Page 49 of Prized Possession

Although both me and my father have lived in Blackthorn our whole lives, our family are originally of Italian descent. My great-great grandfather moved over from Italy a very long time ago, and the Morelli’s have lived in England ever since.

Though we still have some distant relatives that none of us see that still live in Italy, we rarely go back there. My father’s mother is the only one who wanted to feel some kind of bond with her ancestors, and she chose to learn Italian. The rest of our family barely knows anything other than the odd curse word.

Growing up, I used to love watching my grandma move around the kitchen as she cooked, talking to herself in Italian. Despite only having been to Italy a few times, she still cooked like other Italian women, with recipes that were handed down through the generations.

My grandma was by far my favourite person, so when she offered to teach me Italian, of course, I said yes. She also taught me a bit of cooking at the same time.

I still remember her squeezing my cheeks when I turned thirteen, telling me that any woman would find me irresistible if I could cook her a nice meal and compliment her in the beautiful language.

The idea that I could win over a girl, and spend a bit of extra time with my grandma, was more than enough of an excuse for me to learn Italian. She wasn’t remotely surprised that I picked it up easily, boasting to everyone who would listen that I was a natural.

I still remember my father scoffing at me, saying I was wasting my time, that I should spend my time learning something useful rather than a language I’d rarely speak. Naturally, that made me spend even more time perfecting the language, until I could both write and speak it fluently.

Although I hate to admit it, my father was right that I barely use the language I spent so long learning. We rarely deal with anyone who doesn’t speak English, and even when we communicate with our contacts in Italy, my father insists they speak English so he can understand.

In fact, since my grandma passed away almost a decade ago now, I’ve barely spoken the beautiful language. Choosing only to drop the odd word when I don’t want the other person to know what I’m saying—usually as a way of insulting them whilst they’re none the wiser.

With Chloe, calling her Mio is my own little inside joke, and I’m not ready to let her in on it yet. I’ve been using it randomly since we were teenagers and she’s never looked it up, so I think she’s waiting for me to tell her what it means, which is fine by me.

Ignoring her question, I try to get the subject back on track.

“I asked you a question. Answer me,” I growl, leaving no room for arguments.

She’s torn between fighting me, demanding I tell her what the nickname means, and obeying me. There’s a submissive buried deep inside Chloe, and I’m desperate to bring her out to play.

“What was the question?” she rushes out, looking confused and a little flustered.

I have the bite the inside of my cheek to stop my smile from ruining the stern expression I’m trying to maintain. “I asked if you used your fingers to help with the ache in your wet pussy after watching me wank.”

The nod of her head is so slight, had I not been paying attention, I may have missed it. Then she remembers my instructions and finds her voice, though it’s low and croaky. “Yes.”

My smirk grows as my dick throbs painfully at the images I’m conjuring in my head. “Did you just rub your clit until you fell apart? Or did you plunge your fingers into your tight cunt, wishing it was my hard cock instead?”

With each dirty word, she chews more on her bottom lip, her chest rising and falling rapidly. The way she rubs her thighs together is becoming more noticeable, and I can tell she’s just as worked up as I am.

I want nothing more than to slide my zipper down, take out my hard cock, and stroke it until I blow all over myself, but I can’t do that this time. This has to be all about Chloe.

“Both,” she squeaks, and I can’t help the low groan that slips free at the thought.

Her eyes widen as soon as she hears it, and she looks shocked that her words could elicit such a response from me. I’m surprised she hasn’t notice the large tent in my trousers yet, and I’m reminded once again that this girl has no idea how fucking perfect she is.

“Take off your shorts,” I say.

“What?” she blurts out, her hands moving instinctively to press against the small fabric that’s doing a piss poor job of covering her legs.

“I said…take off your shorts,” I repeat, deliberately slowing my words down as I enunciate them more clearly.

She shakes her head, looking a little panicked. “I’m not wearing anythingunderneath,” she whispers, and my smile grows, showing my teeth in a way that probably makes me look like a predator.

“Good.”

I wait, and Chloe looks to be warring with herself, torn over what the right thing to do is. I see the moment she makes her decision, as her face that had been crinkled while deep in thought suddenly relaxed. Her gaze drops to the floor, and she takes a big deep breath before she reaches up to grab the waistband of her shorts.

Without hesitation, most likely as she’s worried any pause may cause her to lose her nerve, she lifts her arse just enough to wiggle the shorts down her legs. Once they fall to her ankles, she uses her foot to flick them to one side.

Her creamy thighs are now fully on display for me, and saliva floods my mouth as I think about how soft her flesh would be against my lips.

“Open your legs, Mio,” I demand, loving the way her eyes flick up to meet mine, the blush on her cheeks worsening.

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