Chapter 22: : Chapter 20

“Come here, mia rosa,” he commands roughly.

Fastening my lip beneath my teeth, I sashay toward him, swinging my hips and drawing his hungry gaze to them. Is he imagining holding on to them as he drives himself inside me? Is he picturing me on my back or on my knees? I hope to experience both.

Truly, I’m greedy, but I can’t find it in me to release the gluttonous thoughts.

I pause a few feet away from him, just out of reach.

I’ve done enough pursuing. Enough waiting for him to touch me. If he wants me, he will have to beg.

“Closer,” he urges before darting his tongue across his lip. It glistens just as I imagine my inner thighs do.

There’s a steady throb there, and I can feel my arousal overwhelming my panties. If I were to spread my legs for him, he’d find just how deeply he affects me. For now, I take a step back.

His stare darts up to mine, a clear warning radiating from his eyes. Don’t you dare.

Oh, how I dare.

I take another step away, and he slowly rises to his feet, like a predator watching its prey attempt to escape.

“I recall your leaving me in a similar state of undress once before,” I remind him. “And I felt so . . . empty when you left. Do you know how that feels?” I cock my head, and he imitates the movement.

“More than you know.”

“Yet you would have me feel the same,” I shoot back. “I think it would be in your best interest to ask for my forgiveness.”

Several emotions flit across his penetrating stare. Surprise, challenge, amazement, and most prominent of all, starvation.

Silently, he removes his fedora, setting it down on the chest with one hand while running the other through his midnight strands.

Of course, we don’t talk about the specifics of his secretive job, but for some strange reason, seeing him without his hat and with the bruises marring his face, the first impression that I get is that this man is a mafioso. With his slick black hair, the dangerous look in his eyes, expensive suit, and the gold pinky ring, there’s no mistaking his Italian roots—or that they may have granted him access to a troubling lifestyle.

That should warn me away from him, yet I keep still, awaiting his next move.

Holding my stare, he removes his button-up completely. I scarcely contain my gasp as he reveals his beautifully carved body: robust biceps that tighten with power and a stomach that reminds me of the washboard I scrub our clothing on. He’s chiseled to perfection, and I’m almost ashamed to admit how my mouth salivates like a hungry dog.

My God . . . he is a god.

A knowing smirk quirks his lips while he kicks off his shoes, then removes his socks. Next, he focuses on his belt, kicking my heart rate up a notch. He tugs the entire length from the loops and has his trousers undone in a matter of seconds. His underwear is tight to his skin, making it impossible to miss the hardened length protruding from it.

I swallow thickly, taking another step back—this one unintentional.

He’s . . . far bigger than I’ve seen.

Granted, John has been my only lover, and he’s far less endowed. It’s . . . God, it’s intimidating, to say the least.

“Does my cock scare you, mia rosa?” he questions, amusement coloring his dark voice.

“Yes,” I admit, forcing my gaze to his. “But unlike the mouse you claim me to be, I don’t run.”

As if to challenge me, he hooks his thumbs into the elastic waistband and slides his underwear down his thick legs, freeing himself from the confines.

Again, I struggle to swallow. It’s so very long, and impossibly thick. Pronounced veins run up his length to the reddened tip, where a bead of liquid drips.

I hadn’t thought about it before, but at this moment, I’m faced with the reality that I can’t recall if I’ve ever seen John’s penis. My own husband, and I don’t know what he looks like.

He’s never been so inclined to show me as Ronaldo is.

“That”—I breathe shakily—“is a dangerous weapon.”

He grins cheekily. “If only it could win the war.”

“It won me,” I confess. “Is that enough?”

His long fingers wrap around himself, and I nearly choke from the erotic sight.

“We’ll see if you still feel the same way after it makes you scream,” he drawls, now approaching me.

Anxiety nips at my nerves, but I force steel into my spine. Even if the threat coming from his mouth is as dark as it is delicious.

He molds his chest against mine, forcing me to crane my neck up to meet his stare. With his length pressed into my stomach, it feels even more unnerving, so I focus on his imposing height instead. Even with my heels, he towers over me. Just as I begin to feel small beneath his predatory gaze, his stare drops to my breasts.

I don’t realize his hand has snaked behind my back until I feel the material of my bra tighten a moment before it completely loosens. I catch it before it falls.

“Wait! You— You’re taking everything off?”

John always preferred a lights-off, under-the-covers type of lovemaking, and my nightgown has never made it to the floor. The only clothing he removed were the necessary garments. Not . . . everything!

