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He looks tortured. Torn, as if he both wants to be anywhere else, and is being driven mad with desire all at once. If he truly believes that he doesn’t want me, he’s lying to himself as well as me. I might be a virgin, but I’m not as innocent as he thought. I know how this is supposed to work. I know at least enough to see that Salvatore wants me desperately. That I’ve turned him on to the point that it looks visibly painful.
“I don’t want to hurt you, Gia,” he murmurs, his hand sliding higher, up my inner thigh. “I want you wet. Ready for me.”
The way he says it, his accent thickening, his voice dropping to a husky rasp, makes my breath catch in my throat. I feel a throb between my thighs, a blossoming warmth, and my chest tightens.
“You’re not that big,” I snap, turning away, but I can’t help but glance, quickly, at the thick ridge straining against his suit trousers. A flicker of fear trickles through my veins—he looks huge. Too thick to fit inside of me, no matter what I’ve read in the romance novels I used to hide in my room. We both know there’s no truth to my taunt. He looks as if he could split me in half.
His fingers slip between my folds, and I feel fear. Not fear of him—I don’t believe he’d actually harm me, not physically. But fear of what he could make me want. Because as his finger slides over my clit, touching me where only I’ve ever touched myself before, I feel arousal shudder through me, down to my bones.
I can’t help my response. The feeling is electric, pleasure rippling out from that one spot where his fingertip glides, and then presses down, rubbing in small circles as I gasp and arch upwards, instinctively wanting more. I watch as his jaw tightens, his eyes narrowing with focus as he moves his finger over the swelling flesh.
I want to be disgusted by him. I want to be horrified that this man is touching me. But the man leaning over me seems like someone entirely different than the uptight, terse man I’ve known all my life, in his pressed and tailored suits, his expression always stern and forbidding, always perfectly put together. This man, the one with his fingers stroking between my legs, looks like something carved from stone, chest broad with rippling muscle, dark hair dusted over it, down to the line running from his navel to the edge of his trousers. His hair is falling forward a little in his face, his jaw set, his eyes dark with lust as he looks down at me, a man at war with himself, fighting off the urge to throw all his restraint aside and fuck me the way a man like him was meant to fuck a woman like me—a powerful man, who has taken what he wants.
No. I close my eyes, fighting off the heat blooming through my veins. That’s not what this is. That’s not it at all. But the soft friction continues, his fingers stroking me, and I open my eyes to see him draw in a shaky breath, the shape of his cock twitching against his fly.
My hips arch upwards again as I gasp, my fingers tangling in the sheets. I want to pretend that I’m not enjoying this. I want to lie still and silent, to make him feel guilty for what he’s doing. I want him to feel as if he’s forcing both me and himself, but the sensation is more than I thought it would be. It feels good, so good, and I can feel wet heat forming between my legs?—
“Good girl,” Salvatore breathes, his voice low and dark, hoarse. “That’s it. I want you wet and ready.”
The words jolt through me like electricity. I jerk under his touch, a moan slipping from my lips before I can stop it, my legs parting wider despite myself, as if to allow him more access. Salvatore looks up, startled, his focus momentarily broken by my reaction. Something crosses his face, some realization that I don’t understand, and he draws in a shaky breath.
His fingers slide lower, circling my entrance, spreading the slick arousal back up to my swollen, aching clit. My body feels strange, hot, my skin too tight, and my nerves frayed. I felt something like this with Pyotr, before, those afternoons when we would tease and flirt—but this is so much more?—
No! I try to resist it, try to fight back. I don’t want to enjoy this. I don’t want to give Salvatore the satisfaction—but his fingers feel so good, soft, and urgent at the same time, the sensation heightening with every stroke, and my body craves what my mind wants to deny us.
“So wet for me,” he murmurs, splaying his fingers on either side of my clit, rubbing just next to it, but not directly where I need him. “This feels good, doesn’t it? Do you think you could come for me, Gia?”
