Page 77 of Queen
She tilts her head, eyes catching firelight. “You call this love? Making war in one breath and confessions in the next?”
Her words gut me, but I hold her stare. “What would you call it?”
For a moment, neither of us speaks. The only sound is the tick of the clock and the slow drip of wax. She breaks first, leaning forward, her voice low enough to cut. “I’d call it dangerous. Because if I take it, I’ll own you. And we both know you’d rather die.”
I stand, the chair scraping against the marble floor, and move to her side of the table. I tower over her, my shadow engulfing her petite form. “Is this the love you want?”
"You don't want that," I murmur, my fingers trailing down her throat, over the rapid pulse that betrays her arousal. "You want me to touch you, to claim you, to make you scream my name."
Her response is a defiant glare, but her body betrays her, arching into my touch as I cup her breast through the silk. I can feel her hardened nipple against my palm, and I pinch it gently, eliciting a sharp intake of breath from her.
Her breath catches—sharp, furious—but she doesn’t move. She meets me head-on, fire in her eyes.
"This isn't the love I want. But it's the only one you know how to give, isn't it?"
“What would you call it then?”
“If you have to ask, then you already know.”
Her fork falls, clattering across porcelain. The wine spills, bleeding into the tablecloth as I twist her chair to face me, my mouth claiming hers hard enough to bruise.
She claws me, nails raking fire around my neck.
"Fuck you, Emiliano," she curses, but there's a tremor in her voice that tells me she's on the edge, teetering between surrender and defiance.
"Oh, I fully intend to," I growl, my hand slipping beneath the hem of her dress, questing for the heat between her legs as she sits. My fingers find her damp panties, and I rub small circles over the fabric, feeling her squirm beneath my touch.
"Stop," she pleads, but her hips rise to meet my hand, her legs begin to open, chasing the friction she so desperately craves.
"You're soaked," I observe, my voice thick with lust. "Deny it all you want, but your body tells me the truth."
With a swift motion, I pull and rip the flimsy lace, baring her to me. She's glistening, her pussy swollen and ready. I plunge two fingers inside her, and she cries out, her inner walls clenching around me.
"Mm, fuck, you are so tight," I groan, pumping my fingers in and out of her, curling them to stroke her G-spot. "Stop fighting me."
Her body trembles, and I feel her resistance crumbling. "I hate you," she whispers, but her voice is laced with need, her hips moving rhythmically, and her hands are clutching my arms, nails digging into my skin.
With each rhythmic pulse of her hips, she gives me an unspoken command to pleasure her.
"Hate me later," I command, adding a third finger and stretching her, preparing her for my cock. "Right now, I want you to come for me."
I increase the pace, my fingers sliding in and out of her slick heat, my thumb circling her clit. Her breathing becomes erratic, her moans growing louder with each passing second.
"That's it, Zina. Let go," I urge, watching her face as she approaches the precipice. Her eyes lock onto mine, a storm of emotions raging within their depths.
With a final, desperate cry, she shatters, her body convulsing as wave after wave of pleasure washes over her. I continue to stroke her through her orgasm, drawing it out until she's limp and panting in my arms.
"Beautiful," I murmur, withdrawing my fingers and bringing them to my lips, tasting her essence. Her eyes widen, a mix of shock and arousal flashing across her face as she watches me.
Before she can recover, I lift her onto the table, sending silverware clattering to the floor. I spread her legs wide, exposing her to my hungry gaze. My cock strains against my trousers, eager to claim what's mine.
"I'm going to taste you, Zina," I promise. I'm going to feast on your sweet pussy until you're begging for my cock."
True to my word, I part her thighs. I flick out my tongue, teasing her entrance, enjoying her taste, lapping her inner folds, a gentle prelude to the maelstrom of sensation that is to come. I lick, nibble, suck her button with long, languid strokes, each one stoking the fire within her.
"You taste like sin," I growl, the vibration of my voice against her sensitive flesh sending shivers of pleasure through her body.
"Emiliano, we can't—" she begins, but I silence her with a kiss, fierce and claiming.