“I want to see all of you,” he insists, directing my hands to my sides. The bra falls from my limp arms, and while I have the instinct to conceal myself, I force myself to keep still. I don’t know if I’ve ever undressed completely for John before, but something tells me Ronaldo wouldn’t appreciate my sudden modesty.

My eyes flutter when his hands palm my breasts and his fingers pluck at my hardened nipples. I bite back a moan, trapping my bottom lip beneath my teeth as little spikes of pleasure zip through my system.

“You are otherworldly, Genevieve,” he whispers, his tone full of awe. Then he wraps an arm around my waist and lifts me up against him. My toes dangle a few inches above the ground as he bows his head and catches one of my nipples beneath his teeth.

A sharp cry rips from my throat, his wet tongue eliciting a heady pleasure that shoots directly to my core.

Black strands of my hair fall over his forehead as he moves to the other breast, delivering the same mix of pain and pleasure. Alternating between nipping at the hardened bud and soothing it with his tongue, then sucking it deeply.

I’m lightheaded when he pulls away.

“Do you forgive me yet?” he probes before playfully nipping at the swell of my breast.

“I haven’t heard an apology,” I say, trying to adopt a stern voice, though it’s breathless and shaky.

He hums and gives one final kiss to my nipple before setting me down.

Blinking, I watch him with bemusement as he drops to his knees, holding my stare as he does.

“What are you—”

“Your forgiveness, my love. I ask it of you,” he rasps. I’m rendered speechless as he plucks at the garter straps clipped to my stockings. “There is little in life I’m deserving of—little that I allow myself to indulge in. Yet you are the crux of all my selfish desires. I would cease to breathe if I could not share air with you, Genevieve. If I can’t live with you, I refuse to at all.”

Astonished by his declaration, I can only gape at him.

Taking my silence as acceptance, he unclips the garters from my stockings, though he doesn’t remove them from my legs. Then, one by one, he undoes the tiny hooks on the side of my girdle, slowly separating the material, along with any will I had left to resist him.

He slides the material down, catching the edges of my underwear on the way and lowering them both to the floor, prompting me to step free from them.

Panting, I stand before him in only my black stockings and heels, and rather than asking him to remove those, too, I decide to keep them on. The extra height and a bit of lace gives me a boost of confidence I sorely need. They make me feel desirable, and I haven’t felt this way in far too long.

His mouth is inches away from my core, and I’m sure a mere glance would betray where my arousal has already begun to leak down my thighs.

“Shall I continue to beg?” he asks, his pale-blue eyes glittering gems as he kneels before me.

Choppily, I nod, still bereft of words. I’m only thankful I can still hear him beneath the deafening beat of my heart.

The first touch of his fingers over my flesh sends electric currents scattering up my spine, and I twitch beneath him. Undeterred, he nudges my inner thighs, prompting me to spread them farther apart.

The second his probing stare drops to my core, the entirety of my body flushes hot, tingles invading the tips of my fingers and spreading down to my toes. Thank God I groomed myself there earlier, shearing my hair to a light dusting. I’ve heard whispers from wives that men like us to be more . . . well kempt, and while I never needed to worry about such a thing before, I had the urge to test that theory on Ronaldo.

No man’s face has ever been this close to the most vulnerable part of me—not even my husband’s. I’m unaware of a time he’s even explored that part of me with his hands, let alone his gaze.

Whereas this . . . this is far more salacious. And thrilling, no less.

I’m expecting him to use his fingers to touch me—I brace myself for it. So, I’m wholly unprepared for him to lean forward and lash out his tongue over my sensitive nub, sending a shock wave rebounding through my body.

I gasp, my hand flying to his hair.

“Ronaldo! That’s— What are you doing?”

“You’ve never had your cunt licked?” he questions, his words vulgar and . . . unlike anything I’ve been asked before.

“What? N-no, of course not! Why would he . . .” I trail off, not wanting to mention John at such an intimate moment.

“There is nothing more divine than a cunt that weeps. It would be an honor to taste you, Genevieve.”

I sputter, unable to string together a coherent thought, let alone a sentence.

“We can go as slow as you wish, mia rosa, but my love is as gentle as it is fierce. And when it comes to your pleasure, my needs are insatiable,” he warns. “Even when you’re begging for mercy, I will still hunger for more. And I will take it.”

My stomach twists with nerves, but his promises only deepen my intrigue and my relentless pursuit to experience a man like Ronaldo. Even if I possessed a morsel of self-preservation, I’d throw it all away for him.

I nod, the movement jerky but eager.

With that, he leans forward and licks along the seam of my core, holding my stare as he does.

