Page 127 of Beauty and the Daddy
His fingers return to my pussy, stroking slowly, circling my clit in lazy laps with just enough pressure to make my toes curl.
"I love watching you," he whispers, lips dragging over my ear, hot enough to make me shiver. "Love seeing what I do to you."
One finger slides inside me, stretching me slow. Then another, pushing deeper, curling until he hits that spot that makes my whole body jolt and see stars.
Oh great, guess I'm the fireworks tonight.
His thumb never stops circling my clit—steady, relentless, maddening.
It's too much and not enough, over and over, like he knows exactly how to push me to the edge without letting me fall.
"That's it," he coaxes, voice dark velvet. "Ride my hand, Belle. Take what you need."
I do because I'm addicted to him in ways he doesn't even know.
My hips buck up against his palm, chasing the rhythm, shameless now.
The tension builds low and sharp in my belly, coiling tighter and tighter until I feel like I might split apart from the need.
"Luca," I gasp, clutching at his shoulder, nails biting into his skin. "I'm—I can't?—"
"You can." His pace quickens, thumb working me ruthlessly, fingers stroking deep in perfect rhythm.
His eyes are locked on mine, molten and merciless. "Come for me. Right now. Let go."
The dam breaks.
My orgasm crashes through me so hard I cry out, my back arching clean off the bed.
It rips me wide open—pleasure flooding every nerve, rolling in wave after wave until I'm shaking, sobbing his name.
My thighs clamp tight around his wrist, my body clenching around his fingers like I never want to let go.
He keeps moving, drawing it out, stroking me through the shudders until I'm boneless, wrecked, trembling in his arms.
I collapse against him, chest heaving, sweat damp at my temples.
"Look at you," he murmurs, kissing the corner of my mouth, his hand still pressed against my pulsing center. "So fucking beautiful when you break for me."
"Break? More like shattered…" My voice comes out hoarse.
He looks at me like I've said something illegal and he's up for a night in prison.
Then, without a word, he sits up and starts peeling his clothes off.
The shirt goes first, and my mouth goes dry at the sight of every bruised, cut muscle on display.
"Fuck," he mutters when his belt snags, and I laugh, still half-gone from the orgasm but giddy at the sight of Luca Moretti battling denim.
And then he shoves his pants down, boxers with them, and Jesus Christ.
My eyes widen, my brain short-circuits, and if I wasn't already flat on my back I'd have to sit down.
His cock could give a battering ram a run for its money.
Thick, hard, flushed—like it's been forged for one purpose, and that purpose is me.
"Oh my God," I blurt before I can stop myself. "You're actually obscene."
