Chapter 19 #2
‘Fuck that. I haven’t had nearly enough of this body. And I know yours is screaming for mine. Are you going to deny it? Deny this cock in that celestial cunt?’
She shakes so roughly, she has to reach out a steadying hand on my shoulder. And fuck, I love that more than I want to admit.
‘God, Rafa…’
‘That’s it. Keep saying my name just like that,’ I murmur as I loosen the tie to her robe. Part it. Reward myself with the dips and curves of her breathtaking body.
‘You’re fucking beautiful.’ I kiss her navel, then before I lose my mind, I pull back. She blinks down at me, rare vulnerability flickering in her gaze.
‘You make me… I don’t know how to…’
I cup her jaw in my palm, thumb brushing her lower lip. ‘Go lie on the sofa, tigra. Wait for me.’
Her eyes spark. ‘What makes you think you can—’
I glide one hand up her thigh and between her legs, chuckle to hide a groan at her damp cunt.
‘Rafa!’
‘This is why. Sofa.’ I stroke her once. Twice. Her eyes glaze over, even as her nails dig into my shoulder. ‘Feet on the table, legs wide open.’
Her colour deepens. ‘I’m not doing that…’
‘Sure you are. You know why?’
Her lips purse. She stays silent.
‘Because you’re dying to see what that does to me.’
The truth wars with denial in her eyes. I smile. Again. Then before I lose my mind, I spin her around and smack her ass. ‘Go, tigra.’
She goes.
I surge to my feet. Scoop up dirty dishes and store away the leftovers. Some would leave the clearing up till later, especially with the promise of tight pussy on the horizon. But my mama taught me better. And if I’ve chosen to honour her today, I’m not finishing with half-measures.
That’s not to say I’m not focused on Sofiya though.
Haven’t forgotten that, sublime pussy or not, she’s a threat. One who betrayed me only last night. One who’s won a second chance where others would’ve been long dead and buried.
From the corner of my eye, I see her slide Orazio’s antique letter opener under the cushion next to her right elbow and hide a grin.
Good girl, baby assassin.
Her robe gapes, displaying her beautiful tits as she perches on the edge of the sofa and my cock swells, my tip spilling with pre-cum and need.
Even though my back’s turned, I know the second she props her tiny feet on the table, the short silent battle before her legs spread wide open, displaying her pretty pink pussy.
Saliva rushes into my mouth, a groan building in my chest.
I hurry to finish the dishes, stopping once to grip my dick when it threatens to jump out of my fucking pants.
Leftovers stashed, dishes in washer and table and counters gleaming, I toss the dishrag, snag my half-finished glass of wine, and approach my beautiful enemy.
I have every intention of sitting on the opposite seat. But somehow I find myself stepping into the space between the coffee table and sofa.
Her breathing escalates, right along with her delightful blush as I stare. And stare.
I rest on one hand, glass in the other, studying her face in the dappling light. ‘I wish I was a half-decent painter. I’d paint the shit of out you right now.’
‘You think I’d let you?’ she whispers, arousal slurring her words.
‘With the right incentive? Absolutely.’
‘Strunzu spavaldu,’ she mutters under her breath.
‘I’m a cocky bastard with good reason, bedda tigra. This time yesterday, you were a virgin. Yet here you are, your beautiful, wet cunt spread out for me, your belly full of delicious food I made. Not an ounce of genuine outrage in your body.’
Her face flames and her legs start to shut.
I grip one ankle, rubbing my thumb above the delicate bone. ‘Uh uh. No take backsies or you don’t get to come.’
Before she can issue the sharp retort burning on her tongue, I dip my fingers into the vino russu made from the black clay of the field outside my window and drip it down her inner thigh.
She hisses, but her mouth stays parted, her wide eyes on the twin drips of red heading for her slick centre.
We both watch, fascinated, as the wine drips into her pussy.
I do the same with the opposite thigh. By the time it reaches its destination, she’s panting.
I tease the fabric apart, revealing the curve of her waist, the hollow of her belly, the soft swell of her breasts. I pause, thumb drawing a circle around her nipple through the thin silk. She gasps, hips lifting.
‘Do you need me, duci?’ I whisper, voice thick.
She nods, breath trembling. I lean in and press my mouth to hers – slow, searing – letting her taste the insanity, the promise, the hunger. Her arms wrap around my neck, her fingers sinking into the hair at my nape as I deepen the kiss, my teeth grazing her bottom lip until she sighs against me.
