Page 234 of Bitter Poetry
I give up all pretenses that I don’t want this. My body knows I do, even if my mind wants to deny it. This inner conflict I suffer only acts as an amplifier for the inferno that sweeps through my blood.
I’m hot for him. Panting. My clothing is an annoyance that I wish was out of the way.
He’s right. I need him. I need him so impossibly, so perfectly, and with such startling clarity, it robs me of breath and thought.
He pauses the kiss long enough to peel my top over my head, then holds my wrists in his hands again. I hair a faintwhooshas it lands somewhere in the room. His lips blaze a path down my throat, over my collarbone until they can enclose the stiff peak of my nipple.
He sucks. My back arches. Pleasure shoots straight to my core, making me mindless, restless, and desperate. He moves to the other side, obliterating the last of my resistance.
God, I should hate this, shouldn’t I? The way he runs roughshod over my desire for space. His possession is all-consuming. Yet where else would I be? What else do I need but him?
The feeling of him against me is heaven. The look in his eyes holds both ownership and adoration. He might well be the devil himself wrapped up in a beautiful disguise come to deliver me into sin.
His lips return to my throat, sucking lightly against the skin. He leans up onto one forearm, grasps the waist of my sleep shorts and panties, and peels them all the way off. Then he is back on top of me now with nothing between us, our bodies moving against one another, his lips, once more, against my throat as his fingers find my slick pussy and push straight up inside me.
A moan slips from my parted lips.
He grins. “You’re soaking, baby. Is this for me?”
Why is he even asking when he knows it is?
He rocks back onto his heels, dragging my wrists forward, placing my hands on my belly. And then he drops down, and his mouth is on my pussy. He growls and groans over me, kissingme, licking me. It’s almost like he’s feverish for the taste. The sensations are glorious and intense.
“This is my fucking pussy,” he says. “Tell me it’s mine.”
I shake my head. He moves his tongue up to my clit and flicks it before he closes his lips around it and sucks.
So close, so fast.
I’m about to fly away, barely clinging to the last thread that’s anchoring me to the ground.
“Tell me, Carmela.”
The thread holding me down stretches taut. I feel my pulse beating in my throat and the echoing pulse of arousal as my pussy clenches fruitlessly around nothing.
Why am I fighting this?
“Yes! It’s yours.”
“You’re damn right it’s mine.” And then he closes his lips over me again and sucks.
A wave of pure, undiluted bliss slams into me so hard that light sparks across the back of my closed eyelids.
He surges upward. I blink my eyes open. His lips are glistening where they’ve been on me and as he pulls in each harsh breath, his eyes gleam darkly.
He’s not hiding himself today. He’s not pretending to be anything but what he is. And then he rocks his hips forward and his cock plunges into me.
I’ve just come. I’m tight and sensitive. It hurts a little, but, oh, it hurts so good.
“Whose pussy is this?” he growls.
The thread that once connected me to the ground is gone, obliterated, snapped, broken irrevocably. I’m floating. Now, the only thing holding me to this earthly world is Dante and the devastation he brings as he pumps into me: slow, deliberate thrusts that make our bodies slap together and pleasure spark. Each one remakes me and connects me more deeply to him.
He was right. I crave this; I crave them. Without him and Christian, I’m nothing but wreckage.
His fingers close around my throat. His lips are beside my ear. “I want to breed you, Carmela. I think about it all the time.”
A sob escapes me. My pussy clamps down tightly over his thrusting cock.
