24. The Real Thing #2
I drop to them. My hands open her thighs, gently, and just look.
The wet shine of her in the lamplight, the way her pussy opens for me before I've touched it, the small swollen knot of her clit already exposed and begging.
Dio. God. The sight of her like this, open, mine, stops me in a way I do not bother to hide.
"Look at this," my voice has gone almost a hush.
"Open for me. Already dripping. Pussy swollen for me before I even put my mouth on it.
" I drag one finger up the length of her, slowly, watching her catch her breath.
"This is the only honest part of me. The part that's been on its knees for you since the brownstone, even when I was lying to your face.
" I press a kiss to the inside of her thigh, then to the soft swell of her belly, then to her clit.
Soft. Reverent. "I would worship this pussy for the rest of my life and call it the best work I ever did. "
Her hand finds my hair, tightens.
I eat her slowly.
Not the way I ate her on the roof – hungry, brutal, starved for twenty years.
This is the man who has been allowed to stay.
Long, flat strokes of my tongue, every one of them deliberate, her taste flooding my mouth, sharp, slick, hot.
Two fingers, slow, sliding into the second knuckle, curling exactly where I learned she opens.
I can feel her pulse on the pads of my fingers.
"Oh, God." Her voice is breaking. "Leo, Leo."
"Mmh." I don't lift. "Keep talking. Tell me how it feels."
"It feels like… Dio, God, it feels like you're praying. Get filthier. I can't come to prayer."
I laugh against her, and the vibration makes her hips jerk.
"You want it filthier." I lift just enough to look up the length of her body, my mouth glossy with her.
"Look at this fucking pussy of mine. Spread for me.
Soaked. Mio. Mine. My clit, wet on my tongue, swollen for me.
The realest thing in twenty years and I get to drink it.
" I lick a long, slow stripe up her, eyes on hers. "Say it."
"Yours." She's gasping. "All of it yours."
"Whose child is in here?"
"Yours."
"Say it filthy. The way you can't publish."
"Your filthy fucking miracle, Leo.” Her voice goes ragged. "Yours, in me, the realest thing I've ever made."
It undoes me. Two fingers deep, my mouth flat on her clit, my other hand spread soft across her belly.
I suck her clit between my lips, and she cries out.
My fingers curl inside her, find the spot, and drag against it slowly.
She comes on my tongue with my name caught in her throat.
Slow, drawn out, a long wave that takes her four full seconds to come down from.
I feel her pussy clench around my fingers, the wet flood of her on my chin, her thighs locking on my ears.
My mouth stays on her through all of it, gentle now, working her through the aftershocks until she is loose, trembling, her hand falling from my hair to the sheet.
I rise up her body slowly. Mouth dragging up her belly, between her tits, biting her throat, soft enough to leave only the memory of teeth. She's smiling, dazed, her hair stuck to her face.
"You're not human."
"I'm just yours."
She reaches for me, her hand finding the hard line of my cock through what's left of my clothes. Her eyes go dark at the size of it under her palm.
"Off." Her voice is wrecked. "Get this off. I want to see you."
I strip the rest of the way. Her eyes do the long, slow look down my body that has undone me every time she's given it to me, and when they reach my cock, they linger. She sits up on one elbow and reaches, takes me in her hand, slow.
"Dio," she breathes, fingers closing around me, working slowly up the length of me. "How am I supposed to take you slow when you look like this?”
"You take me however you want, amore." My voice has gone bare. "Tonight I'm yours."
She leans forward. My breath catches. She looks up at me, eye contact, deliberate, and licks the bead of wet from the head of my cock once, slow. Then closes her mouth around the tip and takes me deep, just once, a long, unhurried slide that has me fisting the sheet behind her head.
"Cristo." Christ. I'm not going to survive thirty seconds of that.
She lifts off me with a soft, wet sound and looks up, her mouth glossy now, too.
"Just wanted to taste you once," she says, and her voice is so even and so wrecked at the same time that I almost come from the sound of it. "Now you can put it back where it belongs."
She lies back, opens her thighs for me. Her pussy is so wet I can see it from here, her clit still swollen from my mouth.
I climb over her, brace on my forearms, my face two inches from hers, holding myself at her entrance, hard, leaking. The head of my cock drags through her wet, slow, and her hips jerk up to meet me.
"Look at me."
Her eyes open. Wet. Everything.
"The last time I had you, the worst piece of paper I'd ever held was under your shoulder blades." I keep my voice low. "Tonight there's nothing between us but the child you put here."
I push into her slowly, inch by inch, watching her face. Her mouth falls open, her eyes flutter. She is so tight and so wet I have to stop twice on the way down, or I'll come before I'm seated. When I bottom out, we both make sounds we don't recognize.
I hold there, don't move, just feel her around me. Deep. Wet. So warm I have to grit my teeth. Her thighs lock around my back. Her hand finds mine and laces our fingers against the pillow; her other hand frames my jaw.
"You feel like you're about to split me open," she whispers, eyes fluttering. "Don't move yet. Let me feel you."
I don't move. Deep inside her, I can feel her heartbeat on my cock. Every breath she takes, her pussy flutters around me. I have to close my eyes.
"I've been writing you for many years," she whispers, the way she'd always meant to say it.
"Did you know that? Before I ever met you.
Every dangerous man on every page. I was describing you before you existed.
" Her breath catches as I start to move.
Slow withdrawal, slow push back home. "The real thing is better. "
"The real thing bleeds," I tell her, sliding deeper, slow, complete.
"I know." Her eyes hold mine. "That's why it's better."
I make love to her the way I would if I knew it were the last clean room I'd ever stand in.
Long, deep strokes. Unbroken eye contact.
My forearm under her shoulders, lifting her to me, my mouth at her throat between sentences.
Every withdrawal makes her gasp, and every push back home makes her thigh tighten around my hip.
I can feel her wetness on me to the root.
I lift onto one forearm just to look. Down where we are joined. Where her body opens around me, the wet shine of her on my cock with every withdrawal, the way she clenches when I start to pull out, trying to keep me inside her. Cristo. I have to close my eyes.
"Don't," she breathes, her hand finding my jaw and pulling me back down to her. "Look at me. Don't stop looking at me."
I look at her and move in her slow, filthy, in the gentle register, every word of it.
"Sei mia. You're mine. Sei tutto. You're everything. Sei la mia casa. You're the only home I've got."
"Leo."
"Look at you taking me." My mouth at her ear. "Built for me. Came back for me. Carrying me." My hand slides between us, cups her belly, and lingers. "Mia. Mio. Mine, mine, mine."
"Yours." She breathes it back into my mouth. "Always was."
"Fuck me, Leo," she gasps. "Slow. Just like that. Don't ever stop. Keep me full of you. Stay deep inside."
So I do. Slow strokes, all the way out, all the way back home.
Her hands in my hair, her ankles locked at the small of my back.
My mouth on her throat. The wet slap of her pussy taking me in, the slick sound of me drawing back out, filling the room between her gasps.
I tell her in three languages what she is to me, and she answers in the same three, broken, wet, certain.
My eyes stay on hers, and she keeps her eyes on mine, even as her face starts to crack open at the edges.
"I'm going to come again." Her voice is barely there. "Leo, please don't stop, just exactly like that, Dio, God, you're so deep in me…"
"Come, amore,” I say it against her mouth. "Come on me. I've got you."
She comes on me a second time, eyes locked on mine, her pussy clenching around me in a long, slow pulse that takes my breath out of my chest. I feel every contraction, but do not follow her. There's one more place I owe her tonight.
I pull out gently, and her sound of protest is the best thing I've ever heard.