Chapter 26
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Valentino
Her mouth closes around me and every thought I've ever had vacates my skull like a building on fire.
Warm. Wet. The pressure of her tongue running flat along the underside.
Water streams down her face, plastering her hair to her cheeks.
She doesn't pull back. Just takes me deeper with her eyes half-closed and a sound rising from her throat that vibrates straight through my cock and into the base of my spine.
I brace one hand against the tile wall.
She pulls back to the tip, swirls her tongue, then sinks again. Deeper this time. Her throat constricts and she gags, a wet choking sound that echoes off the shower walls. Her hand wraps around what her mouth can't reach, fingers slick with water, and she strokes in rhythm with her head.
I look down. That's a mistake.
"Fuck." The word comes out broken, a sound I don't recognize from my own mouth. My hips jerk forward involuntarily and she takes it, her nails digging into my thigh as she steadies herself on the wet tile.
Both my hands find her head. I'm threading my fingers through her soaked hair, gripping, holding her still while my hips push forward again. She moans around me, loud enough that the shower can't drown it. She's looking up at me from her knees like she's been built specifically to destroy me.
"That's it," I tell her, my voice scraped raw, unrecognizable. "Just like that. Don't fucking stop."
Every time I talk, she moans.
I pull her head forward, slow, controlled, feeding myself into her mouth until I feel the back of her throat, and she gags again. She swallows around me, and I have to close my eyes because watching her do this is going to end me in thirty seconds.
"You know how long I've thought about this?" My grip tightens in her hair. "About your mouth? About putting my cock between those perfect fucking lips?"
She whimpers. Her free hand slides up my thigh, nails scraping the skin, and she takes me deeper on her own. I feel the vibration of her moan travel through me like a current.
My head falls back against the tile. The impact is sharp, grounding, and I need it because the rest of me is dissolving.
Steam fills my lungs. The water is too hot.
She is too good. Her rhythm is relentless, her mouth working me with a precision that shouldn't be possible while she's gagging and moaning.
"Goddamn it." I thrust forward, both hands locked in her hair, guiding her head while I fuck her mouth. She takes every stroke. Meets every push with a sound that tells me she's savoring this.
"I'm going to come on your face. Open your mouth. Keep it open."
She pulls off with a wet gasp, her hand replacing her mouth, stroking fast, her grip tight and perfect. Her mouth opens. Her tongue slides out, swollen and waiting.
Everything in me detonates.
The first pulse hits her tongue, and the groan that rips out of me is guttural, animal, something dragged up from a place I didn't know I had.
I stroke myself through the rest, painting her chin, her cheek. My breathing is wrecked. Every nerve ending in my body is firing simultaneously.
She licks her lips. Slowly. Holds my gaze while she does it.
I will remember this image on my deathbed.
The water runs over both of us, hot and relentless.
She stays on her knees, looking up at me, and there's something in her expression I can't catalog.
Not triumph, though there's some of that.
Not submission. Something closer to ownership.
Like she's the one who just claimed me and not the other way around.
My thumb traces her cheekbone, pushing a strand of wet hair off her face. The gesture is tender in a way that contradicts everything we just did, and I don't care. She turns her face into my palm, presses her lips to the center of it, and the softness of it after the filth almost buckles my knees.
Amanda
I've scrubbed my face twice, and I'm blinking at the fogged-up mirror when two hands grip my ass and lift.
My feet leave the tile. My wet fingers scramble for his shoulders, finding slick, warm skin and the hard ridge of muscle underneath.
"Now," Valentino says, his voice a low scrape against the steam, "you need to get fucked properly."
The washing machine meets the backs of my thighs. He sets me down on the edge like I weigh absolutely nothing.
My palms flatten against the marble's cool surface. His chest is still wet from the shower, dark ink glistening across his pectorals.
He steps between my knees. Not gently. His hands find the insides of my thighs and push them apart, wide, wider, until the stretch burns in my hip flexors and cool air hits me everywhere at once.
"Valentino—"
His thumb lands on my clit.
Every coherent thought I've ever had in twenty-five years of existence flatlines.
"Tell me," he says. "How much do you want my cock inside you?"
Nothing comes out except a whimper.
His thumb presses harder. "Words, bella."
"More than anything." My voice cracks on the second word. "I want it more than anything."
His hand wraps around his cock and strokes once, slow, base to tip while he watches my face.
I watch his hand. His thumb keeps moving on my clit. Lazy circles that tighten into something sharper, then ease back just when my hips start chasing the pressure.
I'm soaked.
He steps closer. The head of his cock brushes my entrance, and the sound that leaves me is embarrassing. His free hand grips my hip, holding me still when every muscle in my body wants to push forward and take him.
"If you're in pain," he says, and his voice has dropped into a register I haven't heard before, "you say so."
I nod.
"Amanda." His fingers tighten on my hip. "Out loud."
"I'll say so."
He pushes in.
The first inch steals every molecule of air from my lungs.
He's big. I knew this, I tasted this but knowing and feeling are two entirely different things.
The stretch is bright and sharp that radiates outward from my center in concentric waves.
My fingers dig into my thighs where I'm holding myself open, knuckles white, legs shaking.
He stops. Barely inside me, and he stops.
"Look at me."
My eyes find his. Dark. Focused. The same expression he wears most of the time, except now the only threat is how much he wants this and how carefully he's trying to control it.
"More," I whisper.
He gives me another inch. Slow. Controlled. The muscles in his abdomen flex with the effort of not just taking.
The stretch deepens. My body resists, then yields, then pulls at him in a way that makes us both groan. His hand slides from my hip to the small of my back, fingers splayed wide, drawing me closer to the edge of the washer so the angle changes and he sinks another inch.
My head drops back.
"Fuck," he breathes.
I am so full of him there's no room left for anything else.
I hook my heels behind his thighs and pull. He slides the rest of the way home, and I scream.
He fills me completely. My inner walls clench around him involuntarily, and his forehead drops to mine, something unintelligible passing between his lips.
His thumb finds my clit again, and he presses down.
My entire body jolts.
"Good?" he asks, but it sounds more like a growl.
"If you stop I will never forgive you."
One corner of his mouth lifts.
He pulls back and then pushes forward in a single, measured stroke that bottoms out and punches a gasp from my chest.
Again.
And again.
His rhythm is unhurried. Each thrust made to hit the spot that makes my vision blur and my fingers tremble where they're still holding me open for him.
"Harder," I say.
His hand tightens on my back. His next thrust has weight behind.
"Like that?" His mouth grazes my ear. Low. Rough. A voice made for confessionals and sin in equal measure.
"Exactly like that."
He gives it to me again. And again. Each stroke landing deeper, faster.
My hands finally leave my thighs. I grab his shoulders, and I hold on. His cock is hitting a spot inside me that feels like the answer to a question I've been asking my whole life.
My orgasm hits like a power surge through a faulty wire.