Page 84

Damn, that low and husky tenor is addictive.

I do it again. Longer this time. My lips part slightly, and I taste salt and musk and something uniquely him that has no comparison. His cock jumps against my mouth as I pull back just enough to look up at his face.

His jaw is clenched so tight I can see the muscle jumping in his cheek. His chest rises and falls in shallow, controlled breaths that aren’t controlled at all. And his eyes—Christ, his eyes are black in the heater light, fixed on my mouth with a hunger that probably would have scared me when we first got married.

Now, it feels like permission. Or maybe that’s just how I’m interpreting it.

“I’m going to lick you now, Daddy,” I purr as I do just that in a slow, flat stroke from base to tip that has his hips jerking forward before he forces them still.

“Kira.” My name comes out rough, strained.

I take the head into my mouth, just the very tip, and suck gently. The groan that rolls out of him vibrates through my lips, and I feel it everywhere—in my chest, between my legs, in the pit of my stomach where something hungry and possessive is waking up.

My hand wraps around what my mouth can’t take yet. He’s thick, so much thicker than my fingers can span, and the heat of him against my palm is almost overwhelming. I stroke slowly, matching the rhythm of my mouth, and watch his face the entire time.

I somehow catalog every reaction. From the way his nostrils flare when I swirl my tongue around the head, to the sharp intake of breath when my teeth graze him. The first time it happens it’s accidental. But the second time, it’s deliberate because the way his cock jumps against my tongue is too good to ignore.

The curse that tears from his throat when I take him deeper, just an inch, just enough to feel the stretch in my jaw. His hands stay on the arms of the chair, white-knuckled, and he watches me with those dark, hungry eyes while I explore him.

Every experiment gets a reaction. Every lick, every suck, every time my hand twists on the upstroke—something changes in his breathing, in the tension of his thighs. I’m mapping him. Learning what makes Domenico DeLuca come undone.

And, dear God, I love it.

Even though my jaw is already aching, I refuse to stop. I want more of this. More of him pulsing against my tongue. More of his restraint slipping. More of the way his hips have started moving in tiny, involuntary thrusts.

“Fuck, baby. Just like that. Your mouth… fuck!”

When his hand finds my hair, it isn’t gentle. His fingers twist into the dark strands at the base of my skull, gathering them into a fist that holds me steady, and the controlling nature of the grip sends a shudder through me that has nothing to do with the cold.

“Go slower,” he growls. The word is rough, commanding, and I obey without thinking.

Slowing my pace, taking him deeper on each stroke, using my tongue the way he showed me with his fingers—flat against the underside, pressing hard on the upstroke.

“Deeper. Look at me.”

I force my eyes up. Meeting his gaze while my mouth is stretched around his cock is almost too much—the intensity in his eyes, the raw hunger, the way his jaw is working like he’s holding on to his control by fucking threads.

Tears are gathering at the corners of my eyes from the stretch, and still, I take him deeper. Another inch, and the head hits the back of my throat. I pull back instinctively as I gag.

Domenico’s grip on my hair tightens. “Easy, baby. Breathe through your nose.”

The next time I take him deeper, I’m ready. The stretch is intense, my throat resisting then yielding, and the sound he makes when the head slips past that barrier is fucking primal. A groan so deep it seems to come from his chest, and his hips jerk forward before he forces them still.

“Good girl. Mmm, so fucking good for me.”

His hand in my hair tightens, and for a few glorious minutes, we find a rhythm—me taking him as deep as I can manage, him holding me steady, both of us learning the limits of what my mouth can do.

I’m dripping. I can feel it, the slick heat between my thighs, the way my inner walls clench around nothing every time Domenico groans. But this isn’t about me. This is about watching the most controlled man I’ve ever met come completely apart because of my mouth.

And he is coming apart. His thighs are trembling under my hands. His breathing is shattered. Every curse is rougher than the last, every sound of pleasure longer, and the way he’s holding himself back—hips barely moving, muscles locked—is its own kind of torture.

“Kira.” His voice is wrecked. “I’m close. Baby, I’m going to come.”

I don’t back off. I take him deeper, my hand working what my mouth can’t reach, and I look up at him with every intention written clear on my face.

Domenico’s control snaps, and his hand fists harder in my hair. Then he pulls me forward at the same time his hips drive up. His cock pushes into my throat in one brutal, overwhelming thrust, and I gag hard, tears springing to my eyes, my hands flying to his thighs for balance.

“Fuck, I’m sorry…” he starts, but I shake my head as much as his grip allows.