18. Ariah #2
I yank his shirt open hard enough that a button skitters across the tile and disappears under the stove.
He laughs, startled and dark, and then he’s shoving the lace aside and sliding two fingers into me without warning.
I gasp. My head tips back hard enough to bump the cabinet.
He curls them just right - he always knew just right, the bastard - and I bite down on his shoulder to keep from making a sound that would carry through the thin walls of this building.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, working his fingers deeper, scissoring them slowly until I whimper. “Trying so hard to be quiet. Trying so hard not to want this.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.” He adds a third finger and the stretch punches a broken sound out of me. His thumb finds my clit, rubbing in filthy little circles. “You hate that you still want me to fuck you on this counter. You hate that six weeks apart didn’t fix that.”
“Pietro…”
“Tell me to stop.”
I don’t. I can’t. Instead I reach for his belt, fumble it open with hands that won’t steady, shove his pants and briefs down far enough to get my hand around his cock.
He’s hard enough to hurt, thick and hot in my fist, the head already slick.
When I stroke him from root to tip he swears in Italian against my temple, something that sounds like a prayer and a curse mixed.
“Condom…” I start.
“I don’t have…” He laughs, broken, forehead dropping to mine. “Fuck. Of course I don’t. I came to cook pasta. I brought basil. I brought wine. I did not bring…”
“I’m still on the pill.” The words come out before I can stop them. “And I haven’t - there’s been no one else. Not since. Not before. There’s only…”
I can’t finish it. His eyes snap to mine. Something raw and possessive and almost wounded moves through them, dark enough to make my stomach flip.
“Neither have I.” His voice is rough. “There’s only ever been you. Even when you left. Especially when you left. I jerked off in hotel rooms thinking about this kitchen. About this counter. About you telling me to leave and then letting me stay.”
I shouldn’t find that hot. I do anyway. The image of him alone, wanting, wrecked for me - it’s the kind of cruel satisfaction I shouldn’t indulge and absolutely am.
“Then fuck me,” I say. “Before I change my mind.”
He doesn’t make me ask twice.
He pulls his fingers free - I watch him, filthy and deliberate, put them in his mouth and taste me - and then he grips my hips hard enough to bruise and drives into me in one hard thrust that knocks the air from my lungs and sends a wine glass tipping off the counter to shatter on the floor.
Pietro curses under his breath, nudges the largest shards away with the side of his shoe, and then neither of us cares.
He fucks me like he’s been dying for it.
Short, punishing strokes that slap skin against skin, his mouth open against my neck, my ankles locked behind his back. The counter edge bruises my ass.
Every thrust shoves me back an inch; I have to brace one hand on the cabinet behind me to stay upright.
I dig my nails into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks he’ll feel tomorrow in board meetings, and the thought of that - of him sitting in some glass conference room with my scratches under his shirt, shifting in his chair - makes me clench around him so hard he groans.
“That’s it - fuck - squeeze my cock like that…”
“You’re filthy,” I gasp.
“You love it.” He thumbs my clit in rough circles timed to his thrusts, and the dual sensation makes my vision blur. “You always loved it when I talked like this. Remember? You used to come just from my mouth on your ear telling you how wet this pretty cunt was. How tight. How fucking mine.”
“I said don’t talk…”
“Make me.”
I kiss him to shut him up and he smiles against my mouth, triumphant and desperate all at once.
For a stretch of minutes there’s only that - the wet sound of him fucking me, the creak of the counter, my muffled gasps into his collar, the distant ticking of the kitchen clock that somehow makes all of this feel more illicit, more stolen.
He shifts his grip, hauling me closer to the edge of the counter so he can get deeper, and the new leverage makes me gasp against his mouth.
For a stretch of seconds I forget the separation.
I forget the lawyers and the carefully worded texts and the way I’ve been practicing how to say his name like it doesn’t still live in my mouth.
There’s only the slap of skin and the heat of him and the ridiculous, traitorous joy of being filled.
“You feel…” He breaks off, laughing once, breathless. “You feel exactly the same. Exactly fucking the same. How is that possible?”
“Don’t,” I warn, but it comes out soft.
“Don’t what? Don’t notice? Don’t say it?” He grinds deep and holds, pulsing inside me without thrusting, and the stillness is somehow filthier than the pace. “You’re still my wife. This cunt still knows me. Your body hasn’t gotten the memo that we’re…”
“I said don’t.”
He kisses me instead of finishing the sentence. Smart man. Stupid woman. I kiss him back like I’m starving.