15. Off the Page #2
My traitorous body grinds against him. The honesty of it makes me hate him more, want him more, and want to be hated in return.
"Shut up." My hips chase his hand anyway, traitors, both of them. "Shut up and use your mouth for something honest."
He smiles, slow and mean, and doesn't move from the door.
"In a minute." Two fingers push inside me, deep, his thumb finding my clit and pressing down hard enough that I see colors. "First, I want to feel you come on my hand. I want to know if your pussy hates me as much as your mouth does."
He works me against the door like he owns the answer, pinning me there with his body, his fingers fucking me brutally and exactly, his thumb grinding circles on my clit until I'm clutching his shoulders to stay upright.
My traitorous body finishes him before I can stop it, fast and merciless.
The orgasm rips through me so hard my knees buckle, and the only thing keeping me up is his weight against his hand inside me and me.
"Good girl." His voice in my ear is a verdict. "Your pussy hates me, right on schedule."
He waits, smug, watching the aftershocks still wreck me. I want to slap him for being right.
"Fuck you." I'm shaking, furious, dripping down his wrist.
"Yes." He licks his fingers slowly, watching my face. "You will."
Then he drops to his knees on the bare floor, drags my jeans the rest of the way down with my underwear, and hooks my thigh over his shoulder.
"Look at me," he orders, and the command lands low in my belly. "You wanted the real man? He's right here. Watch him eat this pussy."
He does, and there's no teasing in it, no art, just ruthless intent, his tongue flat and merciless against my clit. Two fingers curl inside me while I grab his hair with both hands and ride his mouth without one shred of shame. The filth that comes out of me would end my career.
"Fuck, right there, don't you dare stop, you lying bastard! Don't you dare."
He groans into me like my anger tastes good.
His teeth find my clit, light pressure first, then harder, then a flick of his tongue that ends me.
The orgasm hits fast and mean: rage, grief, pleasure with no seams between them.
My knees quit a second time. His hands on my ass are the only reason I don't fold to the floor with him.
He catches me, because he was always going to catch me, and that makes me angrier.
So I shove him onto his back on the floorboards and strip off the last of what I'm wearing.
He watches me from the floor like I'm the loaded gun, jaw glistening, chest heaving, hard enough that looking at him costs me the last of my balance.
"Come here," he commands, low.
The order is the wrong move. Tonight I take what I want, when I want.
"You don't give orders tonight." I unfasten his belt the rest of the way and take his cock out, heavy and hot in my hand.
The sound he makes when I stroke him is the most honest sentence he's said all week.
I line us up and sink down without ceremony, taking all of him in one brutal slide, and we both make a sound the neighbors could testify to.
"Fuck." His head tips back against the floorboards, throat working. "Dio. God. You feel like..."
His voice has grown tender on one syllable, and I cannot have tender, not tonight, not until he has paid for every page.
"Don't." I roll my hips and watch his eyes lose focus. "Don't you dare say anything beautiful. Talk to me like the man who runs this city's graves."
His hands clamp around my hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, and he gives me exactly what I ask for.
"Then ride my cock like you're collecting a debt," he growls, "because you are. Take it out of me. Every lie, every page, every note in that drawer. Make me pay for all of it, amore. Love. Look at me while you do."
So I do. I fuck him on the floor of a room with no fiction left in it, hard, vicious, my nails raking down his chest and leaving red lines I want to see on him tomorrow.
He keeps up a quiet, constant stream of filth underneath me, hands rough on my tits, thumbs working my nipples raw, his eyes never leaving my face.
"That's it. Squeeze my cock just like that,” he encourages gruffly.
“You were built for me, you know that. This pussy knew before you did.
Look at the way you take me, cara. Darling.
Dripping all over me, you're a fucking miracle.
You fucking hate me right now, and I have never wanted anything more in my life. "
He's cursing in Italian between English, a dark, fluent ribbon of it, words I can’t translate, doing things to me I refuse to admit. No characters now, no pages. Just skin, fury, and the terrifying truth that I want the man who has already proven he can destroy me.
Halfway through, the rage cracks. It happens without warning, mid-stroke, grief surging through the anger like groundwater, and my rhythm stutters as my eyes burn.
He sees it instantly – he sees everything – and his arms come around me, holding me through one suspended breath, his forehead pressed to my collarbone.
Neither of us names it. He stays inside me, still, his cock buried, his arms a cage I have not earned and will not refuse.
Then I set my jaw, push him back down, and finish what I started.
"Leo." His name comes out of me jagged, nothing like the soft thing I used to make of it.
"Again," he grits, surging up to wrap me in his arms, chest to chest, forehead to mine, driving up into me from below, deep enough that I see static. "It sounds different when you're angry."
He's right. I hadn't noticed until he said it, and now I can't stop hearing it.
"Good," I gasp.
He reads the word like a green light, and his hand drops between us.
"Now come for me, angry." His thumb finds my clit exactly where I taught him without ever saying a word, and his voice drops to the register that ruins me. "Come on my cock and hate me through every second of it. I want to feel you come around me hating me, amore. I want to wear it tomorrow."
His thumb circles my clit while his cock fucks up into me from below, and the last shred of my composure goes up in flames.
I break apart with my nails buried in his shoulders deep enough to draw blood and his name in my teeth, clenching around his cock so hard he loses his rhythm.
He grits his teeth and fucks me through it, every stroke punishing, every thrust driving the orgasm longer until I'm sobbing into his shoulder.
Then he comes inside me, gasping my name on his lips, his cock pulsing deep, his arms crushing me to his chest like the building is coming down around us.
I bite down on the worst of the sob that wants out of me. He feels it anyway, his hand at the back of my head, his other arm a band around my ribs. Neither of us speaks for a long time.
Afterward, we lie on the bare floor, sweat cooling, his heartbeat slamming under my ear, a stranger's ceiling above us.
There's nothing in this room to look at, no art to read him by, no books to judge him with, and somehow that's the most honest decor I've ever lain under.
Neither of us reaches for clothes. Clothes are for people with somewhere to be.
"I need to know everything," I say to the ceiling. My voice is sandpaper. "From the beginning. Whatever it costs. Don't soften it, don't manage me, don't leave one thing out."
He's quiet for a long moment, his fingers moving slowly through my hair like he's memorizing it, as I memorized him last night.
"The beginning," he agrees. His chest rises once under my cheek. "All right. The first thing you need to know is that last night, the family took a vote."
The fingers in my hair go still.
"It was unanimous."