31. Alessia #2
“You had your turn,” he says. “You made me beg. You swallowed me and you watched me come apart. Now you take what I give you.”
He kisses me once, hard, and then he turns me.
I am on my stomach before I have finished the sound I make.
He hauls my hips up with one hand and keeps the other in my hair, and he does not ask again.
He pushes into me in one long, thick stroke, and I am so wet from his mouth that he sinks all the way in, and the stretch is sudden and deep and almost too much.
“There.” His voice is at my ear, rough. He holds himself there, buried, his fist tight in my hair. “That’s it. You feel that? That’s mine. You had me in your mouth. Now I have you.”
He draws back and drives in again. Hard.
The bed jolts. I cry out into the pillow and he does not gentle it.
He sets a pace that is nothing like the hotel and nothing like careful, deep enough that I feel him in my stomach, his hips snapping against me, the wet sound of it louder than the rain.
Every thrust knocks a breath out of me. His hand in my hair keeps my head turned, keeps me from hiding my face in the pillow, and when I try to drop it he tightens his grip and pulls me back onto him.
“No.” It comes out shredded. “You don’t get to hide. You wanted me desperate. Look what you did.” He fucks into me harder, and the angle makes me see white. “Take it. All of it. You can. You were built to.”
“Anthony-”
“I know.” He bends over my back, his chest to my spine, still not slowing.
His mouth is hot at my ear. His cock drags out and slams back in, and I feel every inch of him, the thickness, the way he fills me until there is no room left to think.
“I can feel you. You’re dripping down me.
You liked having me in your throat, and you like this more. Say it.”
“I like it.”
“Louder.”
“I like it.” It breaks. “Harder.”
He groans like I have put a hand around his throat.
His grip in my hair shifts, pulling me up onto my hands, my back arched, and he takes me like that, relentless, one hand fisted in my hair and the other spread low on my stomach so he can feel himself moving in me.
The shutters bang. The bed hits the wall.
I am making sounds I would be ashamed of anywhere but here, and he is saying my name like a curse and like a claim.
“That’s my turn,” he says, and he is not begging now.
He is giving it back. “You on your knees with that mouth. Me like this. You feel how hard I am again? You did that. Touching you. Tasting you. Hearing you choke on me and still ask for more with your eyes.” He thrusts deep and stays, grinding, and I sob.
“Now come on it. Come on my cock while I have you by the hair. I want to feel it.”
His hand leaves my stomach and finds me where I am swollen and slick, and he rubs me in time with the way he is fucking me, rough and exact.
I break on the third stroke of his fingers.
It hits hard, my whole body locking around him, and he swears and loses the rhythm, driving into the clench of me, chasing it, his fist tight in my hair, his mouth open against my shoulder.
“Fuck. Alessia. That’s it. Give it to me.”
He doesn’t stop when I shake. He fucks me through it, harder, messier, until his thrusts go short and deep and his breath breaks against my skin.
“I’m going to come in you.” It is not a question. His hand tightens in my hair, pulling my head back so his mouth is at my throat. “You took the first one. This one is mine. Stay right there.”
He drives in once, twice, and then he buries himself and comes, a rough sound torn out of him, his hips jerked tight to mine, pulsing deep.
I feel the heat of it. I feel his hand shake in my hair and not let go until he is finished, until he is spent for the second time and still inside me, breathing like he has been running.
For a moment neither of us moves. The rain is still on the tiles. His forehead drops between my shoulder blades. His grip eases, finger by finger, and then his palm smooths over my scalp where he held me, slow, almost careful, like he is putting back what he took.
He pulls out. I feel the loss of him, and the mess, and I don’t care. He turns me over and comes down beside me, one arm hauling me in against his chest, his mouth at my hairline. He is still breathing hard. His heart is a drum under my ear.
“Stay with me,” I whisper.
“Always.” His forehead touches mine. His hand is gentle now, spread over my back, nowhere near my hair. “I love you. I love you. Stay with me.”
When it’s over, I fall asleep in his arms with the storm passing over us toward the sea.
I don’t dream at all.
At dawn, I reach across the sheets, and his side of the bed is empty again.
My heart lurches. The old fear rises up - he’s gone, he left, I’m alone again - and I sit up so fast my head spins.
Then, through the window, I see him.
He’s standing in the vineyard at the end of the long row where the oldest vines grow. Our spot. The place I waited in the blue dress until it got dark. He’s standing very still with his back to the house, and there’s something small closed up in his fist.