Page 108 of Ache for You (Slow Burn 3)
My orgasm is so violent my entire body stiffens as it rips through me. My back arches. My mouth opens in a silent scream. Wave after wave of pleasure tears through me, and all I can do is gasp and jerk helplessly, hearing Matteo’s chest-deep growls of approval as I wring myself out against his mouth.
When the last of the convulsions are over and I’m a shaking mass of gelatinous limbs, Matteo rises. He gathers me in his arms and kisses me deeply so I can taste myself in his mouth.
“You’re so delicious.” He nuzzles my neck, sliding his hands up and down my waist and rib cage, learning my shape. “So beautiful. So perfect. I could eat you for every meal.”
I sigh lazily, boneless and satiated, the biggest, dumbest shit-eating grin on my face. “Oh stop. Stop it some more.”
He shrugs off his suit jacket, hangs it on a peg, unbuttons his shirt, and smiles at me indulgently when I gape at his bare chest. “Here. You can even touch it.” He takes my hands and flattens them over his stomach.
I stroke his skin, and it’s like satin. Like muscular, hairless satin. He certainly has beautiful breasts. A giggle slips past my lips. I’m feeling heady.
“Oh, she’s laughing at me,” says Matteo, mock angrily. He pretends to glower. “That won’t do.” He wraps his hand around my wrist and drags my hand lower, until it rests on the impressive bulge straining against his trousers.
To Matteo’s obvious satisfaction, my giggle vanishes.
He’s big. Not just long, but girthy, if that’s even a word. Thick. Suddenly I want to be the one on her knees, wielding the power.
“Those eyes,” Matteo murmurs, just before I sink to the floor.
I unclasp his belt and unzip his zipper with a few ninja moves of my own, my blood rising again at the thought of what awaits me. When I pull down the elastic of his briefs, his erection springs out at me like a jack-in-the-box that’s been wound one too many times.
“I see this big boy has as much patience as you do,” I say, glancing up at Matteo’s face.
He looks down at me with a tight jaw and avid eyes, but says nothing.
Turning my attention back to the important matter at hand, I wrap my fingers around his girth, fascinated by the pulsing vein running underneath, by the deep-red flush on the crown. His cock twitches impatiently in my hand, making me smile.
“All right, pal, hold your horses.”
When I apply my mouth, I’m gratified to hear Matteo’s sharp intake of breath above me. I’m even happier when I get a low groan as I take the length of him as far as I can down my throat. He curves his body over me, propping himself up against the wall with one hand and sinking the other into my hair to cradle the back of my head.
I withdraw slowly, furling my tongue around the crown, pleased with the taste and feel of him, pleased even more when he mutters something in Italian, his voice strained.
I want to make him feel as good as I do. I want to watch him unravel, too.
Using more suction on the head, I stroke his shaft. Both hands are required to do an adequate job. His hand in my hair starts to tremble.
“Strawberry mouth,” he says, breathing hard. “I love that soft red—”
He cuts off with a groan when I swallow his length again, stopping for a moment to fondle the velvet heft of his balls.
I start up a rhythm. A steady stroke and slide, swirling my tongue around the head as I withdraw, opening my throat to take him deep. He flexes his hips in response, tentatively at first, as if he’s trying to make sure it’s not too much, then with more ease when I hum an encouragement. My knees are burning against the carpet, and my heart is flying in my chest. I’m soaked between my legs, from his mouth and my own arousal, skyrocketing again, making me squirm restlessly the longer I have him in my mouth.
“Touch yourself,” he whispers hoarsely.
I slip my fingers under my skirt and stroke my wetness as I continue to suck him. I know he’s watching me, and that gets me even hotter.
He shudders and moans as my head bobs, and I work my fingers between my legs. We’re both getting close. The temperature in the dressing room has shot up at least twenty degrees.
“Not yet,” he rasps, tightening his hand in my hair. “Fuck. Kimber. Not yet.”
When I glance up at him, his face is strained. A vein throbs in his neck. His eyes are dark and hot, and a thrill sings through me, high and sweet, like a single chord played on a violin.
He pulls me to my feet and kisses me again, roughly, his chest pressed against mine so I feel how hard his heart beats, how his skin burns.
“Do you have—”
“Yes, here—”
