Page 13 of Beautiful & Dirty

His head dips close, and our lips just barely brush. I whimper.

“You have no idea how beautiful you are,” he whispers. “Your boyfriend does not deserve you.”

I huff a nervous laugh when he unbuttons my pants. I feel so free, but that might just be all the pizza I ate. “I know,” I finally admit. “I didn’t realize that until today, but I can do better.”

His lips ghost over mine teasingly, and he pushes my jeans down to my knees.

I whimper again, and he smiles, his nails scratching lightly up my thighs. I spread my legs shamelessly for him.

“You deserve more than better, bella. You deserve the best. You deserve everything,” he says as his hand snakes between my legs.

He cups my sex with a wicked smile. He seems dangerous in that moment, and I’m not some fool girl in a horror movie. I should run away from danger, but I spread my legs for it instead because I want him to feel how wet I am. I want him to know that I’ve been wet since the moment he sat down at my table.

“What about your wife?” I ask as his fingers brush along the wet cleft of my panty-covered pussy.

His body stills, and his mouth turns down in a frown.

I move my hands tentatively to his shoulders. “Does your wife deserve you?” I ask.

He looks at me, blinking slowly, his fingers resting heavily on the wet fabric. There’s no mistaking it now, there is sadness there.

“Yes,” he finally says. “We’re both terrible people.”

I wrap my arms around his neck, pressing my breasts against his chest. “You don’t seem so terrible to me.”

His free hand cups the back of my head, and his fingers tangle in my curls. “That’s because you bring the best out in me. I wish…” His voice trails off. “I wish I were half the man I see in your eyes.”

I want to tell him that in my limited experience, he’s the best man I’ve ever met. I want to make him promises I shouldn’t, can’t. I don’t know if that’s the people-pleaser in me, or a consequence of all the wine, or a true reflection of my feelings, and that confusion makes me feel something I rarely acknowledge; anger. I hate not knowing who I am or what I really feel. I want to blame Steve, but I know this dilemma is all mine.

But Salvatore saves me from myself when he curls his fingers around the gusset of my panties and begins to stroke my bare lips so lightly that I want to scream. In frustration. In joy. In pain.

My head falls back into his grasp. I groan, and then his mouth covers mine, and it’s perfect.

I can still remember the first time Steve kissed me, and not because it was good. I remember it because it was so fucking terrible that I avoided him for a week. There was too much tongue, he bit me, and my bottom lip was swollen for two days. I sometimes have nightmares about it. Salvatore’s kiss isn’t just the complete opposite; it’s as if this kiss originated on a different planet, and when his tongue slips into my mouth, I’m certain that he transports me there.

But it’s a two-pronged assault. His lips and tongue caress mine at the same time as his fingers curl inside me, and his thumb starts to caress my clit.

“Oh, fuck,” I mumble against his lips.

I feel his smile as he fingers me in deep, unhurried strokes, and I shudder in his arms. His hand tightens in my hair, and I feel myself coming apart at the seams in a way I hadn’t thought possible. Then he breaks the kiss. I’m about to protest, but he spears me in his gaze in a silent command. One I’m very happy to obey. His forehead presses against mine as he presses another finger inside my aching core.

This moment is more intense than anything I’ve experienced in my life, not just with Steve, but everything. My first kiss with my best friend Ana in middle school; the first time I let my high school crush, Jon, touch my breast during our first co-ed sleep over; even every time I’d tentatively touched myself quietly after Steve had fallen asleep after masturbating inside me. Salvatore’s fingers stroking into my wet warmth erases everything before this moment.

“Fuck,” I whimper again, my body shaking with an orgasm just cresting into being.

“It’s okay, bella,” Salvatore whispers gently, stroking my hair. “Come for me.”

And that’s what does it. Those three words send me right over the edge. Salvatore’s simple command is like an invitation — one I’ve never gotten from Steve — to put myself and my pleasure first. It’s a declaration thatheis putting my pleasure first, and it shakes so many things loose inside me. This orgasm is as Zoe said. It’s like the sky splits, the heavens open, and my pussy starts to sing a hymn, hell, maybe even a spiritual. I feel reborn as his fingers still inside me, and his thumb rubs my clit.

If that kiss erased my past, this orgasm is a blueprint for the future; nothing about me will ever be the same.

And I haven’t even touched the bulging mound of the erection grinding against my hip.

I tighten my arms around Salvatore’s neck and pull his mouth back to mine. I kiss him deeply and passionately, the way I’ve never kissed Steve. Maybe it’s because of how intense that orgasm was, or maybe it’s just that I’m certain I’ll never see this man again. Either way, I want to leave no stone unturned with this kiss. I need to imprint every detail on my brain — the soft press of his lips, the slide of his tongue, his tickling beard, the taste of wine — so I can call it all to mind the next time Steve tells me my posture is terrible. I want to remember Salvatore’s certain statement that I deserve the best and then remind myself what the best felt like.

When I finally pull away from the kiss, it’s only to whine as his fingers slip out of my pussy.

He smiles, swiping his lips against mine quickly. “I know, bella, but you have a train to catch, and I want to experience as much of you as I can.”

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