Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
Pfeiffer
I’m stiff as a board, sweating with adrenaline and aching in places I didn’t know had nerve endings. His lips drift over the lobe of my ear, his breath hot and intense.
I hear his slow inhalation then feel the whisper of his words on my cheek.
“I want to see you.”
The dark promise in his tone unbalances me so bad, my fingers burn to reach out and hold onto him. I have no idea what this is, this feeling, but it heats me like a fever, crawling up my throat, licking over my face, creeping into my hairline.
His breaths deepen, a guttural sound touching the edges. My lack of experience in relationships doesn’t fill me with confidence around men, but something instinctive and primal tells me he… wants this.
Wants me.
The room moves in and out of focus as his body braces for my response.
I’m so confused. Every interaction I’ve had with Il Diavolo up to now has been enveloped in something hateful.
Not this.
I anchor back to his words. I want to see you.
It isn’t demand I hear; it’s vulnerability. Despite this, I know what I’ve agreed to and I know that as long as he honors my one condition—to not put his hands on me—I can’t not do as he says.
He grows impatient at my slow response.
“You’re here to provide whatever I want,” he grits out, rough. “And I want to see you.”
I pull back, removing my neck from the heat of his lips. The eyeholes in his mask seem cavernous and I know that if I lose my grip, I’ll fall into them and drown. So, I hold on.
My stomach rolls in fear.
He tips his head back and pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, scraping it slowly before letting it pop free. His gaze settles on me, a challenge tinting the corners. His solid jaw moves subtly from side-to-side, the muscle jumping with each grind.
Seconds pass. Minutes.
I’m about to melt under the pressure when he leans forward, touching his lips to mine so lightly that it tickles the hairs on my Cupid’s Bow.
“Pfeiffer McAllister,” he whispers, deeply, “take off your clothes.”
Lust lunges through me like a roll of thunder. That one sentence makes my head spin so fast I’m dizzy.
He takes a couple steps back, leans against the wall and pushes his hands into his pockets. Even though I can’t see his eyes clearly, I can feel them on every inch of my skin and I haven’t even revealed it all to him yet.
I lick my lips and swallow. I can’t believe I signed up for this. What was I thinking?
One month, I remind myself. One month and I can forget this place ever existed.
Slowly, I push the dress over my shoulders, letting the fabric fall down my arms. I think wistfully of my bra sitting on a chair in the dressing room, as the dress falls exposing my bare breasts cushioned only by the cups.
His throat bobs in the dim light but the rest of his body stays rock still.
I push the dress over my hips and allow it to fall to my feet in a slinky black puddle. I take his continued silence as a cue to remove my lace panties also, stepping out of them before nudging them to the side with a toe.
Despite the warmth of the room, everything in me is on high alert, including my nipples. They’re so taut and erect they hurt.
I stand in the center of the floor, fully naked. Bared to the great Diavolo Sovrano. Just as he wanted.
I tip my chin. “Was it worth it?”
He stops breathing for a moment. Then, with unexpected aggression, he pushes himself off the wall and stalks the three paces up to my bare chest.
When he speaks, it’s through a clenched jaw. “Don’t you ever question whether the sight of your body is worth it.”
The shock of his anger makes my gaze drop to his hands. They’re free of his pockets now and shaking. And below them, so are my knees.
I understand why I might be trembling; I’m scared out of my mind. But him? What does he have to be afraid of? It’s obvious he doesn’t like me. So why has he put himself here, in this room, with me?
Before I can brave the question, he drops to his knees, bringing his face level with my breasts.
“Remove these,” he says, almost spitting with disgust.
I peel the cups from my ribcage, freeing my breasts. Without further warning, he leans forward and takes half of one in his mouth.
I gasp in surprise, too stunned to jerk backward. A swathe of warmth erupts across my chest and wends its way between my legs. His tongue sweeps over the pebbled skin and he sucks at the nipple, turning me into something needy and hot.
True to his word, his hands don’t reach for me once. His mouth does all the work.
He moves my breast about with his tongue, side to side, catching the nipple between his teeth, pulling on it with his lips as though he’s milking it. To my horror, my spine bends, pushing my body into him for more. When he moves to the other breast, I whimper, appalled at my own weakness.
