4. Cielo #2
He stands. Lifts the nightgown over my head in one motion.
The cool air of the villa hits my bare skin and I shiver, and then his hands are everywhere - cupping my breasts, thumbs dragging over my nipples until they tighten, sliding down my sides to the curve of my waist, lower, to the edge of my underwear.
He hooks his fingers in the waistband and looks at me, waiting.
“Yes,” I say.
He peels them down. Slow. Watching. When I’m bare in front of him he makes a sound low in his throat, something between a groan and a curse, and then he’s backing me toward the daybed until the backs of my knees hit the edge and I sit.
He’s still dressed. Shirt, trousers, the whole expensive armor of a man who left this morning looking like business and came home looking like apology. I reach for his belt.
“No.” He catches my wrists. Gentle. Firm. “Not yet. I said mouth first.”
“Giovanni-”
“Lie back.”
I lie back. The daybed is soft, the linen cool against my spine, and above me the moon is silvering the ceiling through the tall windows.
He kneels between my thighs and pushes them apart with his palms, and for a moment he just looks - at me, at the place where I’m already wet for him, at the necklace he put around my throat twenty minutes ago resting against my collarbone like a brand.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “Look at you. My wife. Wet for me after I’ve spent weeks giving you every reason not to be.”
“Don’t talk about the weeks.”
“I’m going to talk about whatever I want while I eat this cunt.” His mouth curves - that dangerous almost-smile. “And you’re going to take it.”
Then his mouth is on me.
No preamble. No careful circling. Just the flat of his tongue dragging through my cunt like a man who’s been starving and has finally been handed a meal.
I gasp - loud, unrestrained, because the house is empty and there’s no one to hear and I’ve been quiet too long about everything.
He groans against me at the sound, the vibration of it shooting through my clit, and then he’s spreading me open with his thumbs and licking into me properly.
“Giovanni - oh-”
“That’s it.” His voice is muffled, wrecked. “Say my name. Louder.”
I say it louder. He sucks on my clit with devastating focus, two fingers sliding into me and curling against that place that makes my back arch off the daybed.
The pendant shifts against my throat. His free hand pins my hip when I try to rock up into his mouth, holding me still, making me take exactly what he’s giving.
“You’ve been this wet for me and sleeping alone,” he growls against my thigh, then returns to my cunt like he can’t stay away. “Fucking criminal. I should have come home every night and done this. Should have put you on this daybed and made you come until you forgot every dinner I missed.”
“Then do it now-” My voice cracks. “Stop talking and-”
He does. He works me with his tongue and his fingers in a rhythm that builds and builds until my thighs are shaking around his head and I’m clutching at the linen, at his hair, at anything that will keep me from flying apart.
The orgasm hits hard - sharp, almost angry, weeks of loneliness and want crashing through me at once.
I cry out. He doesn’t stop. He works me through it until I’m whimpering, oversensitive, tugging at his hair.
“Enough - fuck - enough-”
He pulls back, mouth slick, eyes black in the moonlight. “Not even close, amore.”
He stands. Undoes his belt. I watch him strip with the hungry attention of someone who’s been denied the sight - shirt peeled off broad shoulders, trousers shoved down, the hard line of his cock freed from his briefs.
He’s thick, flushed, already wet at the tip, and the sight of him makes my mouth go dry even though I just came.
“Come here,” I say, sitting up, reaching for him.
He steps into the space between my knees. I wrap my fist around his cock and stroke once, watching his face go tight, watching his stomach flex. A bead of wetness gathers; I lean in and lick it off the head, tasting salt and him, and he swears in Italian - something filthy and half-broken.
“Cielo. Fuck. Your mouth-”
“You’ve been denying yourself this too,” I say against the shaft, kissing along the length of him. “Haven’t you?”
“Every fucking night.” His hand threads into my hair, not pushing, just holding. “Every night I came home late and lay beside you hard and aching and too much of a coward to wake you.”
