18. Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Eighteen
Donna
Lorenzo is watching me.
I can feel the weight of his gaze, heavy and intense. But I don't mind. In fact, I kind of like it.
I like the way he looks at me. As if I'm some kind of mystery he's trying to solve. A puzzle he can't quite figure out.
And I like being on top of him. Being the one in control, at least for the moment.
I press a kiss to his chest, right over his heart.
I can feel it beating, strong and just a little bit quick beneath my lips. It's a surprisingly intimate thing, feeling the evidence of his life so close to me.
He makes a sound in his chest, and I smile against his skin.
I continue my downward journey, pressing kisses to his stomach, to his hips, to the sensitive skin of his inner thighs.
He's so beautiful. All lean, hard muscle and warm, olive skin. I want to explore every inch of him.
I want to memorize the shape of him, the taste of him, the feel of him.
I want to know what makes him groan, what makes him shudder, what makes him lose control.
I want to be the one to take him apart, piece by piece.
And then I want to put him back together again.
Right now, he's lying in my bed and watching my every move.
His cock is rock hard, jutting up from his beautiful body. It's hard and thick for me, and I long to feel it inside me, stretching me, filling me.
But that's not what I'm going to do.
Not yet.
I have a score to settle.
And payback is a bitch.
And so am I.
I take him in my hands, and he shudders, his entire body going taut.
I smile.
I start to stroke him, slowly, lightly. Barely there.
"Christ, Donna," he grits out, his hands fisting in the sheets.
I laugh, and he glares at me.
"This is payback," I say.
"Two can play at that game," he says, a warning note in his voice.
"I'm counting on it," I say, and lean in. But I don't take him in my mouth. Not yet.
Instead, I press a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the head of his cock. I lightly suck the bead of moisture there between my lips and lick it with my tongue.
He groans deeply and sends a fresh wave of desire through me.
I want to sit up and sink onto him, feel him fill my pussy inch by glorious inch.
But not yet.
I do it again, pressing my lips to him, and swirling my tongue around the sensitive head.
He swears, a stream of Italian curses that are very, very rude. My conversational Italian is pretty rusty, but I remember the curse words very well.
Keeping my lips pressed to him, I let them curve wickedly.
I tsk lightly. "And I thought you were a man of virtue," I tease. "All the best men have it."
He lets out a strangled laugh. "Oh, dolcezza," he says, "I am not a good man. And I am about to prove it to you."
He reaches down, and before I can react, he flips us over, and I'm the one on my back.
He's over me, caging me in with his powerful body, and the look in his dark eyes is dangerous, sending a thrill through me.
But to keep our little game going, I pout. "Not fair. I hardly got to taste you." To prove my point, I reach down and wrap my fingers around his impressive length, stroking him firmly.
He lets out a pained hiss, and I feel a surge of triumph.
That is short-lived.
He captures my wrists in one of his large hands and pins them above my head.
I try to struggle, to test his strength, but it's useless. He has me completely and utterly at his mercy.
And I've never been more turned on in my life.
"You've had your fun, Donatella," he says, and the way he says my name, like it's both a salvation and a curse, sends a shiver down my spine. "Now you accept your fate."
His gaze is intense, dark, and full of promises I can't wait for him to keep.
My breath catches, my pulse quickening, my body preparing itself for him.
I am a puddle.
A willing, eager puddle.
"This is not my fate," I manage to say, my voice hoarse and unrecognizable. "This is a temporary setback."
He throws his head back and laughs. A full, rich, wonderful sound that fills the room and fills my chest.
"Oh, Donatella," he says, looking down at me, a soft, affectionate look on his face. "What am I going to do with you?"
"Fuck me already," I say, lifting my hips to his.
His eyes darken, and I nearly gasp at the raw desire I see in them. All traces of laughter are gone, replaced by a hunger so raw and primal that it almost frightens me.
Almost.
But I'm not afraid.
I've never been more sure of anything in my life.
He kisses me then. It's one of his slow, drugging kisses that robs me of all thought.
He takes my bottom lip between his teeth and bites down, not hard enough to hurt, but just enough to make me gasp. He takes advantage of my parted lips and sweeps his tongue inside, claiming my mouth in a devastating kiss.
It's a battle of wills, a dance of dominance, and I'm quickly losing.
I'm trapped beneath him, hands pinned above my head, legs spread wide for his cock, while his mouth devours mine.
I'm completely and utterly helpless, and I've never been more turned on.
He breaks the kiss and looks down at me, leaving me panting and breathless.
