Chapter 61 Michael
Michael
“Where else would he like to kiss me?”
“Everywhere.”
Elisa steps back, leaving me momentarily confused.
She stands up, puts her right hand behind her back, and pulls the end of the bow that’s holding up her dress at the waist—that’s right, that diabolical bow sitting exactly an inch above the curve of her butt, which has tormented me all evening.
With her left hand, she does the same at the back of her neck, undoing the second bow.
“So, Michael,” she whispers as the dress surrenders to gravity and pools on the floor, leaving her naked with the sole exception of her panties. “You’d better get busy.”
“You know, Elisa,” I say, taking her by the waist and pulling her to me. “You shouldn’t provoke me like that.”
“And why is that?”
With my finger I take a dollop of custard from my cup and slide it into the hollow of her breasts. “Because once I start, I don’t intend to stop.” I lick up the sweet trace I’ve drawn on her skin, and she moans.
“I did well,” she replies in a choked voice. “That was exactly my intention.” She takes my finger, still dipped in cream, brings it to her mouth, squeezes it between her lips, and sucks it.
“Are you sure?”
“And when you’re done, I want you to do it all over again,” she takes my face in her hands, touching my lips with hers.
“Darling,” I grab her by the buttocks, lifting her against my pelvis. “You’ll have to beg me to stop.”
We throw ourselves on top of each other, overwhelmed by the explosive mixture of desire and anticipation. Lessing said that the anticipation of pleasure is pleasure itself.
Wrong.
This is pleasure.
It’s having Elisa in my hands.
It’s having her tongue in my mouth.
It’s having her naked body pressed against mine.
But there’s no doubt that it was worth the wait.
“Let’s go somewhere more comfortable, where I can do everything to you I’ve been imagining,” I say, picking her up as she clings to me.
“Do you at least remember where the bedroom is?” she teases me.
“I can get there with my eyes closed.”
I enter the dark room, but removing my hands from Elisa’s hips to find the switch is not my priority.
I lay her down on the bed, illuminated only by the blue light of the London night that penetrates the window and .
. . damn, she looks really good. “My bed has never looked so good as it does with you on it.”
“Yeah, but it would be even better if you were on it too.”
“I’ll undress and join you,” I reply, intent on untying my apron knot.
“No,” she stops me, kneeling in front of me. “Let me undress you.”
Her hands move up and down my chest until they stop on the buttons on my shirt, which she undoes one by one with a disarming slowness. “You’re so hot in your chef’s outfit. You’re the erotic dream I never knew I had.”
“Feel free to share any of your fantasies with me.”
Her hands move to the fly of my trousers, and her touch has a dramatic effect on me: I love it. I love it too much, actually, and my sprint toward pleasure accelerates vertically—rather literally—so, instead of giving in to her every gesture, I hold myself back.
Once my trousers are off, Elisa hooks the elastic of my boxers and pulls me onto the bed with her. “Now we’re even.”
“Don’t count on it,” I reply, lowering her black panties. “I still have a job to finish.”
And with her beneath me, I draw the map of her body, kissing every inch of it.
“God, that feels so good,” she sighs as my mouth reaches her breast, her nipple between my lips.
“You’re beautiful,” I reply. I reach over to the bedside lamp and turn on the light.
“No!” she exclaims.
“What do you mean, no?”
“It’s more romantic in the dark,” she insists, stiffening.
“I want to look at you.” I try to make her relax again with a trail of kisses down her belly.
“I don’t think so.” And before I can get to her pubis, she brings her hands down to cover her lower abdomen.
I sit up. “What’s going on?”
“Not every part of my body is beautiful. Come on, trust me; it’ll be better in the dark. You’ll like it anyway.”
“Can you move your hands?” I ask her.
She looks up at the ceiling with a snort and doesn’t budge.
“Please.”
“Okay, you asked for it. This could ruin everything . . .” she mutters, lifting them without looking at me.
About three inches below the navel, there’s a long, thin scar. “Is this what you were hiding from me?” I ask, running my finger over it.
“My C-section scar, yeah,” she moans.
“Why?”
“Because men don’t like it!” she exclaims. “My last year of university, I was messing around with a Spanish boy from the Erasmus program, and he, well, when he saw it . . .” Elisa holds her index finger up and then bends it. “Instant downer.”
“Listen to me,” I say, leaning over her again.
“I don’t know who that asshole was, but I can assure you that this”—I say, giving her a kiss on the far-right side of the scar—“is the best part of you.” I continue to kiss her along its entire length.
“It’s your story, it shows how strong you are, and it makes you even more beautiful. ”
“Doesn’t it . . . depress you?” she asks in a small voice.
