28. Pietro #2
“Maybe.” She’s grinning, wicked and sun-drunk, cheeks flushed from the wind and from this. “Maybe I planned it. Maybe Piper’s wink wasn’t entirely her idea.”
“Jesus Christ, Ariah.”
“Too much?”
“Not enough. Never fucking enough.” I flip us - carefully, because the bunk is roughly the size of a coffin with ambition - and shove her dress up to her waist. The sight of her like that, bare from the waist down, thighs parted, cunt gleaming in the cabin’s filtered light, nearly ends me before I’ve started. “Hold that. Don’t you dare let go.”
She holds the dress bunched under her chin, eyes bright. “Bossy.”
“You fucking love this.”
“Unfortunately.”
I bury my face between her thighs like a man who has been thinking about this since the first bread crumb hit the water.
She tastes like salt air and want. I lick a long stripe up her cunt and she swears, loud and unrestrained, because for once there are no sleeping children down the hall and no thin apartment walls and no reasons to be quiet.
The freedom of it goes straight to my cock.
“That’s it,” I growl against her. “Be loud. I want the whole fucking marina to know whose wife is coming on this boat.”
“Pietro - oh my god…”
“Say my name louder.”
She does. I suck on her clit and push two fingers into her - tight, wet, perfect - and curl them until she arches off the bunk with a cry that might actually carry to the dock.
I don’t care. Let them hear. Let the whole Bay of Naples know I’ve got Ariah Emery-Grimaldi shaking apart under my mouth and I earned every goddamn second of it.
I work her slowly at first, then faster, reading the flex of her thighs and the pitch of her voice the way I used to read markets. She gets a hand in my hair and holds me where she wants me, shameless, directing me with little tugs that make me grin against her cunt.
“Left - no - there - fuck, right there…”
“Greedy,” I mutter, and give her exactly what she asked for. I add a third finger and she swears loud enough that I’m half-convinced someone on the next slip can hear. Good. Let them. I have spent years being quiet about wanting her; I am done being quiet.
“Pietro - I’m close - I’m so close…”
“Then take it. Take it from my mouth. I’ve got you.”
She laughs, breathless and wrecked. “You’re so - fucking - smug when you…”
I suck hard on her clit and the rest of the sentence dissolves into a moan.
She comes hard, thighs locking around my head, one hand fisted in my hair hard enough to sting. I work her through it until she’s laughing and shoving at my shoulders, oversensitive and glowing.
“Too much - fuck - sensitive…”
“Poor baby.” I wipe my mouth on the inside of her thigh and grin up at her. “Want me to stop?”
“Want you to fuck me before I expire of impatience.”
“Ask nicely.”
Her eyes narrow. Then, sweet as poison: “Please fuck me with that magnificent cock of yours, husband of mine, before I throw you overboard and find a more cooperative sailor.”
I laugh so hard I have to drop my forehead to her stomach. The boat rocks. Her fingers card through my hair, fond and impatient.
“God, I love you. You’re unhinged.”
“You love that I’m unhinged.”
“I do. Filthy little thing.” I shove my shorts down and kick them somewhere into the cabin chaos - they land on a life vest, which feels like a metaphor I don’t have time to unpack.
My cock springs free, aching, and she reaches for it immediately, stroking me with a sun-warmed hand that makes my vision go white at the edges.
“Look at you. Flushed and dripping and still holding your dress up like I told you. Perfect fucking wife.”
“Are you going to keep complimenting me or are you going to…”
I push into her in one smooth thrust and we both groan.
She’s soaked, open, taking me to the hilt like she was made for it - and maybe she was, maybe this is what we were always supposed to be when we stripped away the cold years and the boardrooms and the ghosts.
Just this. Skin and salt and the rock of the boat beneath us.
I stay buried for a second, breathing, letting us both feel it. Her legs wrap around my waist. Her ankles lock. The dress is still bunched in her fists.
“Okay?” I ask.
“If you ask me that one more time while your cock is this deep I will…”
I fuck her hard enough to cut the threat short.
The bunk creaks in protest. She hooks her ankles tighter at the small of my back and meets every thrust, greedy and laughing and swearing in a mix of English and the Italian curse words I taught her years ago in bed when we were still figuring out how filthy we could be with each other.
“Harder,” she demands. “I can take it - I want to feel you for days - want to sit down tomorrow and remember this boat…”
“Greedy cunt.” I hitch her leg higher, brace one hand on the bulkhead, and drive deeper. The new angle makes her cry out, loud and shameless. “My greedy fucking cunt. Tell me who you belong to.”
“You. Always you. Even when I left - god - even then…”
“And now?”
“Now I’m yours and you’re mine and if you stop thrusting I will end you…”
I clap a hand over her mouth, laughing, and she licks my palm.
Same filthy trick as always. Same devastating effect.
My rhythm stutters and I drop the hand to brace against the bulkhead as I pound into her, chasing the edge that’s rushing up fast and mean.
The boat rocks with us. Outside, a gull screams. Somewhere on the marina a voice calls something I don’t care about.
“Touch yourself,” I order. “I want to feel you come around me. I want this boat to remember the shape of us.”
She gets her hand between us and rubs her clit in frantic circles. I watch her face - the way her mouth falls open, the way her eyes go hazy and then sharp again when the orgasm hits. She clamps down on my cock so hard I see stars, pulsing around me in waves that drag me right to the brink.