I shake my head viciously, back and forth, refusing the idea. Refusing to think that he could coax that from me, too, my first orgasm at someone else’s hand, the pleasure I was meant to have tonight and wanted so badly. But I want it. I want him to stop stroking me everywhere but where I need his fingers, for him to make me come, with his fingers, with his tongue?—
I’m panting now, arching into his touch, another sobbing moan slipping out as Salvatore groans. Dizzily, I see him reach down, adjusting himself, the thick line of his cock standing out in sharp relief. “Just fuck me already,” I hear myself mumble, a last attempt at a taunt, to force back the pleasure that he’s determined to inflict on me.
“No, principessa,” Salvatore murmurs, and the sound of the pet name rolling off his tongue makes a shudder ripple through me. He chuckles, low and dark in the back of his throat, his fingers hovering over my clit. “You’ll come for me first. Won’t you, sweet girl? Just like that—” He strokes his fingers over my clit, and I whimper helplessly. “Yes, you will. Come on my fingers, principessa, and then I’ll give you my cock.”
I feel his index finger, thick and long, press against my opening as his thumb replaces it on my aching clit. Slowly, he starts to push it inside of me, and I squeeze around him instantly, gripping his finger as Salvatore lets out a shocked, pained groan.
“Oh, fuck,” he murmurs, and I see his jaw clench, his eyes close briefly. “You’re so fucking tight. You’ll feel so good around my cock. So wet and tight?—”’
The praise flows over me, rippling over my skin, pushing me higher. I’ve forgotten to be angry, to fight back, to hate him for this. All I want is the pleasure, sweet and thick like honey, sliding over me, in me, so, so fucking close.
“Do you want another finger? You’ll need to take that, at least, to take me. Can you take another, my good girl?” His voice slides over me, crooning, his thumb keeping up that slow, rolling slide on my clit, and I whimper, nodding as my hands fist in the blanket beneath me.
“Yes,” I whisper. “Yes, yes?—”
“Good girl,” he breathes, and I feel a second finger join the first, sliding deeper. There’s a stretch, a burning pain, and I moan as I clench around his fingers, arching back for a second. But the pleasure is still there, so close, and I lean into the friction of his thumb, letting out another sobbing moan.
“Right there. Oh, you’re so close, sweet girl. My sweet principessa. Just let go. Come for me, Gia. Come all over my fingers. Right there?—”
His voice is pulling me deeper, further, into a whirlpool of pleasure that I’m helpless to resist. It drags me down, swallows me whole, the words repeated over and over as the heat blooms outwards and?—
The orgasm crashes over me, and my head tips back, my mouth opening on a breathless cry as I feel his fingers push deeper, his thumb press down, and I come unraveled. My hips arch upwards, grinding on his fingers, bucking, writhing, the pleasure so much more intense than any orgasm I’ve ever given myself, consuming me. I hear myself crying out yes, yes, please, god, yes, and I’ve forgotten that I’m not supposed to want this, that I hate him, that there is any emotion or feeling in the world other than the ecstatic bliss consuming me at this moment.
And then, it starts to fade. I slump back onto the bed, breathless, shocks of pleasure still rippling over my skin, and I blink, my eyes refocusing. I watch dimly as Salvatore slides his hand from between my thighs, and I can see the sweat beading on his brow, his own chest heaving, his cock so hard that it looks like it might tear the fabric it’s straining against.
He swallows convulsively, his hand reaching for his belt. My heart stutters in my chest, fear and anticipation mingling together because, in my dizzy haze of arousal, I’ve forgotten that I don’t want to give my virginity to this man. All I can think is that I want to know what comes next, that I want to see his cock, thick and hard for me, that I want to know how much better it can feel when it’s him spearing me instead of his fingers. I look at Salvatore, dark and handsome, looming over me like some forbidden thing, and I shudder with a fresh wave of anxious need.
And then his face shutters suddenly, and he draws back, his gaze fixed on something between my thighs. His hand drops to his side, his trousers still zipped up, and I blink at him in confusion.
“What’s wrong?” I manage, feeling as if I’m swimming up through a thick fog, my mind still muddled from the force of my orgasm. “Salvatore?—”
