Chapter 18 #2
A second finger. Slower. He scissors them gently, working me open with a precision that makes my thighs tremble.
His other hand slides beneath me, finding my clit, pressing firm circles that send sparks up my spine.
The pleasure from the front tangles with the stretch from behind and my brain dissolves, every thought replaced by sensation.
"That's my girl." His voice is strained, tight with the effort of holding himself back. "You're perfect."
I look back to see his amber eyes lit with a fusion of hunger and desire.
“How badly do you want me, Massimo? Tell me.” I reach back for him and he twines his fingers through mine.
His chest expands and collapses several times before he answers and when he does, his words are rough. Like he has sandpaper for vocal cords.
“More than I want my next breath. More than anything else. I want you, Sloane. Only you.”
He steps back, undresses and comes back to me gloriously naked. The sight of him steals what's left of my breath. His cock is thick with need and I know for a fact come morning, I'm going to feel every inch of where he's been.
“Tesoro. My blood is yours. My soul. My heart. Remember that.”
He finally positions himself behind me. “Hold yourself open for me, tesoro.”
I do as instructed and when I feel the broad head of his cock press where his fingers were I can’t control the gasp into the sheets. I moan and move my hips, desperate to feel everything with this man.
He pushes forward. Inch by inch. I tighten my hold on the sheets with both hands, my knuckles white against the cotton, and breathe as my body opens for him in a way I never imagined possible. The fullness is immense, pressure and heat filling me so completely I lose the edges of my own body.
"Breathe, Sloane. Stay with me, my tesoro."
"I'm here." My voice fractures. "I'm right here." My heart trembles and quakes in my chest.
He seats himself fully and goes still. Both of us breathing heavily. His forehead presses against the back of my neck, his skin damp, and I feel the tremor running through his arms where they brace on either side of me. The effort it takes him not to move vibrates through his body into mine.
Then his hand reaches beneath me and I feel the vibrator press against my clit. I didn’t realize he took it out of the drawer.
He clicks it on and the buzz jolts through my already overwhelmed body. My hips buck and a cry tears from my mouth that I couldn't stop if I tried.
He begins to move. Slow, shallow strokes while the vibrator hums against my clit.
The combination of fullness from behind and direct stimulation on my most sensitive nerve is so intense my vision narrows to a point.
My fingers twist the sheets. My mouth falls open against the pillow.
Every thrust sends waves through me that build on each other, layering, compounding, until I can't tell where one crest ends and the next begins.
I suck in a gasping breath at the shockwaves shooting outward from my core. I barely manage to catch my breath when he pulls out only to sink back into my ass. And almost on command, my body gives him everything.
I try to move my hips but his grip holds me in place, and he sets the rhythm.
"Oh God." Tears leak from the corners of my eyes, hot against my temples, soaking into the pillow.
Not from pain. But from the sheer overwhelming pressure of pleasure I didn't know my body could contain.
From the trust it takes to lie face down and let this man inside the most vulnerable part of me and feel nothing but safe. "Massimo, I can't. It's too much."
"You can. You're taking me so well. You’re such a good girl. Such a beautiful wife. I wish you could see how well you take my cock. Fucking beautiful." His voice is wrecked, barely a voice at all. "Let go, tesoro. I've got you. I'm right here."
I let go.
The orgasm detonates from somewhere so deep it doesn't feel like my body anymore.
My spine arches, my scream buries itself in the crumpled sheets, every muscle clenching so hard his groan shakes through both of us.
He follows me, his hips pressing flush, his warmth flooding through me.
His arms wrap around my waist and he holds me through the aftershocks, his chest sealed to my back, his lips moving against my shoulder blade, whispering words I can't make out over the roaring in my ears.
I cry. Quiet tears that roll across my temples and disappear into my hair. The fear I've been carrying for eleven years lets go and the relief of it shakes through my whole body. My body chose trust over terror. And that is everything.
I am healing. It is terrifying and beautiful and I am doing it in the arms of a man who is patient enough to wait and brave enough to hold on.
He withdraws gently. Turns me onto my back. His thumbs brush the tears from my cheeks, his face close to mine, his dark eyes searching and finding whatever answer he needs because his expression softens into something I will carry with me for the rest of my life.
"You're incredible." He says it like he's stating a law of physics. Not a compliment. A fact.
"I'm wrecked."
"Beautifully wrecked." He presses his lips against my forehead. "Don't move. I'll be right back."
Water runs in the next room. The sound of it filling the tub echoes off the tile and the pipes hum behind the walls.
He comes back with his forearms damp, and lifts me from the bed.
He carries me to the bathroom where steam rises from the surface of the water and the scent of lavender hits me before I see the bottle sitting on the edge of the tub.
He sets me in the water and the heat wraps around my body, soothing every stretched muscle, every aching place. I sink until the water touches my chin and close my eyes and let the warmth dissolve the last traces of tension from my limbs.
He kneels beside the tub. He wets a washcloth, wrings it, and presses it against the back of my neck. The heat blooms across my shoulders. He wets my hair and then he reaches for the shampoo and pours it into his palm.
"Lean back."
I lean back. His fingers work through my hair, massaging my scalp with slow, firm circles.
The lather builds between his hands and the scent of mint mixes with the lavender from the bath.
He rinses with cupped handfuls of warm water, his palm cradling the back of my head, careful to keep the soap from my eyes.
Nobody has washed my hair since I was a child.
My mother used to do it in the kitchen sink, her hands gentle and quick, humming something I can't remember the melody of anymore.
The memory surfaces and I press my hand against my mouth because the intimacy of this man kneeling beside a bathtub with shampoo on his hands is reaching a part of me the sex didn't touch.
He doesn't stop. He just keeps washing my hair with patient hands while the steam curls between us and the lavender fills the small space.
After, he wraps me in a towel so large it folds around me twice and carries me to the sofa.
He disappears into the kitchen and returns with hot chocolate in my chipped mug and a plate of shortbread cookies from the bakery down the street.
The chocolate is rich and dark, almost bitter, the way he makes it, with a splash of cream stirred in that mellows the bite.
The shortbread crumbles between my fingers, buttery and warm.
I sit cross-legged on the sofa in his t-shirt with wet hair and a mug warming my palms and I watch him settle beside me.
He pulls my feet into his lap and presses his thumbs into my arches, working slow circles into the tight muscles.
The pressure sends warmth spreading up through my calves and my toes curl against his palm.
He finds a knot beneath the ball of my foot and holds the pressure until it releases, and I melt deeper into the sofa with a sound that makes him smile without looking up.
This is what it feels like to be loved by a man who pays attention.
"Thank you," I whisper.
"For what?"
"For everything."
His jaw works. His eyes glisten in the lamplight, wet at the edges, and he blinks twice before pulling me against his chest and tucking my head under his chin. We sit in the quiet while the hot chocolate warms my palms and his heartbeat steadies beneath my ear.
His phone buzzes on the counter. Once. Twice. Three times.
His shoulders lock against my cheek. The arm around me tightens. I feel the shift in his body, the ease draining out of him, tension flooding back into muscles that were soft a moment ago. His heartbeat picks up speed beneath my ear, each beat harder than the last.
"Mass?"
"It's nothing, tesoro. Work follows me everywhere I go. Sometimes it’s not as easy as clocking in and clocking out." His voice is steady but his body tells a different story. His breathing has changed. His fingers press into my arm with a pressure he doesn't seem to notice.
My gut tightens. The warmth I've been wrapped in cools by a degree, then another, and something in the gap between his words and his body tells me the calm just ended.
I don't push.
But my gut says I need to worry.