“On the contrary.” I would like to make her feel how not depressed I am right now, but it seems inelegant to wave such an exuberant demonstration under her nose.
“Kiss me,” she begs me.
“I already am.”
“On the mouth.”
She gets up on her elbows, but I push her back down. “I’m not done yet.” I go back between her legs and can’t help but smile when I feel her arousal melting on my fingers. As soon as she feels my tongue on her, she arches her pelvis, letting out a muffled cry.
I tease her with another slow caress, and this time she emits a full-throated moan.
The third time, Elisa digs her fingers into my hair, urging me to keep going, and I comply, as if I had no other purpose in life.
She pants, her breath getting shorter and shorter, moving beneath me in rhythm with each lash of my tongue until I feel her twitch against my lips and she announces her orgasm with an “Ooohhhh.”
I lie down next to her and look at her, sprawled out on the bed, her breasts rising and falling as she tries to catch her breath.
When she meets my gaze, I read the satisfaction in her eyes, and I can’t help but smile smugly. If I had that Spanish imbecile in front of me, I’d give him a good slap.
“Now I know how to get you to stop talking,” I say, staring at her silent, half-open mouth.
She turns to her left side and kisses me, then straddles me. “You know,” she whispers into my mouth. “I’ve always wondered if Pompilia is as good as she says she is.”
“Do you want me to tell you?” I ask, cocking my eyebrow.
“Is she?”
“Why would you care?”
“Because now,” she continues, moving down to my pelvis, “I want to get you to stop talking.”
She takes off my boxers, relieving my erection of the forced compression it’s been enduring, at least until the first contact with her soft, warm mouth, which sends a shock straight to my brain.
She lowers her head and when she raises it she gives me a fiery look that seems to say I’m going to kill you, and I want to reply I’d be happy to die like this.
Elisa accompanies the up-and-down motion of her mouth with her hands, and I find myself clutching the sheets so as not to abandon myself completely; otherwise I’d come in no time. I’ve never had a timing problem, but tonight I’ve been on the verge of orgasm from the moment she took off her dress.
On the third swirl of her tongue, I find myself forced to stop her. She has nothing to learn from Pompilia—on the contrary. “If you keep this up, you’ll make me very happy, very quickly, but I don’t want to rush tonight.”
I lift her up and kiss her, our mouths tasting of tart and sex, our hands trembling with desire.
“I bought condoms,” she tells me.
I reach for the bedside drawer and open it. “Well done, because I don’t think this will be enough.”
“The variety pack you got in Belvedere!” she exclaims, surprised and amused. “You kept it.”
“I wanted a souvenir, but a Duomo magnet seemed too obvious.”
“You haven’t opened it,” she observes, indicating the sealed package.
“Should I have?”
She shakes her head, looking down. “Well . . . it’s been a while . . .”
“Elisa,” I say, grabbing her chin so she can look me in the eyes. “Who was I supposed to use them with? I didn’t want, I don’t want, and I won’t want anyone but you. I don’t want to fuck. I want to make love, because you are neither my first nor my last. You are my only one.”
“But I’ve never made love, Michael. I don’t know if I’m capable.”
“Me neither.” I lean over her and kiss her, but not out of passion or desire. This kiss is an oath. “It’s our first time; we’ll learn together.”
“I missed you.”
“I missed you too.”
“I want to be yours. Make me feel like yours.”
“You already are mine. You always have been.”
Our words get lost between one kiss and another, but we understand each other anyway and lose ourselves to the point that we almost forget the condoms.
Elisa is quick to grab one at random and slip it on me.
“I hope you got the extended pleasure ones,” I joke.
“Hmmm . . . judging by the smell, I’d say it’s the mango.”
She sits on me and guides me inside of her with her hand, welcoming me with a squeeze, an internal, intimate embrace, and it almost doesn’t seem real that it’s actually happening.
Leaning back against the padded headboard, I watch her move and realize I’ve never seen a more beautiful sight.
My worries about whether I can hold out vanish as I lose myself looking into her eyes, gripping her hips and thrusting, while she, with her hands on my shoulders, follows me by rocking her pelvis in a hypnotic back-and-forth.
From the way the expression on her face changes like before, I know her orgasm is close, so I make her lie down, reversing our positions.
I bring her to the edge with one thrust after another, and when she begs for a kiss, I lower myself down to capture her lips.
She grips me with her thighs and strains against my body as her scream is lost in my mouth.
Hearing her voice vibrate in my throat fans the fire inside me, and a second later my scream joins hers, my lower belly pierced with pleasure.
Lying on top of her, my head on her chest, her breasts glistening with sweat, I listen to her heartbeat.
“I want to be yours,” I tell her. “Make me feel like I’m yours.”
“You already are mine. You always have been.”
“Even more.”