Chapter 22 #3
She cries out, her back arching off the daybed, pushing her breast deeper into my mouth. I lavish it with attention, my tongue swirling, my teeth nipping, my lips sucking, until she's a writhing, whimpering mess beneath me.
Then I move to the other breast, giving it the same treatment. I want to drive her wild. I want to push her to the brink of insanity, until she's begging for release, until the only thing she can say is my name.
My free hand slides down her body, over the soft curve of her stomach, between her silky, soft thighs. I part her folds and find her clit, which is hard and swollen, a tight little bundle of nerves that's just begging to be touched.
I rub it in slow circles, the light pressure a teasing counterpoint to the punishing thrusts I was giving her before.
"Vito," she whimpers, her hips bucking against my hand. "Please."
"Please what?" I murmur, my mouth still on her breast.
"Please," she begs, her voice a desperate, broken sob. "Make me come, please. I need it."
"Not yet," I say, my tone firm, uncompromising.
I increase the pressure on her clit, my movements becoming faster, more insistent. Her breath hitches, her body tensing, her hips moving in a frantic rhythm against my hand.
She's close again. So close.
I can feel the orgasm building, a slow, heavy tide that's threatening to pull her under. I can see it in her face, in the way her brow is furrowed, in the way her lips are parted, in the way her eyes are squeezed shut.
And right when she's about to go over the edge, I stop.
Her eyes fly open, and a sound of despair escapes her lips. "No," she cries, her body trembling with the effort of holding back. "Don't stop. Please, don't stop."
I smile, slow and predatory. "I told you," I say, my voice a low, dark rumble. "This is my pussy. And I'll be the one who decides when it comes."
Tears of frustration and need well in her eyes, and it's the most beautiful, heartbreaking sight I've ever seen.
"I hate you," she sobs, her body wracked with tremors.
I let my lips spread in a smug grin. "You wish you did." I take my time pulling the hard nub of her nipple into my mouth, sucking lightly, then leisurely running my tongue over it like a lollipop. "Because if you hated me, it would be so much easier to resist this."
I bite down, then suckle away the sting. She arches and gasps.
My hand is still between her legs, my fingers resting against her slick folds, but not applying any pressure. Her hips are still moving, a desperate, seeking rhythm, trying to find the friction she needs to push her over the edge.
But I don't give it to her.
"You're a monster," she whispers, her head thrashing from side to side.
"No," I say, my voice soft. "I'm just a man who knows what he wants. And right now, I want to see you fall apart. I want to see you lose control. I want to see you come for me." I shift, sliding my cock against her entrance, teasing her. "You want it too."
"You're an arrogant bastard," she gasps.
"So I've been told," I say with a chuckle. I let the head of my dick sink into her just a bit, enough to make her gasp, enough to make her body tense with anticipation. "But you're so fucking wet for me, Doctor. So fucking ready."
I slide in a little farther, then pull back out, leaving her empty and aching. She whimpers, a desperate, pleading sound that goes straight to my cock.
"Please," she begs, her voice a hoarse, broken whisper.
"Tell me what you want, Teresa," I murmur and slide my tongue between her lips. "Tell me how badly you need it."
"Just fuck me, asshole," she spits out, her eyes flashing with anger. The anger turns the color of her eyes from a warm chocolate brown to a deep, dark espresso that's absolutely delicious.
I laugh and push into her again, a little deeper this time.
"Language, Doctor," I tease as I move in and out of her, teasing her with the one measly inch I'm giving her. "Is that how you talk to all your patients?"
Her hands strain and fight against my grip on her wrists, but I hold her fast, my grip like a steel shackle. I'm a lot stronger than she is, and the knowledge that she can't escape, that she is completely and utterly at my mercy, seems to turn her on even more.
"I hate you," she repeats, but the words lack conviction. They're just a desperate, pathetic attempt to hold onto some semblance of control.
"Is that right?" I murmur, giving her one more inch. "Is that why your pussy is clenching around my cock, desperately trying to pull me in? Is that why you're so wet I could drown in you?" I pull out again, leaving her empty and aching. "Because you hate me?"
"Physical response," she says, but her voice is a breathy, unsteady whisper. "The body's physical response is based on stimulation and has nothing to do with emotion."
The contrast of her professional jargon with her panting and writhing body is the most delicious juxtaposition.
