Page 120 of Fire and Silk
There’s a pause.
“When my mother died,” he says slowly, “things in the house changed. My siblings shut me out. Not with fights—just silence. Cold walls. My father traveled a lot for business. When he was gone, I’d slip out and come here.”
“Here?”
“Not exactly here. Different parts. Forests near every estate we had. I learned how to make fires, pitch tents, disappear.”
“Did they ever look for you?”
His jaw shifts slightly against my forehead. “No.”
“You had horrible siblings,” I say softly, my fingers curled over the edge of his sleeve.
He shrugs , gaze on the fire. “I don’t blame them. I was insufferable.”
I turn my head until he meets my eyes. “Not to me.”
The moment hangs. His eyes stay on mine. Neither of us leans forward at first—we just breathe in the space between us until it thins. Then our mouths meet.
The kiss is slow. Not desperate. Just certain.
“You’ve done so good,” I whisper when we pull apart. My hand slides down his chest. “You need a reward.”
He glances around us—trees, flame, sky. “In the forest?”
I grin. My fingers move lower. The zipper eases down. He’s already hard.
I laugh under my breath. “Is this the best time?”
“You made me like this,” he mutters.
I meet his eyes, the grin still playing on my lips. “Let me make you better.”
I press my knees into the earth and lean in, dragging my tongue slowly up his shaft. His breath catches— quiet. He smells like pine and ash and sweat, and when I close my lips around the head of his cock, he lets out the softest groan, head tilting back.
His fingers thread into my hair, not pulling, not pushing—just holding. I feel the tremble in his hands as he murmurs something in Italian, rough and low:"Amore, vai piano con me."
Darling, go easy on me.
But I don’t want easy.
I sink lower, letting him slide deeper into my mouth, until he brushes the back of my throat. His hips twitch and I hum around him, licking him again before taking him in with more rhythm, more pressure. The moss is damp beneath my knees, but I don’t care—I care about the way he breathes, how tight he grips my scalp, how he shudders when I cup his balls and roll them gently in my palm.
He groans again, deeper , like it’s being dragged out of him. I start to bob my head now, faster, working him with my mouth as his thighs tense under my palms.
His grip tightens in my hair, his hips starting to move—small thrusts at first, then deeper, harder. I brace my hands against his thighs, letting him fuck up into my mouth, each stroke hitting the back of my throat with a slick, desperate sound. I gag , just a little, and he groans like he’s losing control, like he needs more.
His cock is slick with precum now, and I feel it coating my lips, the taste of him everywhere. He yanks my head back gently but firmly, and I look up at him, breathless, mouth wet and open.
“I need to be inside you,” he pleads, his voice torn at the edges.
“I want you inside me,” I whisper, voice hoarse, eyes locked on his.
I rise to my feet slowly, turning my back to him without another word. I feel his hand slide up the back of my thigh, bunching up my dress until the cool night air hits my skin. He drags my panties down in one smooth motion, letting them fall to my knees, then to the ground.
He’s sitting on the flat ledge legs parted just enough to pull me between them. His cock is flushed, thick, leaking against his stomach—and then I feel him guide me down, the head of him sliding between my folds, teasing my entrance.
He doesn’t wait. He pushes in—slow at first, then with a groan that vibrates into my spine as he fills me inch by inch.
