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That really does not seem like Alessio. I want to ask him a million questions but I know there’s no point. I put in my earbuds so I can put down the phone and talk to him hands-free. I’m snuggling into the couch.
When he says, “I wish you were here with me,” I wish it too. I could me there in fifteen minutes and nothing sounds better. The tug in his voice makes me ache to go to him. I’m feeling hot already.
I’m holding back, though. When Alessio is weak or not at his best, like if he’s sick, he always calls out, he always wants me to go to him. When I get there, he usually deals with it badly.
Once when he had a fever, he called me and I went to nurse him. I won’t forget that experience.
When Alessio called, he was obviously feeing awful. He’d had quite a deep scratch from a bullet and got it stitched, and he was having a minor reaction to some antibiotics. Nausea, some vomiting. No inflammation or signs of anything serious.
I’ve done more than my share of bedside care for Daddy and his men. I know my meds, I can stitch. In an emergency, I can perform certain very basic kinds of ‘field medicine,’ though I won’t unless there’s really no alternative.
One thing I know, though, if your patient is a man and you tell him what he’s going through is not serious, get ready to meet an angry bear.
So, I didn’t tell him that. Obviously. Still, he was so angry the whole time he was unwell. He was picky and disagreeable. He hated everything I brought for him and every suggestion I offered. I realized in the end that, regardless of what he said or the state he was in, he just couldn’t stand to have me see him in a condition of weakness.
That makes me feel it all the more when he says, “Come here. Come and make me feel better.”
It’s like there’s a force pulling me toward him, and I’m holding on, gripping tight to something solid to resist him and save myself.
“It’s late, Alessio.” I’m scrunching up inside, pulling my lips in as I try to sound casual. “I should get some sleep.” Then, I say, “You could put your camera on.”
His voice spills through a rustle of linen. “I need you.”
“Stop it! I need you, too.”
“Come here. Come to me, Lucia.” Saying no to him, refusing him, makes me ache inside.
My resistance is weakening.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“You need sleep.” I tell him, trying to inject a tone of certainty and firmness in my voice. It’s a tone and it sounds good. I really don’t feel it though.
He says, “I need your lips.”
“Mmm.” Stop it, Alessio. Please.
“My cock is red and hard. It’s throbbing for you.”
I sigh. “Alessio.” I know that telling Alessio to stop doing anything is the surest way to make him do it more and harder. I bite my lip.
His voice drifts like smoke in my ear. “I’m remembering how you smell. How you taste. I’m thinking of how your lovely, juicy wings spread flat against my tongue.”
I try to stifle a moan, but some of it gets out.
“I want to touch you.”
Now my resistance slips away like sheer silk. Remembering the magic in his hands. When his grip and his sinful, unstoppable fingers start to ignite fill me, to fire me up with their evil rhythms, his electric touch sets little fires alight all through my body, sparks me alight like dry paper, drenched in kerosene.
My thighs tense, my stomach rolls, my breath heaves and in no time, m thrashing, helpless, and I’m ready to burst.
The burn in my nipples makes them sore and I feel like they’ve got bare wires connecting to my clit.
His voice rumbles again.
“I’m imagining your breath ion my cock. Your wet lips caressing my the twitching head. And your mouth taking me in, sliding over my shaft, taking me down to the back of your throat.”
“Oh. Alessio.”