My lips fall into a perfect O, instantly overcome with the foreign sensation. It’s so wet, and warm, and my God, it’s heavenly. My knees weaken as he fits his shoulders between my legs, forcing me to widen my stance farther. A small alarm blares in the back of my mind, warning of my growing inability to stand on my feet. But I can’t bear to separate myself from his mouth.

As if sensing my impending collapse, he circles one arm around the backs of my thighs, cocooning me in his embrace and keeping me upright. Concurrently, he bars any chance of escape from his prying tongue.

I sway, diving my hands into his hair to ground me and letting my head fall back as he . . . as he devours me. Moans and whimpers fall past my lips unabashedly, and after a few moments, I roll my hips to meet each swipe of his tongue—every flick, every swirl, every teasing scrape of his teeth.

He groans against me and mumbles, “You taste like nirvana. I could drown in your pussy.”

Through blurred vision, I notice his arm moving up and down. Curious, I grip his hair tighter and force his head back long enough to see his long fingers wrapped around himself, stroking his cock slowly as he pleasures me. My mouth waters. The sight is incredibly erotic, unleashing butterflies in my stomach.

Growling, he dives back in, and I have no qualms with letting him. I’ve heard whispers of women who give oral pleasure to men—have even heard about how they did it. But I’ve never understood it or why they’d want to. Now, I understand completely.

I can’t entirely see him stroking himself as he licks me, but the image in my head suffices. Never did I think I’d want to suck on something so badly, but that’s exactly what I want. I’m certain he’d taste divine.

“Ronaldo,” I breathe, “God, I want to taste you, too.”

He moans again, eagerly lapping me up until my lungs are bereft of oxygen.

I’m no longer a housewife or a loving mother, but a brazen seductress. Lost to the building euphoria, I hardly notice when he grips the backside of my left knee and hooks it over his shoulder, his other arm continuing to support my weight.

This new angle allows him full access, proven when he proceeds to thoroughly explore my inner walls, causing my jaw to nearly unhinge from the force of my outcry.

My lower stomach tightens into a knot, and the bliss seems to only intensify until I’m certain the pleasure can’t get any stronger. But then Ronaldo rallies to prove me wrong, and he suctions my clit into his mouth. I’m dragged to a peak, only for him to forcefully shove me off it.

The tidal wave that passes through me is cataclysmic, and it shatters me wholly. The sound that tears from my throat is so sharp, it nearly shreds my vocal cords. Yet I’m unable to hear it past the storm that has swept me far away. Lightning flashes across my otherwise blackened vision, those electric streaks filled with bright colors. They explode over and over until I’m desperate for a reprieve.

Mercilessly, I grind my hips against his face, both of my hands diving into his dark strands and pulling taut. There’s no resistance as I hold him tightly against me, desperate to feel this ecstasy forever.

Soon, it becomes too much. The strength I had to hold myself upright dissipates.

Ronaldo tears himself away. However, there’s no hope for my bones to serve me well, and they’ve grown weary of supporting me. I collapse against him, and he uses the momentum to stand, lifting me in his arms as he does. With a grace only a lion can possess, he hooks my legs over his arms, and every inch of my body molds to him. The new position traps his length directly against my aching core, and like a desperate harlot, I grind against him.

He sucks a sharp hiss between his teeth, and I mumble unintelligibly, “Oh my God.”

Despite having come down from that high, I’m delirious. Unable to form a single coherent thought. The only thing I’m sure of is that I want him to do it again.

“Ronaldo,” I whimper, overcome with a desperation I would liken to a wolf in a famine. I would do anything for him to appease this chasmal emptiness between my legs. And like a starved beast, I’m on the verge of clawing at him and sinking my teeth into his flesh if it would bring me closer to my desires.

“Patience, my love,” he growls, but the meaning of his demand is lost on me.

What is patience when I am feral with the need to be filled? I roll my hips against him, evoking a warning groan from him. He climbs onto the bed and drops me onto it, severing the delicious contact.

“Ronaldo!” I whine, lifting enough to lean back on my elbows.

My legs fall apart, and he kneels between them. Still so far away from where I need him. His hands pin me to the bed, exposing my core completely to his ravenous stare. It’s his for the taking, offered to him with enthusiasm.

I’m an evening primrose, and he is the moonlight. Beneath his touch, I unfurl for him as if he is the sole reason I breathe.

“Please,” I beg. “Fill me, Ronaldo. I— God, I need it.”

Inhaling deeply, he releases my legs to loom over me, bracing his arms on either side of my head. “You beg for me like a whore, Genevieve,” he murmurs.

I should be insulted, yet his tone suggests that he’s entranced by my brazenness.

I lift my chin, boldly holding his stare as I demand, “So fuck me like one.”