Chapter Seventeen #3
He crossed the room in measured steps. His hands settled at her waist, firm and warm through the remaining fabric of her clothes, and he walked her backward until the backs of her thighs met the edge of the bed.
He didn’t push her down. Instead he looked at her for a long moment, eyes dark, reading every flicker of her face.
Then he reached for the hem of her sweater.
He pulled it over her head in one smooth motion and let it fall.
The cool air of the room touched her bare skin.
Her bra followed—he unhooked it himself, fingers precise, and dragged the straps slowly down her arms before discarding it.
His gaze dropped, taking her in without hurry.
One hand rose and closed over her left breast, the other over her right.
His palms were warm, slightly rough. Thumbs scraped across her nipples until they tightened into hard peaks under his touch.
He pinched the left one between finger and thumb, rolling it firmly, testing her reaction, then bent and took the right into his mouth.
He sucked hard. The wet heat of his mouth closed around the sensitive peak, tongue flicking in tight, relentless circles while his teeth grazed just enough to send sharp sparks of sensation straight down between her legs.
Isolde’s breath hitched. Her hands found his shoulders, fingers digging in as he worked her with focused intensity—sucking, licking, biting lightly, then soothing with the flat of his tongue.
He switched to the other breast without warning, giving it the same thorough attention while his free hand shoved her trousers and underwear down over her hips in one efficient motion.
She stepped out of them, already so wet that the cool air against her core made her shiver.
Taddeo stepped back just far enough to look at her.
Completely bare now, standing in front of him in the low light.
His eyes moved over her slowly—breasts still marked faintly from his mouth, the soft curve of her stomach, the dark thatch of hair between her thighs already glistening.
He made a low sound of approval, almost a growl, then stripped with the same controlled efficiency.
Shirt first, revealing the hard lines of his chest and the dark ink that marked him as what he was.
Belt. Trousers. Briefs. Until he stood naked in front of her.
His shaft was thick, heavy, already fully hard, the head flushed dark and glistening with precum.
It jutted from his body, prominent and ready.
He didn’t ask her to touch it. He didn’t need to.
He guided her onto the bed with firm hands, arranged her so she lay back against the pillows, and then spread her thighs wide with deliberate pressure.
He looked down at the open, slick flesh between her legs for a long moment, expression openly possessive.
“Soaked,” he muttered. “Look at you.”
He dragged two fingers through her folds, coating them thoroughly in the wetness already gathering there.
The touch was slow, exploratory, spreading her open so he could see everything.
Then he pushed those two fingers straight into her without warning.
Isolde gasped at the sudden stretch, the thick intrusion.
He curled them immediately, pressing hard against the front wall of her core while his thumb found her clit and rubbed in firm, exact circles.
“This is what you wanted,” he said, voice low and rough. “Say it.”
“Yes.”
“Louder.”
“Yes.”
He worked her with ruthless precision. Fingers thrusting deep, scissoring open, curling again and again against that sensitive place inside her while his thumb kept steady, merciless pressure on her clit.
The wet sounds of his fingers moving inside her filled the quiet room.
When her hips started to rock up to meet his hand, he pinned them down with his free forearm, holding her exactly where he wanted her, and kept going.
He watched her face the entire time—watched the way her mouth opened, the way her eyes went hazy, the way her thighs began to tremble.
Wetness dripped down onto the sheets beneath her.
Just as her core began to clench hard around his fingers, just as the first sharp edge of orgasm started to crest, he pulled them out.
Isolde made a broken sound of protest, hips lifting helplessly. Taddeo ignored it. He brought his slick fingers to his mouth and licked them clean, eyes on hers the whole time, then lowered his head between her thighs.
The first long, slow stripe of his tongue dragged from her entrance all the way up to her clit.
He licked her open with filthy thoroughness—broad strokes of the flat of his tongue, then pointed flicks, then the slow, deliberate push of his tongue inside her, fucking her shallowly while she gasped and grabbed at his hair.
He sealed his mouth over her core and sucked, drawing hard on her clit, then released it to lick lower again.
