Chapter 11 – POSY #3
I forget to breathe. He’s never done this for me before. I thought he was like a lot of the guys in our circle who think oral’s demeaning. He doesn’t seem the least bit reluctant, though. He does seem out of his element.
He parts my folds, exposing my hot core to the chilly air, and he considers my pussy, his head cocked the slightest bit to the side.
Oh my god, I’ve seen this look—when he’s learning a new game.
“Have you ever done this before?”
“No.”
There’s no hint of embarrassment, only impatience. Because I’m disturbing his focus? I smother a hysterical giggle. The fog of lust is clearing, my brain beginning to creak into gear again. I don’t want second thoughts. I want to make a bad decision.
“Do you want directions?” It comes out snarkier than I intended.
“No,” he says, completely unoffended, and begins to circle my clit. He’s peering closely. He must see the little bundle of flesh peek from its hood. It’s clinical, but still—it feels good. I close my eyes and try to sink back into sensation.
I jerk when his hot tongue replaces his finger, same tempo, same pressure. A tension inside me uncoils. He’s going to make me feel good. He’s figured out if his technique works one way, it’ll work another. I settle in, propping myself on the counter to take some weight off my foot.
And then he inhales, and he moans. It’s a hungry sound, as if he’d been starving, and in an instant, everything changes. He’s not licking me in methodical, concentric circles anymore—he’s eating me.
He burrows his nose inside my slit, then he captures a swollen fold in his hot mouth. He sucks and nips, spearing his tongue into my dripping center and then lapping my cream as if he needs to consume every drop.
His fingers grip my ass so hard it hurts, holding me steady so he can feast. He’s wild, and he’s breathing deep, moaning that gravelly, desperate moan each time he draws in my musky scent. I can smell myself, too, earthy, tangy, and the sounds—he’s a messy eater, slurping, smacking.
I wail, my face burning, the leg I’m propped on wobbling, and he’s bearing most my weight effortlessly as he goes wild on my pussy like the spoiled kids in the movie when they first see the chocolate factory.
Now he’s plunging his long, thick fingers inside me, seeming to delight in the squelching sound because he thrusts harder, makes it louder, wetter. I balance on the counter, lean back, and let him please himself.
The pleasure comes in waves. He’ll happen onto a rhythm, and I surge toward the cliff, and then he’ll get distracted, explore something new, and I’ll go back five spaces, miss a turn. I buck my hips in frustration, but I also don’t want it to ever end.
I like this game. I like playing with him. There’s something wrong with me, but my mess fits perfectly against the jagged piece that’s missing from him. I’m needy, he’s heartless, and by some magical alchemy, this—this creature we become together—solves us both.
He flattens his tongue and swipes from my clit to my asshole and back again. A wave crashes and recedes.
“I want to cum,” I sob, driving my fingers through his thick black hair, forcing him to stay in place, right where I want him.
He takes the hint, sucking my clit into his demanding mouth, and I explode, dissolve, sway and tilt, and then he’s laying me on the carpet, driving his cock into me, and I’m spasming again, every ounce of ecstasy wrung from my body until I’m limp and useless on the floor.
Dario comes with a short shout, slamming into me, grinding his pelvis into my hip bones as if he can get any closer, as if we aren’t already glued together with sweat and saliva, cum and cream.
He pushes up on his elbows and brushes a damp lock of hair off my forehead. “I like how you taste,” he says.
“Like milk and honey,” I joke, still catching my breath, my brain fighting to come back online after being short-circuited again and again.
“Like raw pussy. You’re swollen from last night.”
I blush which is silly since we’ve done crazier things, and even if it was his first time eating out a woman, I’m not new to the whole business.
His eyes narrow. “What do you want after?”
“Huh?” I can’t follow.
“After sex. What do you want? Do you want me to hold you?”
“Not on this carpet.” It’s scratchy, the fluorescent lights suck, and with all the guns hanging on the peg boards—it’s a whole mood, but not really a postcoital one.
He grunts and hops to his feet. How can he move like that? My muscles are jelly.
He zips and buttons his pants, tucking the semiautomatic into his waistband at the back. I have to rock a few times to get myself into a sitting position. I tug my wrinkled T-shirt dress down as far as it’ll go, and I grab my panties. I can’t put these back on. They’re filthy.
“Come on.” Dario offers me a hand. I take it, and he hauls me to my feet.
