Page 47 of Filthy Little Games

After that, my clit is so sensitive the air hurts.

It takes a great deal of effort to make my fingers tug on Creed’s hair hard enough to lift his face from between my legs.

When he does, his blue eyes look feral. For a moment, I think he’s angry at me until he removes his fingers from inside me and shoves them into his mouth, licking them clean.

Seeing this powerful, mostly naked man sprawled between my thighs would be a turn on all on its own any day of the week. But Creed Ferraro watching me while licking up my arousal is almost too much to handle. My pussy spasms around the emptiness, wishing there was something filling me again.

While I thought I couldn’t handle any more orgasms, I’m wondering if I could take one more if it was Creed’s long, hard inches stretching me.

With a cocky smirk, he sits back on his heels and swipes his forearm over his damp chin and lips. If I had the strength, I’d sit up and run my nails over his tattooed, muscular chest and down his carved abs.

I’m not sure if I’ll ever really believe that this man is my husband.

“From the way you gushed all over my tongue multiple times and screamed my name until you went hoarse, is it safe to assume you enjoyed me eating you out?”

“That was…fucking A.”

Chuckling, he asks, “Is that a positive review?”

“God, yes.”

“Well, I would be happy to make it a daily ritual. Twice a day until you come at least twenty-two more times.”

“Twenty-two?” I ask in confusion.

“You deserve to receive at least twenty-seven orgasms, at least one for every year of your life before I get to come. I counted five tonight.”

“Oh,” I say in surprise. “Do you really want to…do that so many times without, you know…”

“Getting anything in return?” he finishes. “Trust me. I get plenty of things out of this deal. I get to taste you, to make you scream and squirm for me, to watch your back arch in that sexy fucking way when you’re riding the pleasure the hardest. Those memories are all I need to finish when I’m fisting myself in the shower.” Leaning back, he presses his palm over the giant bulge straining the soft fabric of his black boxer briefs.

I’m transfixed at the sight and wonder what he would feel like inside of me, so it takes me a moment to catch back up to our conversation.

Creed doesn’t think he deserves any pleasure from me, the woman partially responsible for his brother’s death, which hurts.

But watching him touch himself is so freaking hot.

“Can I watch?” I blurt out, wanting to see him come even if he won’t let me touch him.

“Hell yes. That’s what the glass walls in the shower are for,micetta mia,” Creed says before he drags the pad of his thumb through my damp slit, making me squirm. Then he puts his thumb in his mouth to suck it clean.

“I still don’t know what la mia meeseeta or whatever means, since I don’t have access to a phone or a laptop…” I remind him. Instead of responding, he suddenly pumps not one, not two, but three fingers deep inside of me several times in a row, making me whimper.

Creed withdraws his fingers from me. “You probably won’t like it, so I think I’ll keep it to myself for now.” He shoves his hand down the front of his briefs and pulls his erection free, distracting me from what we were talking about.

God, he’s big. Like scary but please let me try to take it all big. And he’s stroking himself with his fingers slick from being inside me.

“I deserve to ache, but I can’t hold off any longer. You make me so damn hard, I can’t help myself.”

I glance up at his face. His blue eyes are still wild as they stare down at me, at my face, my breasts in his thin tee, lower to where my legs are still spread wide. That’s where he stares the longest with what I think is longing on his face.

Rather than climb on top of me to slam inside, he groans as if in agony while milking himself until his thick release runs down his tattooed knuckles. Apparently, he’s left-handed, since it drips over his wedding band.

When I swipe my tongue over my dry lips to wet them, Creed swears to the ceiling and squeezes his shaft tighter. “If you keep licking those pretty pink lips like that, I’m going to paint them white.”

I make sure he’s watching me when I do it again, then bite down on my bottom lip.

“Fuck,” he shouts before releasing himself. Grabbing my chin in his right hand, he presses his knuckles to my mouth, smearing his release across my lips, so the next time I lick them, I taste his salty flavor on my tongue.

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