Page 26 of Power
Fuck. If that isn’t exactly what my body wants. Desperately.
But… “I hate you so much!”
He twirls my nipples between his fingers before releasing them, ducking his head toward the pool. “Get in the water.”
The hardness in his tone and the scowl etched across his brow tell me he won’t take kindly to any arguments. I step away from him and move to the edge of the pool. Glancing back at Dario, I’m painfully aware of how he watches my every sway; he’s seen me completely naked—raw and vulnerable. I drop into the clear blue waters, relieved to find it’s not as deep as it appears.
Reality hits when I notice his eyes are on my naked breasts. If I move deeper, I’d be fully submerged. But just as I consider it, his voice rumbles, commandingly, “Don’t even dare.”
I stop and look at him. “What?”
“I want to see your boobs, so go back to where you were before.”
Reluctantly obeying, I return as he begins undoing the knot of his trunks.
“Wait! Are you going to come in too?” My voice is hoarse and wobbly, but the thought of being naked with him ignites a wave of heat.
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he slides his hand into the band of his trunks and takes it down.
Fuck.
My jaw drops at the sight of him. His torso is covered in tattoos; some Italian letters snake across his shoulder blades while others tangle together, giving him a ghoulish allure. He’s completely naked, standing with feet apart, watching me. I can’t help but ogle him. Dario is effortlessly handsome when clothed, but naked? Glorious. My body becomes powerless in response to his sheer hotness. Cause, damn, he’s inviting.
I can only think of one thing looking at his cock, all hard with angry veins lining it. I want that inside me. Right now.
He strides across the space and leaps into the water with me. My feet are pleasantly grounded on the pool's tiled floor, but when he bumps into me, I relinquish my balance, lettingmyself float. Dario steadies me with one hand, pressing his huge, muscular body against mine in a defiant embrace.
He cups my face and slams his mouth on mine. For a few seconds, conflicting thoughts flood my mind. I’ve been kissed before—by ex-lovers and my husband—but never like this. Dario tastes divine. As he kisses me, my body melts in response.
He’s kissing me like he is fucking me.
His tongue invades my mouth, a sensation unlike any other. He twirls it around, owning me with each thrust. He nibbles at my lower lip, then dives to bite my neck, groaning as he worships my body with slow, demanding fervor.
“I…I can’t… I hate you… Dario, please…”
I’m literally muttering gibberish at this point.
I should be strong, but against him, my body feels like jelly. He straightens after a moment, smirking. The damn bastard!
“Do you hate me, or do you hate that your body desperately needs to be manhandled sexually by me?”
He has a point, but I believe this has gone too far. “You want my husband… that’s who you’re after. Please let me go.”
When he tries to touch me again, I pull back, ready to fight as hard as I can, but Dario lunges after me, trapping me between the rails and the wall. For a few seconds, I squirm in his arms, screaming for help that I know won’t come. Then, without warning, Dario slips his fingers inside me. As if he knows the effect it will have, he lifts his fingers, curling them upward deep inside me.
“Oh… fuck… ooh…”
He pauses, pulling his fingers out of the water and dangling them in front of me, demonstrating his power over me. That he can take pleasure away just as easily as he gives it.
Why has it never felt like this with Enzo? Why does my body crave and respond to this man as if he’s my goddamn source of air?
Enzo may love me, but he’s never shown me the different ways my body can pulse with desire. He’s never prioritized my pleasure over his own or allowed me to reach orgasm. With Enzo, things can get rough, especially when he’s angry about something I did, but he never really touches me. He doesn’t look at me the way Dario does, doesn’t kiss my neck or whisper sweet, dirty words. There’s no desperation in his voice when he tells me he can’t wait to fuck me. His kisses are plain, bland, ordinary. They don’t feel like an out-of-body experience—nothing like what I feel with Dario.
I don’t spend my nights dreaming about how good it can be with Enzo, how good it was, or how I can’t wait to see him again.
As I prepare to protest, he draws me closer, wrapping his arms around my waist. I feel the hardness of his cock pressing against my hips, and my throat dries instinctively.
How do I explain that I need this, yet don’t want it at the same time?
