Page 13 of Just This Once

Dante’s eyes are dark to begin with, but in this low light, they seem to go black the longer he gazes at me. I resist the urge to fidget or cover up, hiding my imperfections, hoping he doesn’t notice how they’re different sizes, how my leftnipple sort of lazily stares off to the side, while my right will look him in the eye. And to say nothing of how low they hang.

But I don’t think he notices. Or if he does, he doesn’t care, because he licks his lips and juts out his chin. “Come here. Get on top of me.”

I set my shoes aside and scoot onto the bed, my knees on either side of his hips. Like this, I’m taller than him, and he tilts his head back, cheeks ruddy, face boyish when he commands, “Feed them to me.”

I’m not sure if it’s the crude request or my own lack of sexual experience, but I huff. “What?”

“Feed me your tits.” Like a king, he doesn’t move. Simply waits, completely placid, as if it’s totally normal to request someone to feed him their tits.

I don’t have an argument, so I bend forward, feeling the hard, thick ridge of him between my legs, and wrap my hands around the bottom of my breasts, lifting them up, offering them to him.

“Closer,” he murmurs, attention locked on the hard tips, and I swallow thickly at the heated request, as if he’s dying to taste.

I’m suddenly dying for him to have a taste too.

I arch my back so my right nipple brushes his lips, and he captures it, sucking hard. I gasp, surprised at the pleasant sting as he hums a satisfied sound, circling his tongue, and I feel the echo of pleasure deep in my core, a line connected between my nipple and clit. One he plucks by scraping his teeth over the glistening wet tip.

I barely have enough time to breathe before his mouth is on my left one, giving it the same treatment, and my hips roll reflexively, searching for friction. Still, he stays on his elbows, his hands loosely balled in fists next to him, forcing me to work, find where it feels good, grind down harderon him.

Though I suspect that’s what he wants from the way his eyes find mine, silently imploring me to keep going as he continues to lavish my breasts with his mouth, alternating side to side until I’m completely gone. I throw my head back, moaning up at the ceiling as I rock myself on him, hitting my clit, reaching for the precipice, but never quite making it.

“Please,” I beg, breathing hard, skin warm and prickly.

Dante releases my nipple and flips us so he’s on top, hands on either side of my head, lips quirked to the side. “Whatever you want, duchess.”

“Duchess?”

“You’re the ruler, aren’t you?” He dips his head to kiss a trail down my breastbone.

“I thought you were in charge.”

He reaches the button on my jeans, flicking it open as his eyes meet mine. “Only because you’re allowing me.”

When I don’t stop him, he pulls them off, raking his gaze over the length of me, then takes his wallet from his back pocket to retrieve a condom. He tosses it onto the pillow above me and proceeds to strip naked. Truly, he’s like a sculpture. Tall and well-built with a line of dark hair extending from his navel down to the trimmed patch above the erection he fists, sliding his hand up and down the length as he continues to look his fill of me.

And I have the sudden fear that I’ll disappoint him. That I already do.

I’m soft and squishy all over, with stretch marks and cellulite covering my belly, hips, and thighs. My C-section scar is prominent, clearly visibly above the line of my panties, and I’m afraid to even look down at how badly I need to do my own trimming.

And yet, he is not at all turned off by the bush that appears when he yanks off my underwear, tossing themover his shoulder and kneeling on the floor. I try to cover up, close my legs, but he stops me, shoving my thighs wide, and not even Moses, Jesus, and Muhammad put together could save me from the mortification that makes me go hot all over. The only other person to be this close to my vagina in the last few years is my OB-GYN, and she’s always gentle.

Dante is not.

He’s demanding and rough and doesn’t give me any warning before diving down, kissing my pussy like he kissed my mouth, licking up the length of me, holding me open with his fingers to tease my clit with the tip of his tongue, then pressing inside.

It’s an onslaught of sensation, and I automatically dig my fingers into his hair, forgetting all about my insecurities. Too tormented to think of anything other than his tongue and what he’s doing with it.

His groan is one of self-satisfaction as he slides one of his hands over my lower abdomen, right on top of my scar, his fingers extending wide, almost possessively, like he’s claiming as much territory as possible. I can’t make sense of it, of how I want him to possess me, because he lifts his head and thrusts his fingers inside me, ridding me of all logical thoughts.

With gentle pressure inside, he tenderly presses down at the same time, and my eyes roll to the back of my head. A clever little trick that he knows works from the quiet, “That’s it. Almost there.”

He’s right. I am.

After only another minute, I shout my pleasure to the ceiling, my hands flying to Dante’s shoulders, gripping him tightly as I come hard against his mouth. He doesn’t let up, continuing to lick and suck until I’m a trembling mess, oversensitive and pushing him away with a smack to his shoulder. He sits back,grinning, his face glistening with my arousal. I should probably be embarrassed, but I’m too sated to care.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes never leaving mine as he moves up my body, his lips soft and still tasting like me when he kisses me. I forget about all the reasons why I thought this was a bad idea.

Because this is exactly what I deserve for my birthday.

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