Page 83 of Letters From Victor

I was on the edge myself, teetering on the precipice of release. But I held back, determined to drive her over the cliff first, to watch her plummet into the abyss of pleasure. I wanted to see her shatter again, to feel her convulse around me.

“I’m going to make you explode again,” I growled, my voice thick with lust. “I want to feel you squeeze me so hard it hurts.”

Her only response was a whimper of pure need and helplessness. She was so close, teetering on the brink, just waiting for that final push.

I shifted my weight and ground my hips against hers, making small circles that rubbed against her most sensitive spot. Her head snapped back, and she let out a strangled cry. Her hands, still pinned above her head, clenched into tight fists.

“Do you feel that?”

Barbara’s lips parted, but no sound came out. She was beyond words. Beyond thoughts. Every nerve in her body was a live wire, every touch adding to the overload.

I ground against her harder. The friction was maddening, a tease that brought me perilously close to losing control. Her walls fluttered around me, a prelude to the crushing tightness that would come with her release.

“Let go, Barbara,” I commanded. “I want to feel every second of it. Don’t you dare hold back.”

Her body obeyed before her mind did, seizing around me, muscles contracting with a force that stole my breath. A wail tore from her throat, raw and primal, as wave after wave of release crashed through her. Each convulsion squeezed me brutally, and I fought to hold on, to prolong the exquisite torture of her pleasure.

She screamed my name, the sound echoing off the walls like a gunshot. Her back arched, lifting her chest toward me as if offering herself up for more. I watched her face as she came undone—the contorted features, the closed eyes and furrowed brows, open mouth gasping for air. She was beautiful in her agony—an angel brought low by mortal desire.

“That’s it,” I murmured, my voice a rough whisper. “Take it all, Barbara. Take every bit of it.”

She opened her eyes, glazed and unfocused. She was lost in it, drowning in the sensations. But there was thankfulness in her gaze—thankful that I had driven her to this point, that I had given her what she craved.

I was drowning in her.

I could hold back no longer. With a final, brutal thrust, I buried myself as deep as I could go and let the tidal wave of my release crash over me. A guttural roar tore from my chest as I exploded inside her, each spasm sending hot surges of ecstasy through my body. I emptied myself into her, the warmth spreading between us.

She milked me with every contraction, squeezing out every last drop with a relentless grip. The intensity of it was almost too much to bear. It bordered on painful. My vision blurred, and for a moment, the room spun around us, a kaleidoscope of sweat-slicked skin and disheveled sheets.

I collapsed onto her, my weight pressing her into the mattress. Her hands slipped from my grasp, and she wrapped her arms around my shoulders, holding me close as we both struggled to catch our breath.

“Damn, woman,” I said, pressing soft kisses to her forehead, lips, neck, ear. “Where have you been all my life?”

32

BARBARA

We had never spent the night together before. I wasn’t exactly sure what to expect, but the comfort and ease of sharing a bed with him was as natural as breathing. Victor lay on his side facing me, his broad shoulders rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm. In sleep, the weight of the world had slipped from his face, leaving him unguarded, peaceful. I could have stayed like that for hours, just watching him, memorizing the rare softness in his features. But breakfast wasn’t going to make itself.

I slipped out of bed, careful not to disturb him, and made my way to the en suite, where I quietly dressed and did my hair and makeup. I loved the man, but it was too soon to spoil the illusion.

I put a record on the phonograph and flitted around the kitchen, pulling out all the breakfast essentials: eggs, bacon, cantaloupe, and, of course, the makings for buttermilk pancakes. I considered myself a decent cook, but my pancakes were mypièce de résistance.

As I poured myself a steaming cup of coffee, Victor’s gravelly voice broke the stillness behind me. “Good morning, beautiful.” He wrapped his arms around my waist and rested his chin on myshoulder. Then he nuzzled my neck and crooned, “Sugar in my coffee, honey on my toast. Guess I love you the most.”

I turned in his embrace and kissed him gently. His aftershave was rich and spicy. He was fully dressed, every detail of his suit in perfect order.

“You’re dressed,” I mused.

“So are you,” he replied, pulling back to look me up and down. “Too bad. The idea of you dancing around the kitchen in nothing but an apron really gets my motor going.”

I swatted him lightly on the shoulder before turning somber. “Where are you going?” I asked, a hint of disappointment creeping into my voice.

“I have something to take care of this afternoon,” he said, running his fingers through my hair. “But I’ll send Gino with the car to bring you to the beach house this evening.

I bit my lip. “Is that wise? What if I’m seen there? We’re so close to your court date.”

“That’s why I’m sending Gino. No one keeps a low profile better than him.” He leaned in, his voice dropping to that low, sultry murmur that sent a thrill down my spine. “Bring that dress from last night. I want to photograph you in it.”

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