Page 75 of Ruthless Arrangement

I kiss her then, slowly and deliberately, a careful seduction rather than earlier conquering. The softness of my approach is its own strategy, a honey trap rather than a steel cage.

She responds, melting against me in a way that seems practiced. Her hands slide up my chest as she straddles my lap with artful grace. I let her have this illusion of control, watching with hidden amusement as she believes she’s seducing me.

“You’re full of surprises, Varela,” she breathes against my mouth. “I didn’t take you for this gentle.”

I smile against her lips. “There are many sides to me you haven’t seen yet, piccola.”

My hands settle on her hips, guiding her movements as she rocks against me. The friction is maddening even through the barriers of fabric, my silk pants, her damp underwear. I could take her now, hard and fast as I did earlier, but tonight’s strategy requires a different approach.Tonight, I want her to believe she’s breaking down my defenses, gaining ground in this silent war between us.

I lift the shirt from her body, revealing inch by inch of golden skin still marked from our previous encounters. She’s beautiful in the dim light, all smooth curves and quiet strength. My hands trace the line of her collarbone, down to cup her breasts, thumbs circling nipples that harden under my touch.

She arches into the contact, a soft sound escaping her lips that seems unguarded. I file it away, another tell, another weakness to exploit.She likes this gentler touch, this illusion of mutual pleasure rather than dominance.

I flip our positions, pressing her into the mattress, my weight suspended above her. Her eyes widen before her expression shifts back to feigned desire. I lower my head, trailing kisses down her neck, her chest, taking a nipple into my mouth and sucking gently. Her back arches off the bed.

“Nico,” she breathes.

I continue my descent, mapping her body with lips and tongue, noting each reaction, each involuntary shiver. This isn’t merely pleasure, it’s reconnaissance, learning what makes her respond authentically versus what’s part of her performance. By the time I reach the waistband of her underwear, her breathing has quickened, her thighs trembling with anticipation.

I glance up, meeting her gaze as I hook my fingers into the lace, slowly dragging it down her legs. “I’ve been thinking about tasting you all day,” I murmur, the admission measured to seem like vulnerability while maintaining control.

Her eyes darken, pupils dilating with genuine desire. “Then start tasting.”

I settle between her thighs, hands spreading her legs wider. She’s already wet, arousal glistening on pink flesh. The sight stokes a primal satisfaction. Whatever game she’s playing, this physical response can’t be faked. I trace her entrance with my tongue, a slow, deliberate tease that makes her hips buck.

“Please,” she murmurs, one hand fisting in the sheets.

I oblige, circling her clit with the tip of my tongue before sucking. Her reaction is immediate, a sharp gasp, thighs tensing around my head. I establish a rhythm, alternating between broad strokes and focused attention, reading her body’s responses like a map to her surrender.

When I slide two fingers inside her, curving upward to find the spot that makes her vision blur, she cries out, a sound that seems torn from her, unplanned and uncontrolled. I work her, relentlessly, driving her toward the edge while watching for those moments of genuine response amidst the performance.

Her orgasm builds, flushed chest, quickened breath, the flutter of inner muscles around my fingers. When she breaks, it’s with a cry that sounds almost surprised, as if the intensity caught her off guard. Her body arches, thighs clamping around my head as waves of pleasure course through her.

I continue my attention through the aftershocks, only relenting when she tugs at my hair, over-sensitized and breathless. I rise to my knees, looking down at her sprawled across the sheets, skin flushed, expression dazed.This is power, seeing her undone, vulnerable in ways she can’t fake.

“Come here,” she says, reaching for me, voice still unsteady.

I move over her, positioning myself between her thighs. The head of my cock nudges against her entrance, still sensitive from her orgasm. I push forward, inch by deliberate inch, watching her face for each reaction. Her eyes flutter closed, lips parting on a silent gasp as I fill her completely.

“Open your eyes,” I command. “I want to see you.”

She complies, meeting my gaze as I begin to move inside her. The rhythm is measured, controlled, each thrust designed to build pleasure rather than overwhelm. Her hands trace the scars on my back, fingertips exploring the map of old wounds with a gentleness that feels almost like genuine curiosity.

“You feel so good,” she murmurs, lifting her hips to meet each thrust. “So deep.”

I adjust the angle, hitting the spot that makes her breath catch. “Is this what you wanted, piccola? To have me inside you again?”

She nods, biting her lower lip in a way that seems contrived to appear vulnerable. “Yes. I’ve been thinking about it all day.”

I smile, seeing through the performance while appreciating its execution. “Such a hungry little thing. So eager to be filled.”

Her eyes narrow at the shift in my tone, a flicker of wariness beneath the desire. I maintain the gentle rhythm, though, lulling her back into complacency.

“Tell me what you want,” I urge, voice honeyed with false surrender. “How do you want to be fucked?”

She hesitates, perhaps sensing the trap but unable to identify it. “Like this,” she says. “Slow. Deep.”

I oblige, maintaining the measured pace while escalating the depth of each thrust. Her breathing quickens, inner muscles tightening around me as another climax builds. I feel my release approaching but hold it at bay as control is the objective here, not pleasure.

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