It's adorable, which is the last thing a grown woman wants to be called. Especially by the man who has her pinned beneath him with his dick about to split her in two. But it is.
To say I'm completely and utterly charmed is an understatement.
"Is that so?" I say, a slow, predatory smile spreading across my face. I can't resist. I thrust into her, hard and deep, burying myself to the hilt in one smooth, powerful stroke. Her words dissolve into a strangled cry, her back arching off the chaise, her body convulsing in shock.
Then I pull all the way out.
Her eyes fly open, and a look of despair and desperation crosses her face. "No," she sobs, her body trembling with the effort of holding back. "Please, Vito. Please."
"See?" I say, my tone smug, triumphant. "That's not a physical response, Doctor. That's emotional, sweetheart. You're begging me. You're desperate for me." I trace her lips with my thumb. "Say my name again."
"Vito," she whispers, the word a ragged, breathy sigh.
"Louder."
"Vito," she says, louder but also a little more demanding. A little more defiant.
I laugh, a low, dark sound. "You're a feisty little thing, aren't you?" I thrust into her again, this time just as hard, just as deep. "You like to fight me."
"Yes," she gasps, her hips bucking against me. "I do."
"Why?" I ask, my movements stilling inside her. "Why do you fight me so much?" It's a genuine question. I want to know. I want to understand this woman who has gotten under my skin so completely.
She's quiet for a moment, her brow furrowed in concentration, as if she's trying to find the right words, trying to analyze her own feelings in the same way she would analyze a patient's. It's a fascinating process to watch. A glimpse into the mind of the woman who is trying to unravel mine.
"You kidnapped me," she says, as if I need a reminder.
I laugh, I can't help it. "You seem to be handling it just fine," I tease. "Enjoying it even." I punctuate my words with a slow, deliberate thrust.
Her breath hitches, and her hands strain under mine again, but she doesn't laugh. She still looks serious.
"I just mean that... All I do, all I've ever done is follow the rules, do the right thing.
Be what everyone expects me to be," she says, her voice quiet, introspective.
"But with you…" She trails off, her gaze meeting mine.
"With you, it's okay not to be good." Her breath catches.
"It's okay to be… bad. To want things I'm not supposed to want. "
Her words are a confession, whispered in the darkness of the ending day. A truth she's probably never admitted to anyone, least of all herself. It makes my chest ache with a strange, unfamiliar emotion. Something that feels suspiciously like protectiveness.
"I kidnapped you," I whisper, finally understanding. "So, no matter how bad you are… When you're with me, you'll never be as bad as I am."
She nods, a single tear sliding down her cheek. "You're the perfect excuse to let go." Her eyes are wide and vulnerable, and I feel my resolve crumble. "I just want to let go,” she whispers against my lips.
I've been so focused on my own needs, my own desires, my own fucked-up psyche, that I haven't truly considered hers. I've seen her as a tool, a means to an end. A pretty, smart psychologist who can fix me.
But she's just as broken as I am. Just as lost. Just as desperate for an escape.
And I've given her one.
The realization is a cold, sobering wave of clarity. This is a game we're playing, a dangerous dance of dominance and submission, of control and surrender. But it's not just about sex. It's not just about power.
It's about healing.
We're using each other to fix the broken parts of ourselves. To explore the dark, hidden corners of our souls that we're too afraid to face on our own.
We're two sides of the same coin. Two broken pieces that fit together perfectly. A dangerous, destructive, perfect fit.
I let go of her wrists, my hands sliding down her arms to frame her face. I cup her cheeks, my thumbs stroking her skin, wiping away her tears.
I lean down and kiss her more firmly. One sweep of my tongue in her mouth.
Then I pull out of her completely and get to my feet.
Her eyes fly open, and a look of panic crosses her face.
"Vito? What are you—"
I shake my head and hold out my hand to her. "Come with me."
She looks at my outstretched hand, then at my face, her expression a mixture of confusion and trepidation.
"Where are we going?"
"To do something bad," I say, a slow, wolfish grin spreading across my face.
She hesitates, looking at my hand, then at the ocean, then back at my face. The war is waged on her features, a battle between the good girl who plays by the rules and the bad girl who desperately wants to come out and play.
The bad girl wins.
Her lips part, and a spark of excitement ignites in her eyes.
She takes my hand.