I disentangle her arms, push her onto her back. ‘Arms above your head. Offer those glorious tits to me.’
The sight of Sofiya Mancinelli in this Salvatore villa, spread out on my sofa, her hands cupped around her heavy rose-tipped tits, my wine dripping down her taut, sexy thighs, is better than any masterpiece in any museum on this earth.
Intensely, obscenely satisfying too is the knowledge that no man will ever see her like this.
That notion throbs, loud and depraved and gaining power at the back of my head. Before it bubbles over into the unthinkable, I tip my glass and anoint her breasts with Salvatore wine.
The trails catch on her fingers, overflow and drip down, racing, an eager river, to join the flow drenching her pussy.
Drops glide over her pussy and she gasps. One drop lingers on the tip of her clit.
‘Fuck.’
She whines and arches her back, so her glorious rose-tipped globes are pointed at me, ready for my tongue, teeth, my lips and hands, urging me on.
‘Tell me how badly you want it.’
‘Fuck you.’ A ragged inhale. Exhale. ‘Please. So bad.’
‘Addicted to Rafa cock already?’
A flash of pure murder. I wonder if she’s going to use that letter opener on me. Fuck, I hope so. ‘Answer me. Beg for it, baby.’
Her exhale is outrage and death.
I set the wine aside, lean down, capturing one drenched peak in my mouth, tugging and suckling until she moans my name. I transfer my attention to the other. She releases her breast, her fingers tunnelling into my hair to hold me to my task.
I torture and tease until her skin is almost as red as the wine.
Then I taste my way down. The smell of exquisite wine and prime pussy hits my nostrils, and I groan. ‘I’ll never get this scent out of my head now, will I, tigra?’ I growl against her skin.
She makes a gurgled sound, pushes her hips forward, eager with a touch of lingering innocence that makes me want to pound my chest, mark my territory in the most definitive way possible.
For one unhinged moment, I contemplate the letter opener. A few slashes and my name would be carved on her inner thigh. A claim. A fucking warning.
‘Rafa, please. Please!’
I push away the psychotic thought… for now… and I wrap my lips around the pink, hooded flesh, sucking it deep into my mouth.
‘Ah! Oh… God!’
Her hips surge up, then instantly retreat, as if she’s not sure whether she craves or fears the storm of pleasure. I solve the problem by sliding one hand under her lush ass, the other clamped on the thigh I want to mark with my name.
Without mercy, I feast on Sofiya Mancinelli’s cunt. Lap, lap, lapping her up. Dipping inside to collect her flowing juices. Groaning when she cries out over and over, her fingers convulsing in my hair.
It takes every ounce of self-control to pull away when I feel her cresting the edge. To yank down my pants and free my dick.
‘No! Please…’
‘I know, baby. But I need you too. Need you to come on my cock. You want that too, don’t you?’
Her head bobs, her eyes glazed, her beautiful siren mouth gasping.
Dragging her forward to the edge of the seat, I guide my broad head to her tiny hole. Marvel at the sublime sensation awaiting me.
Inch by inch, I watch her take me. She shakes, whimpers and cries, but my brave little tigra never stops.
Not until I’m bottomed out inside her, with stars exploding on the edges of my vision.
‘Cristu, you look so good, stretched around my cock. Tell me how you feel.’
‘I n-need you t-to fuck me, Rafa,’ she gasps.
‘Sì, bedda tigra.’
Something cracks and I’m gone. I piston her on and off my cock, darting my greedy gaze between her pussy and her face, her tits and her mouth. Traces of wine reenact her virgin blood and I slide deeper into insanity as thoughts I shouldn’t have multiply in my brain.
I don’t stop when her shrill cry announces her first climax. When she begs me to stop, right before her nails dig in and she pleads the opposite.
Sweat slicks my body by her third orgasm.
Then, with a final surge, I tumble over the edge on her fourth – her cries echoing in the warm room, my name on her lips, our bodies moving as one until the tremors fade and we collapse into ragged stillness. I press a kiss to her forehead, tracing the scar at her hip.
‘Good food, exquisite wine. Your pussy and my cock and no war. One more day. Maybe two. Deal?’ I murmur, voice shattered.
Eyes screwed shut, she inhales. Nods. Shudders and clenches around me as I surge inside her, insatiable. On the brink of desperation.
‘Deal.’
I stagger up and walk us into the bedroom.
We lie together, tangled in silk and sweat, readying ourselves for the storm waiting outside, but fortified for now by the fierce power of our precarious bond.