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Kira

My fingers tremble slightly as I reach for the hem of his wifebeater. It’s not nerves, though. No, it’s excitement. Domenico usually revels in his control so much that he does, well, everything. Gathering the soft fabric, I pull it up his body.

He chuckles and raises his arms, helping me when I can no longer reach due to our prominent height difference. As soon as the fabric’s gone, I can only stare at the exposed skin.

This isn’t the first time I’m seeing him shirtless, but it’s the first time I’m unashamedly drinking him in. Taking my time, I study the ridges of muscle on his stomach, and the trail of dark hair that starts just below his navel and narrows as it disappears into his sweatpants.

His gray sweatpants, which hide absolutely nothing, make it a hard task to lift my eyes to his broad and powerful chest. It’s covered in the coarse hair that I can’t help reaching for and twirling around my index finger. There are a few gray hairs I haven’t noticed before, but only a handful.

I’m so lost in my discovery I barely register when he lowers the zipper in the middle of my sports bra and pushes it down my arms so I’m now completely naked in front of him.

Continuing my scrutiny, I run my hands up to his shoulders and trail down his arms. Corded muscle runs down to his biceps, which flex when he drops his arms to his sides. His forearms are a landscape of veins and sinew, the kind that stand out when he clenches his fists, and I watch his hands curl and uncurl as I study him.

Every inch of his upper body is covered in tattoos.

Not the kind you see on college boys who get one small symbol to mark a milestone. This is something else entirely. His skin is a canvas of black and gray ink that flows from his shoulders down his chest, across his ribs, wrapping his torso in patterns I can’t begin to decipher.

Some are geometric, sharp lines and angles that catch the light. Others are softer, washed-out grays that blend into his skin like smoke.

There’s a gun on his left bicep. The barrel is pointed downward, smoke curling from it in delicate gray wisps that trail across his skin. On his right, he has an ace and a pair of dice, with the numbers facing up in what I assume is a winning combination.

The ink is old—I can tell by the way it’s settled into his skin, faded at the edges in a way that makes it look like it’s always been part of him. I’m staring. I know I’m staring, and I can’t stop.

“Are you going to finish the job, or am I doing this myself?” Domenico’s voice is laced with amusement.

Heat floods my cheeks. My hands drop to the waistband of his sweatpants, and I quickly push them down his hips, taking his boxer briefs with them, both sliding down his powerful thighs until he steps out of them.

His cock juts thick and heavy from between his legs, the head flushed dark and glistening with pre-cum. I instinctively lick my lips, and a part of me wonders what it would be like to kiss him there.

I let my eyes trail the veins that run along the shaft, prominent and pulsing. If I’m being completely honest, Domenico’s dick intimidates me. And I’m kind of glad he’s been the one to take actual sex off the table, because I’m not even sure he’d fit inside me.

Still, the sight makes my inner walls clench, and I can feel wetness pooling between my legs.

I reach for him without thinking, then stop, my hand hovering inches from his skin. “Can I touch you?”

Domenico’s jaw tightens. Something dark and hungry moves through his eyes. “You never have to ask me that, Kira. You’re my wife.”

My fingers wrap around him. He’s warm and solid in my grip, his skin smooth over hardness, and when my thumb brushes over the head, spreading the wetness there, he makes a sound that’s halfway between a groan and a curse.

“Fuck!”

I look up at him, watching his clenched jaw and flaring nostrils. There’s something deeply satisfying about knowing I did that.

Experimentally, I slide my hand down his length before bringing it back up. His stomach muscles tighten. Oh. I do it again, slower this time, watching his face instead of my hand.

“Kira,” he warns.

“What?”

“You know what,” he growls.

I absolutely don’t, but I’m starting to enjoy finding out. Tightening my grip slightly, I stroke him again. His hips jerk forward, almost imperceptibly, but I catch it.

A grin pulls at my lips. “You like that, Daddy?”

“Baby, you’re holding my cock in your hand. What the fuck do you think?”

I laugh softly and use my other hand too, curious about the weight of him, the heat, the way more wetness gathers at the head every time I stroke upward. He’s so big my fingers don’t meet around him, and that probably should intimidate me more than it does right now.