Page 82 of Beauty and the Daddy
His fingers find the edge of my panties, tracing the lace before slipping underneath. I gasp as he brushes over my clit, just a teasing touch, before sliding lower.
"Already wet," he murmurs against my neck. "So fucking wet for me."
He pushes my panties aside, not bothering to remove them, just making room for his fingers to work their magic. I clutch at his shoulders, knees going weak as he goes berserk on my clit.
"Oh fuck, just like that, baby," I pant.
He chuckles and slides a finger in me, then two. The stretch is delicious, his fingers curling to hit that spot that makes my vision blur.
But I want more. I want all of him and refuse to be selfish tonight. Pleasing him is the greatest gift of all. I want to be greedy with him, greedy like I've got a right to it.
Then I remember I have my own arsenal.
I slide out from between him and the rail, drop to my knees on cool stone, and look up at him through lashes that want to commit crimes. He goes feral in the eyes.
So fucking sexy.
"Belle," he warns, already hoarse.
His eyes widen, pupils blown with lust as I work his zipper down. I free him from his pants, and God, he's already rock hard, the head of his cock flushed and leaking.
I smile like a thief. He braces a palm on the rail like he forgot how to stand. I take my time to lick because power tastes sweet on the tongue, because I like watching the Beast of New York go a little glassy for me.
I maintain eye contact as I take him in my hand, stroking once, twice, watching his jaw clench with the effort not to thrust.
"Belle," he starts, but I silence him by leaning forward and taking the head of his cock between my lips.
He tastes salty, musky, entirely male. I swirl my tongue around the tip, drawing a groan from deep in his chest. His hands tangle in my hair.
I take him deeper, hollowing my cheeks as I suck, one hand wrapped around the base of his shaft, the other cupping his balls, rolling them gently between my fingers.
"Fuck," he groans, his hips jerking involuntarily. "Your mouth."
His breath breaks on a hiss, and if anyone down there happens to look up at this balcony right now—well. Let them see devotion.
The heavy weight of him on my tongue, the stretch of my lips around his girth—it's filthy and perfect. I bob my head and take him deep.
I feel turned on myself as I pleasure him, a throbbing, insistent heat between my legs. I press my thighs together, seeking friction.
His breath comes faster, his grip in my hair tightening. "Belle, I'm going to?—"
I increase my pace, eager to taste him, to make the mighty Luca Moretti come apart in my mouth.
But he has other plans.
His fingers tighten—warning—and he hauls me back up by the nape, devouring my mouth like he's reclaiming me from a cliff I just shoved him off.
"I'm not letting you go easy," he rasps. "Not until I ruin you."
"You swear?" I dare, because I'm constitutionally incapable of not poking the bear.
He turns me fast. Hands on my hips, on my wrists, planting me to the rail like he wants me glued there. My dress is all hiked up, with the moonlight glorious on my skin.
His mouth's at my neck, teeth scraping the place that makes my knees plead. He slides a hand over my shoulder, bending me over.
"Hold," he orders, pressing my hands to the cool stone as he pushes me down with his weight against my back. He covers my hands with his, holding me prisoner. "Good girl."
I hate how that lights me up.