“Wake me now.”
I take him into my mouth. Slow. Deep as I can.
His hips jerk and he curses again, and I hollow my cheeks and work him with my tongue the way I learned in the first year of our marriage, when we still had time for this - for lingering, for learning each other, for nights that weren’t about apology.
He lets me for a minute, maybe two, his breathing harsh, his fingers gentle in my hair.
Then he’s pulling me off him with a groan.
“If you keep doing that I’m going to come down your throat,” he says, rough. “And I need to be inside you first. Need to feel you. Need-”
“Then fuck me.” I lie back, spreading my thighs, shameless in the moonlight. “Prove it. Be here.”
He covers me with his body. The heat of him is overwhelming - chest to chest, the dark hair against my breasts, the weight of him settling between my legs.
He notches himself at my entrance and pushes in slow - one long wet slide that steals the air from both of us.
Inch by inch. The stretch of him, the heat, the way my body remembers how to open for him even when my mind has spent weeks learning how to close.
When he’s seated deep he drops his forehead to mine and just breathes, trembling slightly, his arms braced on either side of my head.
“Move,” I tell him.
“Give me a second. You feel-” He swallows. “You feel like coming home. Like fucking coming home.”
“Then come home.” I dig my nails into his back. “Move, Giovanni.”
He moves.
The first thrust is careful. The second less so.
By the third he’s fucking me properly - deep, steady strokes that rock the daybed against the wall, that make the pendant bounce against my throat, that pull sounds out of me I haven’t made in weeks.
I wrap my legs around his waist and meet him thrust for thrust, angry and tender and starving all at once, and he watches my face like he’s memorizing it.
“This cunt,” he growls against my ear. “This perfect fucking cunt. Mine. Still mine. Say it.”
“Yours-”
“Louder.”
“Yours. God, Giovanni, yours-”
He shifts the angle, hitching my thigh higher over his hip, and the next thrust hits that place inside me that makes stars burst behind my eyes. I cry out. He does it again. And again. Relentless. The daybed creaks. Somewhere outside a wave breaks against the rocks.
“I’m going to come,” I gasp. “I’m-”
“Do it. Come on my cock. Let me feel it.” His hand slides between us, thumb finding my clit, rubbing in tight circles timed to his thrusts. “Give it to me, Cielo. I’ve fucking earned it tonight.”
I come apart with his name in my mouth and his thumb on my clit and his cock buried deep, the orgasm rolling through me in waves that make my whole body seize around him.
He swears, rhythm faltering, and then he’s pulling out - I make a sound of protest - and flipping me onto my stomach with a roughness that somehow still feels careful, still feels like him.
“On your knees,” he says. “I want to see you. All of you.”
I push up onto my elbows and knees. He settles behind me, one hand spanning the small of my back, and pushes back in with a groan that sounds like it was torn out of him.
This angle is deeper. Fuller. His hips snap against my ass and I have to drop my forehead to the linen and just take it - the relentless drive of him, the filthy praise spilling out of his mouth, the way his hand comes around to cup my breast and then slide down to rub my clit again.
“So fucking beautiful like this,” he pants. “My wife. On her knees for me. Taking every inch. Look at you - look at how wet you are, dripping down your thighs for a man who’s been failing you.”
“Then stop failing-” I push back to meet him. “Stop failing and fuck me like you mean it.”
He means it. God, he means it. He fucks me harder, deeper, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the quiet room, and I come again - sooner than I expect, shocking and bright, sobbing into the linen while he holds my hips and works me through it. His rhythm stutters. His hand tightens on my waist.
“Cielo - I’m-”
“Inside,” I gasp. “Come inside me. Stay.”
He comes with a broken sound, burying himself to the hilt, pulsing deep as his forehead drops between my shoulder blades. His arms wrap around my middle. We stay like that - joined, shaking, breathing hard - while the lighthouse beam sweeps again across the dark water outside.