Page 81 of A New Days Don

Though by the feeling of it, it may be too late.

His eyes darken with mischievous desire, “Oh, is that so?”

I nod, and Massimo leans in, planting kisses down my neck before his hands tug at my shirt. “You can dirty my shirts anytime.” He purrs lowly in my ear, “In fact… Leave my closet covered in your scent and cum, so I can wear you everywhere I go.”

My thighs clench, vivid images of Massimo doing just that have my clit throbbing. As if he can hear my pussy begging, Massimo pushes my shirt up and leans over, his head between my legs.

“What–?” I moan as his tongue runs along my slit, collecting the moisture and coaxing more arousal out of me.

Massimo groans into me as his hands grip my thighs in a bruising hold, his fingers pressing into the tender flesh as he holds me still, devouring me. My arms start to shake, and my core sparks to life, coiling the pleasure that Massimo gives me.

“Fuck, Mila… You taste so fucking good, sweetheart.” He says with the most hedonistic rasp I have ever heard. I fall back to my forearms, my head lolling with the rest of my body as a broken, almost painful moan works its way up my throat.

Pleasure shouldn’t feel this good. Not for me. Not after everything…

As if Massimo can read my thoughts or understand my moan and body language, “You deserve every ounce of pleasure your orgasms bring you. Now, look at me while you take every little bit of what I give you.”

I pick my head back up, looking to him, his dark eyes penetrating mine with sincerity I was not ready for. He slides one of his long, thick fingers in my pussy, murmuring, “Good girl,” as his lips return to my clit.

Massimo doesn’t break my eye contact the entire time he pulls me to my peak, then pushes me over the edge into the blissful abyss. I whimper and moan and writhe, crying his name. He doesn’t stop devouring me, licking up everything I give him, soaking his mouth with me, and hungrily begging for more.

“I-I can’t,” I gasp, my sensitive clit pulsing with sharp waves. Massimo doesn’t let up, though, his tongue and mouth sucking, licking, and nipping the battered bud.

“Please,” I whine, my toes curling.

Massimo does as I ask, his lips curling with my cum coating his mouth and chin, making his stubble glisten, “You are my favourite meal.”

My cheeks flush, and I shove his shoulder as he laughs. He places a soft kiss on my lips, the taste of me still fresh and evident. “You should go clean that before the delivery person gets here.”

“I’m going to leave your cum right here.” He licks his lips, “Until you give me another taste.”

My eyes widen, and my jaw falls slack. Why the hell does that sound so hot?

Massimo’s phone begins to ring, and when he looks at the screen, his face drops into one of seriousness. “I have to take this. Make yourself comfortable, it shouldn’t be long.”

I nod, not questioning whatever mafia business he has to go take care of as he kisses my forehead and walks down the hall in the direction of his room.

As if the universe really wanted to ensure our little escapade comes to an end, my phone vibrates.

I stare at my phone, willing it to explode in my hands and somehow also explode Mr. Unknown’s while we are at it. If only you could send an explosion through text.

Making my way into the living room, I awkwardly stand between the massive U-shaped sofa and a fancy glass coffee table as another text comes in.

I wrinkle my nose in disgust at the way he writes ‘your favourite T’. I have been entertaining this creep for far too long.

The next text is a photo of the note T left.

Of course, his note is laced with all sorts of sarcasm. Nothing helpful, just more runaround for nothing.

I don’t know how long I stare at my phone, glaring and shooting daggers at the unknown texter, before my mother’s caller ID pops up on the screen. On reflex, I answer, cringing as I realize the state I’m in. A black T-shirt far too big to be mine, and as I stare back at the small video at the corner of the screen, dread sets in. I look so different. My hair is awry, and my lips are puffy. They are going to know. There is no way they don’t, and I really don’t want to have this conversation. Not now, and preferably not ever.

“Mila!” My mom’s voice floats through, full of relief.

“Hey, Mom,” I wave at her, my voice a little higher-pitched than usual, “Hey, Dad.”

My mom’s brows begin to furrow as I desperately sink into the couch, “Where are you, Miles?”

“Nowhere,” I answer all too quickly, and suddenly my father is sitting up straighter, his smiling face tensing into something more serious, “I am at a friend’s house.”