A faint murmur transfers from his mouth to my nipple sending sparks of heat through my veins.
He can’t be enjoying this.
He’s teasing me. Using me. Showing me what I can’t have—what I don’t deserve.
A wet sensation touches my upper thigh and it takes me a minute to realize what it is, then I jump backward, embarrassment flooding my veins.
His lips are red and moist when he looks up at me. Then something seems to snap behind his mask. He stands quickly.
“What’s wrong?”
“C-can I—” Oh God, I can’t believe I’m about to say this. “Please can I have a tissue?”
Even behind his mask I can tell he’s frowning. “Why?”
I look off to the side, balling my fists. “Um, I…”
In the corner of my eye his gaze drops, then climbs slowly back up my body.
“Look at me.”
I ignore his command.
“Pfeiffer, look at me.”
I respond this time, turning hesitantly to face him.
“You’re aroused,” he says, with surprising softness.
My cheeks are so hot they’re about to melt off my face.
“I would like a tissue. Please.”
“No.”
No? He just wants me to drip all over his nice clean floor? Does he want to humiliate me? Work me up so hard I come apart, then he can laugh at me, do whatever sick and twisted thing he wants?
“Put your hand between your legs.”
“W-what?”
He repeats the words so gently that this time, I obey.
“Now find your clit.”
“I know where it is,” I mutter, embarrassed.
A smirk rumbles at the back of his throat. “Then rub it for me, cucciola.”
His voice goes dry, betraying a crack in his composure. It makes me want to drive him to the edge, somehow.
I would’ve thought stripping naked for him would be the most embarrassing thing I’d ever do, but I was wrong. Fondling myself while he watches surpasses it by a mile.
My pussy is so wet it makes a sucking sound as I move my fingers, but— God, it feels good.
Having his masked face bearing down on me while I finger myself feels raw and dirty. I know I’m going to regret this the instant I get out of here, but for now, I don’t want to stop.
He wets his lips and lowers them to mine. They brush briefly but he doesn’t kiss me. I’m not sure how I’d react if he did. Regardless of how good this feels, I still hate him for using me this way.
His hands remain deep in his pockets, his lips coasting hot breaths over mine as I work myself into a molten puddle of need.
“Tell me how it feels, Pfeiffer,” he rasps. “If I can’t touch you, I need you to tell me. Tell me how your pussy feels in your fingers.”
He darts his tongue once over my parted lips, tasting the lust on my breath.
“Tell me,” he pleads.
I lick my dry lips, the tip of my tongue grazing against his mouth. Sparks blind me at the sensation. I haven’t touched another man with my tongue in so long, but he’s standing so close.
“It feels… smooth.” I swallow. “Slippery…”
His eyelids fall closed and a sound vibrates behind his pinned lips.
“My clit is, um… firm. A little hard.”
“Mm,” he moans. “You’re turned on.”
“I am,” I whisper. “I’m all wet.”
“Porca puttana,” he murmurs and drops his forehead to mine. “Does it feel good?”
My breaths shorten as I peer up at him as best I can through my lashes.
“Yes,” I whisper.
He shifts his body closer and I take a step back. He steps in again. I step back.
Then my back hits the wall and his hands come up either side of me, planting his palms just above my shoulders.
His forehead is still snug against mine, his eyes still closed, like he’s doing all of this through his other senses.
“Slower,” he murmurs. “A little firmer. Vai avanti. Don’t stop.”
Following his instructions, I feel weightless. Having him close his eyes makes it easier for me to relax. I feel less self-conscious. When he licks his lips, my fingers become drenched. Just the sight of him making these small, sensual movements is sending me a little crazy.
A traitorous whimper flutters through my lips and his eyes flash suddenly, hooking onto mine from beneath his mask.
“Keep talking.” His voice has turned to gravel.
“Um—” I can’t find words because my vision is tilting and I have nothing to grip onto. I want to melt into him, which doesn’t make any sense—he hasn’t even touched me. “I think I’m going to come.”
More Italian is punched from his mouth but this time his eyes stay open.
