lip while my pussy clamps around the intrusion, his slow come-hither motion igniting a cascade of goose bumps down both my arms. “And your… belly button,” I pant, struggling to maintain composure. “It lacks character.”

He snickers, those fingers continuing their manipulative onslaught. “And how do you propose I fix the issue?”

“Umm…” I clear my throat, my breasts yearning to be touched, my neck tingling with the need to be kissed. “Surgery.” I nod, trying to dissolve the lust haze. “Definitely surgery.”

The smirk he gives me is pure sin.

It’s unfair. Unholy.

A morally corrupt man like him shouldn’t get to be this enthralling.

I lean back, placing my palms in a less triggering place against the benchtop, then close my eyes.

I pretend I’m elsewhere. With a different man. Someone incapable of turning me on mentally as well as physically while I grind against the heel of his palm.

I feel his gaze on me though. His fascination.

It haunts me in the darkness, the thought of being adored by him drawing another whimper from my lips.

Everything about this is too… flawless. It’s the only word I can think of to describe it.

By some cruel twist of fate, Salvatore seems to be my perfect match. At least where sexual chemistry is concerned.

I wrestle with the need to come as I sense him leaning into me, his proximity pleasurably intimidating, his breath brushing my ear.

“And what about the way I touch you?” he asks. “Do you have any commentary on how my fingers are fucking you, mi reina ?”

My core clamps harder, his psychological warfare slaughtering the flimsy hold I have on fortitude.

“It’d be nice if you knew what you were doing,” I whisper, my words pathetically husky, “instead of fumbling around in there like a blind man searching for salvation.” I struggle for breath. “But I give you points for trying.”

“Forgive me,” he growls. “Is this better?”

His hand cups me tighter, the added pressure of the heel of his palm against my clit skyrocketing my pleasure as his fingertips rub quicker over my G-spot.

“ Oh, God .” I throw my head back, my nipples throbbing.

“I truly am bad at this, aren’t I?” he taunts, nuzzling the sensitive skin of my neck. “It’s as if your soaking wet cunt can’t stand me.”

I cling to his shoulders, the bliss morphing, building.

I try to breathe through it. Long inhales. Slow exhales.

“I’m dying to find out what you sound like when you come.” He grips my chin, delicate in his possession. “Will you moan for me, mi reina ? Will you scream?”

I shake my head. I’m not going to do either.

I’m going to keep my mouth shut. My eyes closed. My heart inside the caged walls of my chest. But then his teeth scrape my skin, the abrasive onslaught traveling over the most sensitive part of my neck as he slides another finger inside me and I’m done for.

My pussy clamps down on him, the endorphin rush hitting like a bus.

I cry out, calling his name in a guttural rasp.

“That’s my girl,” he growls in my ear as his thumb enters my mouth and presses down on my tongue.

I clamp my lips around him, moaning against the intrusion, sucking his thumb as if it’s his cock while I come undone over and over, the pleasure so potent my limbs threaten to cramp.

He pulls back, and despite my closed eyes I sense him watching me as I ride the wave, enjoying me enjoying him. It should make me self-conscious. Should wake me up to my idiocy.

But there’s no way to physically deny the bliss he gifts. Not when my core still flutters with the longest orgasm known to man, his fingers seeming to have a homing device on my G-spot, until I’m left drained and weak, my shoulders slumping as I fight to reclaim measured breathing.

“That was horrible, wasn’t it?” His voice is pure antagonistic arrogance.

I crack an eye open, not overly enthusiastic to see him all smug and superior, but damn the heavens, the dark carnal stare peering back at me brings another pleasurable chill.

I swallow. Nod. “The worst.”

“Well then…” His hand escapes the confines of my soaked thighs, both his palms moving and roughly cupping my ass, dragging me to the edge of the counter. “…let me see if I can try harder to fuck a compliment out of you.”