Two fingers slid back inside her, thicker this time, and he curled them hard while he sucked her clit between his lips and flicked it with his tongue.
He edged her deliberately. Every time her muscles tightened around his fingers, every time her breath went high and thin and her thighs started to shake, he eased off.
Slowed. Denied her. He would pull his mouth away just enough to blow cool air across her wet, swollen flesh, or still his fingers inside her while she clenched helplessly around them, or lick soft, teasing circles that never quite gave her the pressure she needed.
Isolde’s hands fisted in his hair, then in the sheets.
Soft, desperate sounds escaped her. He kept her there on the edge for what felt like an eternity, reading every shift of her body, every catch in her breath, until she was shaking and soaked and nearly incoherent with need.
Only then did he drive her over.
His fingers thrust deep and fast, curling hard against that sensitive spot.
His mouth locked on her clit and sucked with focused intensity.
Isolde came with a raw cry, back arching off the bed, inner walls pulsing violently around his fingers.
Slick flooded his hand and mouth. He stayed with her through every wave of it, licking and stroking and drawing the orgasm out until her thighs trembled and the last aftershocks faded into small, involuntary flutters.
Only then did he lift his head, wipe his mouth with the back of his wrist, and rise over her.
He pushed her thighs wider with his knees, lined the thick, blunt head of his shaft up against her entrance, and waited until her eyes met his. The head of him nudged against her, slick and hot.
“Still your choice,” he said.
“Yes.”
He thrust in.
The stretch was immediate and intense. He didn’t stop until he was buried to the hilt, his shaft filling her completely, the base pressed tight against her, the thick length of him stretching her open around him.
Isolde’s breath punched out of her in a sharp gasp.
He was big—thicker than his fingers had prepared her for—and the pressure of him inside her was overwhelming.
Taddeo held still for several long seconds, letting her feel every inch, forehead resting against hers, breath warm against her mouth.
One of his hands found both of hers and pinned them above her head, fingers interlacing tightly.
The other gripped her hip hard enough that she knew she would carry bruises later.
Then he began to move.
He fucked her in deep, controlled strokes.
Each thrust dragged the thick length of him along the front wall of her core; each slow withdrawal left her empty and aching before he drove back in to the hilt.
The wet sound of his shaft sliding in and out of her filled the room—obscene, rhythmic, undeniable.
He kept the pace steady and relentless, angling his hips so that every stroke pressed hard against the place inside her that made stars burst behind her eyes.
When she tried to meet his thrusts, to lift her hips and take him deeper, he pressed her down harder and fucked her through it, making her take the full force of every stroke exactly as he gave it.
“Take it,” he said against her mouth, voice rough with restraint. “All of it. You’re going to feel me for days.”
He shifted the angle slightly, driving even deeper, and Isolde’s second orgasm began to build with shocking speed under the constant, grinding pressure.
Taddeo felt the moment her sex started to flutter and clamp down around him.
His rhythm never faltered, but his grip on her hip tightened and his thrusts grew just a fraction harder—still controlled, still precise, but with an edge of raw need he no longer bothered to hide.
“Come on my cock,” he ordered. “Now.”
Isolde shattered. The orgasm tore through her in sharp, clenching waves, her core milking him tightly, pulsing hard around the thick length buried inside her.
She cried out, the sound muffled against his shoulder as he kept fucking her through it without slowing.
The intensity of it left her shaking, oversensitive, every nerve ending lit up.
Taddeo drove into her a few more times, then buried himself as deep as he could go and came with a low, guttural sound that vibrated against her throat.
She felt every pulse of him emptying inside her—hot, thick, flooding her until it began to leak out around his shaft and down the insides of her thighs in warm, messy trails.
He stayed inside her for a long moment afterward, breathing hard against her neck, still half-hard and twitching with aftershocks.
His weight was heavy and solid over her, one hand still pinning hers above her head, the other stroking slowly along her side as if he couldn’t quite stop touching her.
Only when his breathing had started to even out did he carefully pull free.