He leads me through the guest room to our master suite, guiding me straight to the bed. The maid’s been through, so it’s perfectly made, the silver brocade decorative pillows arranged just so. Honestly, I’d rather lay on the safe room carpet than those pillows. They itch.
Dario urges me to lie down. He must want more. I’m tired and achy, my thigh muscles in particular are complaining, but I’m too bemused to turn him down. I guess my man has discovered he likes eating pussy?
My man? My brain is more burnt than I thought.
Dario sets the gun on the night table and lowers himself next to me. We’re both on our sides, facing each other, a hand’s length between us. My eyelids are drooping. He watches me, serious, intent. What is he waiting for me to do? Declare my undying love like I used to after a good dicking?
I yawn. I’m too slow to cover my mouth.
“What are we doing?” I mumble, laying my cheek on my extended arm. I can’t muster the strength to keep my head up.
“Cuddling.”
My snort is soft and sleepy. “You don’t cuddle.”
“I watch TV, Posy. I know women like to be held after sex.”
“You’re not touching me,” I point out. He’s not a snuggler. I accepted that early on in our relationship. I’d accepted it from men before. Some guys want to spoon; some want to shower and eat. I was cool with whatever.
Well, not really, but I didn’t think I could insist on my preference.
Why not? The men I’ve been with had no compunction about insisting on theirs.
“Do you want that?” Dario presses. “Do you want me to hold you?”
Why is he pushing this now? My brain is mush. I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling. “I want a nap.”
He’s quiet for a moment. I let my eyes drift close. He’ll head off to his office any minute. If I’ve learned anything dating Dario Volpe it’s that there’s a market about to open somewhere in the world at any given time.
I almost drift off, and then I’m being lifted, manhandled up and onto his chest. I yelp, jerking awake. He wraps his arms around me, a firm hand cradling my head, the other pressed to the small of my back. His shirt buttons dig into my chest, but he smells—soapy and musky and good.
“What are you doing now?” My complaint is muffled by cotton and muscle.
“What the fuck does it seem like, Posy?” he says, grouchy as hell. “Cuddling.” He slaps my ass. Hard. “Shut up and take it.”
Despite the sting, I giggle, and eventually, when I realize he’s dozing off, I let myself relax into him, nestling my nose in the crook of his neck, enjoying the scratch of his beard on my cheek.
This isn’t love, but how can you tell the difference?
It feels like love. More than it ever has with any man before.
Is my stupid heart going to say “good enough?”
Has it already?
* * *
Dario is hovering. For the rest of the day, he makes me hang out in his office, and when it’s time for his workout, he tries to drag me with him to the gym.
I balk at the top of the stairs. The last time I was down there, he was cutting out Ivano’s tongue.
He assures me that Ray got the blood stains out of the mat, and then he gets pissy when that doesn't make a damn difference to me.
He makes me run the perimeter of the property with him about a dozen times, and then he wants me to provide an anchor for all these exercises with resistance bands. I’ve been told my ass is thick before, but never that it’s the perfect counterbalance weight.
When we go to bed, he’s insatiable. He makes me come over and over. Around three in the morning, I’ve had enough, and when he sidles up to me for another round, I try to shove him onto the floor. I only get his torso half off the bed, but he takes the hint.
The next day, it’s more of the same. We eat breakfast in his office, and then I play on my phone, curled on the sofa while he works. It’s all very calm and domestic, but there’s something wrong.
His exterior is as ice-cold as ever, but there’s a mania to him. He raps off orders to Miles in bursts, and then clacks away on his keyboard before falling into brooding silence. Then he begins the cycle over again. Every so often, he calls Ray or Sal to check in. What’s he checking on?
It’s impossible to focus on anything, so I scroll through social media. I’d be a nervous wreck if I wasn’t totally worn out from mind-altering sex.
I’m so limp and muzzy from last night’s marathon that when the knock comes, I don’t even jerk, even though it’s a staccato banging, clearly not Ray, clearly not good news.
My gaze flies to Dario. He stands and adjusts the sleeves of his suit jacket as if he’s been expecting a visit.
Maybe he has been. He doesn’t tell me his business.
I wish he did. I would have worn something else.
I’m wearing pink booty shorts, a matching raglan belly shirt, and white canvas sneakers.
I look like a sorority girl in a porn mag.
Dario’s lips press together in a thin line as the door swings open and a half dozen of Renelli’s men swarm into the room. One has Ray by the upper arm. Finally, my body reacts. My heart jumps, adrenaline surges through me as I scramble upright.