Chapter 19 Violet #3
Can only grip his shoulders and hold on while he fucks me with his fingers, while his mouth devours my breast, while every nerve in my body screams for release.
The orgasm is violent.
“Elio.” His name breaks from my throat while I come on his fingers, my whole body clenching around him, pulsing with pleasure that makes it hard to stand. My nails dig into his shoulders. Through the fabric of his shirt. Deep enough to draw blood.
He doesn’t stop.
Works me through every wave. Relentless. Drawing out the sensation until I’m sobbing with it, oversensitive, shaking apart in his arms.
When it finally ends, my legs won’t hold me.
He withdraws his fingers slowly. Brings them to his mouth. Sucks them clean while watching me with those dark, endless eyes.
“I could taste you for the rest of my life,” he says, “and it wouldn’t be enough.”
Before I can respond, before I can think, he lifts me. Sets me on the table. Dishes crash to the floor. Wine glasses shatter. Something wet—sauce, wine, I don’t know—smears against my thigh. He doesn’t care. Just sweeps everything aside and spreads me out like I’m the only course that matters.
Then he drops to his knees.
The visual destroys me.
Elio Marchetti. Head of a criminal empire. In his white shirt with small crimson crescents on his shoulder from where I scratched him. Kneeling before me on the marble floor of a private dining room. Looking up at me with worship in his dark eyes.
His hands slide up my thighs. Push my skirt to my waist. Hook the waistband of my panties.
“Tell me to stop, tesoro.” His voice is hoarse. Strained. “I’ll stop if you say the word.”
My hand tangles in his hair.
“We shouldn’t—” No conviction at all.
“Not stop.” His eyes hold mine as he drags my panties down. “Still not stop.”
His mouth descends.
Nothing prepares me for this.
His tongue is relentless. Circling, flicking, pressing. He eats me like he’s starving for it, like I’m the first meal he’s had in years. When I try to close my thighs, his hands hold them open. When I try to pull away, he growls against my pussy and the vibration makes me scream.
“Too much—” I’m crying now, actually crying, tears streaming down my face. “I can’t—”
“You can.” His mouth doesn’t stop. “Give me another one.”
Fingers slide inside me again. Thrusting while his tongue works my clit. The dual sensation is too much. Too good. Too everything.
Pressure builds. Different from before. Deeper. Like something’s winding tight inside me, coiling toward release.
“Wait—” I try to push him away. “Something’s—I need to—”
It feels wrong. Like I need to pee. Like something’s building that shouldn’t be there. The same way it felt when he made me orgasm in the courtyard. Oh god. No. Not again.
He growls against me. “Let go. I want all of it.”
The orgasm crashes through me hard.
I scream as my whole body contracts then releases.
Wetness floods from me, squirting against his mouth, his face, soaking through his shirt. I try to pull away, mortified, but my hands are gripping his hair and pulling him closer, hips grinding against his face, chasing what’s already too much.
He doesn’t stop. Drinks me down like he’s dying of thirst. Wrings every shudder from my body until I’m boneless, sobbing, completely destroyed.
When he finally pulls back, his face glistens, and his shirt is soaked. Hair wrecked where my fingers clawed through it. Eyes black with need.
He stands and smiles, satisfied, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand but doesn’t clean the rest, wearing the evidence of what he’s done to me like a badge. Like proof of something he’s been dying to prove.
I try to speak. “Elio—”
“No.” His voice is destroyed. Rough. “Not yet.”
He adjusts himself. The outline of his cock strains against his trousers—hard, suffering, and he’s not going to do anything about it.
“When you stop lying.” He steps back. Releases me. “When you stop saying ‘we shouldn’t’ while you drench my face. When you admit what you want without hiding—then.”
I stare at him.
Dress at my waist. Panties on the floor. Evidence of what just happened soaking his clothes, dripping down my thighs.
He walks toward the door.
“The guard will take you back.”
“You’re not coming?”
He pauses. Doesn’t turn around.
“If I get in that car with you right now, I won’t be able to control myself.” His voice is rough, on the verge of breaking. “I’m giving you time. When you can admit what you want—to yourself and to me—I’ll be ready.”
The door opens. Closes.
He’s gone, leaving me alone.
With my legs shaking and the brand new dress pretty much ruined, I take in the aftermath. At the soaked tablecloth, the puddle on the floor surrounded by broken dishes and remnants of food. The traces of what I’ve done, what I let happen, are everywhere.
Shaking my head, I walk up to the mirror hanging by the door. I have to make myself presentable. The face staring back at me belongs to a stranger. Lips swollen. Eyes glazed. Hickeys blooming on my breasts where his mouth marked me.
I look thoroughly fucked.
What’s horrifying is that I’ve never had this look before. No other man has ever made me come this hard. Made me feel this way. Made me crave him this much, despite knowing it’s wrong.
A knock at the door startles me. Must be the guard Elio mentioned.
“Just a minute,” I shout, pulling the red straps back over my shoulders and running my fingers through my messy hair. It’s as good as I can manage in the current situation.
I take a step towards the door then freeze. The restaurant has exits. A bathroom window. A dining room full of people who would help if I screamed.
I could run.
Right now. This second. Push past the guard. Sprint through the restaurant. Call for help.
I look at the exit. At freedom.
Then I open the door and follow the guard who normally stands by my bedroom door to the car.
The drive back is silent.
The guard drives. I sit in the back where Elio sat, his cologne still faint on the leather. Palermo slides past the windows again. The cathedral. The café. My old apartment.
All of it within reach.
All of it a life I’m choosing not to return to.
My mind runs through every choice I made today.
What the fuck is wrong with you, Murphy?
Twice now I have let him touch me, even though I knew I shouldn’t. The courtyard and the restaurant. Both times he walked away hard, visibly suffering, denying himself. And both times he proved my body wanted what my mouth wouldn’t admit.
If this were just about him taking what he wanted, he’d have fucked me by now. Taken what I wasn’t willing to give.
Instead he’s torturing himself. Waiting for something I’m terrified to give.
The truth.
That I want this. Want him. Want to stop hiding behind weak protests while my body screams yes.
My hand presses against the cold window.
When I get back to my room, twelve identical red dresses hang in the open wardrobe.