Page 247 of Rosetti Family New York
"I’m going to start with my mouth."
With deliberate slowness, I undo his belt, making sure not to break eye contact. The wind rustles my hair as I carefully unzip him, my breath hitching when I feel the hardness pressing against his jeans.
I whisper, "I’m going to kiss the tip first. Just enough to make you twitch."
His breath hitches when I pull down his boxer briefs and free him, his cock standing thick and hard in the chill air.
As I brush my lips against him, featherlight and without pressure, he exhales like he's been punched.
"Then I’m going to lick you. Slow. Flat tongue. From base to tip," I say, dragging my tongue slowly along the underside of him.
Rafe growls, low and violent, warning.
"You’re playing a dangerous game."
Smiling up at him, I reply,
"I haven’t even started."
My fingers wrap around him now, stroking once, firm and measured.
"Then I’m going to take just the head in. Suck it. Just enough to make you feel every inch I’m not giving you yet," I tell him, swirling my tongue around him.
His hand fists in my hair, and he strains out,
"Fuck, Sloane—"
I pull off just long enough to speak, lips slick.
"Then I’ll go deeper. Inch by inch. Until I can feel you in my throat."
Taking him deeper now, slow but unrelenting, he hits the back of my throat. My eyes flutter, and he swears under his breath, low and filthy.
"Look at me," he demands, voice ragged.
I do, mouth full and eyes glassy. He looks wrecked, like a man unraveling at the seams. Pulling off just enough to speak, I say:
"Then I’m going to let you fuck my mouth. However you want. Until you forget everything but me."
He snarls something in Italian, his hand tightening in my hair, not to force, just to ground himself.
I take him in again, deeper, faster now, each stroke slicker than the last. The wind picks up, the city glows, and Rafaele Rosetti, who’s always in control, is finally, gloriously, not.
His heavy groans echo in the night air, mixing with the howl of the wind.
I reach one hand down to cup his balls, the other is on his shaft, deliberate, working in unison with the rhythm of my mouth.
Each movement shatters his restraint.
I feel the tension building inside him, coiling tighter and tighter, a storm ready to break.
His fingers flex against my scalp as I consume him again and again, deeper with every stroke.
My name is a mantra on his lips, rough and raw.
"Sloane," he chokes out, voice splintered and desperate.
His legs tremble with the effort to stay standing, muscles quivering under my relentless pace.