“Eyes on me when you come, Pfeiffer,” he clips, his voice suddenly crystal clear and almost desperate.
“Don’t blink, don’t tip your head back. I want to see everything.”
I nod, my mouth falling open. “Oh God—”
“Fuuuck,” he breathes. “Madonna, sto per venire.”
I don’t know what he’s saying, but I smooth my fingers over my clit, harder and faster, and my head drops forward. I keep my eyes on his, but it’s hard. My whole body heats like a furnace and I spasm on my feet while I keep working my fingers.
“Keep going,” he commands, the sound of his words obliterated by the pump, pump, pump of blood in my ears.
“Can you feel your come? You’re so slippery, I can hear it. Keep coming for me.”
I fall into him with a loud gasp, my shoulders convulsing against his chest.
“Bellissima fottuta traditrice,” he whispers, breathless.
He stays still, letting me use him for stability while he inhales my whimpers.
Traditrice. Doesn’t it mean ‘traitor?’ But I can’t hold the word in my head for longer than a second, not when my hypothalamus is exploding into a million tiny pieces.
I can feel his heart beating rapidly beneath his shirt. It makes me want to reach for him, mold my lips to his as I rock this out, but I can’t do that. I don’t have the confidence. Or the permission.
He cages me in as I come down from the insane high I just felt, sheltering me from the impending shame of having just fingered myself in front of the great Il Diavolo.
Shit.
I will never get over this.
There’s embarrassment and then there’s utter, complete, all-consuming ruin.
My breaths slow, warming the air between us.
I peer up and his eyes are closed again as if he’s experiencing the aftermath on some other level. It makes me feel a strange combination of shame and power.
Minutes pass but I don’t feel more awkward for it. Our body heat blurs and our breaths combine.
His lids open slowly, warmth filtering through the holes in his mask to caress my skin.
“Can I kiss you?”
I don’t know who spoke. I think it was him, but there’s a silent rage buzzing beneath his skin so rampant I can feel it. And that confuses me.
But I reply before I can think. “Yes.”
Please.
I might die if you don’t.
I remain still. He leans in, hot breath skating over my lips, my brain mushy from my orgasm.
When his soft lips brush against mine, the chemical combustion makes my lids flash open. His irises are black. Blacker than the leather mask he wears over his face.
Then he presses the soft skin of his lips to mine and it burns in the best possible way. We hover like this for a long moment, then he tilts his head, slanting his lips softly over mine, possessing them in a deep kiss.
His tongue nudges against my teeth, inching them apart, then licks inside my mouth. It’s so raw and carnal I forget to breathe.
A moan passes from my throat to his mouth and he returns it with something untethered. It makes my head spin.
We sink into each other as much as our bodies will allow without our hands resting against skin.
His palms press into the wall either side of my head and his warmth wraps around my whole being, his scent enveloping me like a hot bath.
He moves his mouth against mine skilfully, flicking his tongue across mine with a stroke of possession.
This feels like a movie kiss. It’s so good it couldn’t possibly be real. There’s no wonder all the women in his vicinity seem to covet Il Diavolo when he kisses like this.
Part of my brain wants to wonder how many of them he’s kissed and why a kernel of jealousy is growing in my belly. But another part wants to sink into this moment, revel in the way his mouth molds so easily to mine.
My heart pumps chaotically and I lean in for more.
I release another moan into his mouth, and suddenly, he pulls back so fast a breeze whips at my cheeks.
I’ve never felt anything like it—like I was being absorbed into another body, willingly, and melting into an obscene state of longing for more and more and more.
But now he’s standing across the room like I burned him.
His back is against the opposite wall, his palms flat to it, and he’s breathing heavily.
“Leave,” he barks, and I nearly jump out of my skin.
I stare at him while that one word sinks in. His jaw is hard, his shoulders are rigid and his hands are shaking against the wall. He looks like he’s about to kill me.
“NOW!” he roars.
Oh fuck.
I bend down to pick up my crumpled dress, then throw it over my head. My eyes dart about until they land on my shoes and panties. Gripping them tightly, I fling open the door.
I don’t even close it behind me. I just run.
And I don’t look back.