"Is this what you want, dolcezza?" he asks, his deep, velvety voice washing over me. He slides a hand between our bodies, his fingers finding my clit, swirling in the wetness there.
My body arches off the bed, a soft cry escaping my lips. He continues to work me, his fingers circling my clit in a maddeningly slow rhythm.
"I'm going to make you scream my name, dolcezza," he says, and the low, gravelly timbre of his voice goes straight through me. "And you're going to beg me for more."
"I don't beg," I say, automatically; a knee-jerk reaction.
He laughs, a low, deep sound. "Oh, you will," he says with a wolfish grin. "I promise."
I'm about to issue a retort, but he chooses that moment to shift, and the broad head of his cock is suddenly pressing against my entrance.
I freeze, my breath catching in my throat.
He teases me, sliding the head of his cock between the lips of my pussy, bumping against my clit, but never entering.
It is the sweetest form of torture.
My body is screaming for him, and I have to bite my lip to keep from begging. I will not give him the satisfaction.
Especially not so damn soon.
"Tell me what you want, Donatella," he murmurs, his dark eyes holding mine. He's still holding my wrists above my head with one of his large hands. I can't touch him.
I try to press my hips up, to take him inside me, but he moves with me, keeping me just out of reach.
"Tell me," he demands again.
I am a proud woman.
But I am also a woman who is about to die if he doesn't get on with it.
"I want you to fuck me," I say, the words ripped from my throat. It's not begging. Definitely not.
"As you wish, dolcezza," he says.
And then he pushes inside me.
He does it slowly, giving my body a chance to adjust to his size. He's big, and it's been a long, long time for me.
A long, long, long, long, long—oh God—time.
He pauses for a moment, allowing me to get used to the fullness, to the way he stretches me, filling me completely.
I can feel every inch of him, and it's the most exquisite torture.
I try to move my hips, to take more of him, but he holds me still.
"Patience," he says, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips.
He's killing me. He is literally killing me.
And I am going to enjoy every second of it.
He finally starts to move, and I gasp.
He starts out slowly, pulling out almost all the way before pushing back in, filling me again and again, going deeper each time.
It's agonizingly slow. Deliciously so.
He's holding my gaze, and I can see the desire there, the raw, primal need that I know is reflected in my own eyes.
He releases my wrists, and my hands immediately go to his shoulders, my nails digging into the hard muscle.
His hands slide down my body, cupping my ass, tilting my hips to give him better access. The change in angle allows him to go deeper, until, finally, he's buried to the hilt.
We both groan.
He stills for a moment, giving me a chance to catch my breath. I feel impossibly full, stretched to the limit. Every nerve ending is on fire. My entire body is humming with a pleasure so intense it's almost painful.
And we haven't even really started.
"You feel so good," he whispers against my neck. "So tight. So wet. So perfect for me."
He starts to move again, maddeningly slow, letting me adjust.
But I have no interest in adjusting.
I want the wild, frantic pace I know he's capable of.
I need more than this slow, gentle pace. I need him to fuck me. Hard.
I wrap my legs around his waist, trying to urge him on, to get him to speed up.
He ignores me.
His hands move up my sides, cupping my breasts, thumbs brushing over my nipples.
I arch my back, pushing my breasts into his hands.
He takes the hint and starts to roll my nipples between his thumbs and forefingers. But still, he continues to thrust gently. Slowly.
It’s driving me insane.
"Lorenzo," I gasp, my hands sliding from his shoulders to his back, my nails digging into his skin.
He seems to know what I want. "I'm getting you used to the feel of me," he murmurs gently. "I can tell it's been a while for you."
His consideration makes my chest tighten in a way that has nothing to do with pleasure. But the last thing I need is for him to be considerate.
"I'm not made of glass, Lorenzo," I say, my hands digging into the muscles of his ass, pulling him closer. "Fuck. Me." It's definitely not a plea. It's a demand.
A slow smile spreads across his face. "As you wish."
And then he gives me what I want.
He pulls out, and then slams back into me, hard and fast.
I cry out, my body arching off the bed.
"Yes," I scream. "Just like that."
He uses his hands to leverage himself above me, and then he starts to fuck me in earnest, hard and fast, just like I asked.
It's raw, and it's primal, and it's exactly what I need.
I meet him thrust for thrust, my hips rising to meet his, my legs spreading as wide as possible to take him deeper.
The sounds of our bodies coming together, of our harsh breathing, of our whispered words and cries of pleasure fill the room.
I am lost to it. Lost to him.