Page 62 of Bitter Poetry
He palms my breast roughly through my gown, his lips blazing a trail upward again, kissing me, swallowing the nonsense sounds that might be protests or encouragement that spill from my lips.
His knee wedges between my legs. His hand is on my heavy silk skirts, dragging them up until his palm settles over my core. I feel hot there, urgent; just the sensation of his hand against me, separated by a thin layer of silk, makes my pussy squeeze with need.
Another door.
Another time.
His mouth on me there.
I’d wrongly presumed it might be a precursor to change. That he wanted me, that he would save me. Only now do I realize that nobody can. All I have is this: stolen moments and then just the memories of them.
He drags his lips from mine and pins me with a look, both of us breathing heavily. “Tell me to fuck you.”
“Please,” I beg.
He pushes my panties aside and spears two fingers inside me.
I groan, letting my head fall back against the door
“Are you going to come for me?”
“Please, yes.”
“You’re dripping, Carmela,” he says, scissoring his fingers inside me. “For me. Do you have any idea what that does to me?”
I can’t get enough air to answer him. I stop trying when he begins to pump his fingers roughly, the pad of his thumb against my clit. Tension invades my body. I’m teetering on the brink of a climax when he pulls his fingers out and shoves them into my mouth.
“Taste yourself. Taste how addictive you are.”
I do, groaning. His dark eyes turn black as he watches me licking myself from his fingers.
He pulls them out, trailing a wet smear down my chin before his lips claim mine again and his tongue sweeps inside, tasting me that way before he hoists me up the door.
Instinctively, I wrap my arms and legs around him.
His labored breathing is against my ear. “Such a good fucking girl. All ready to be fucked.” He fumbles between us, loosening his belt… My dress is going to be screwed up and my makeup destroyed, I realize a little mindlessly. “You’re going to take me,Carmela. Every inch of me. I’m going to ruin your pussy. Leave you aching where I’ve been.”
I jolt as his cock nudges my clit before sliding the length of my pussy. The thick head snags my entrance, stretching me as he sinks a small way in, leaving me throbbing and clenching. Eager. Terrified. “Oh, God.”
“You’re tight, baby. This is going to hurt some, but I don’t have the time for finesse.”
He thrusts up just as he loosens his hold and impales himself deep in my core, and like he anticipates my cry, he clamps his palm over my mouth. Tears spring from the back of my eyes. The stingy pinching sensation morphs into sweet, achy pressure and absolute fullness. My groan is smothered by his palm.
“Hush, that’s my good girl. You wouldn’t want your husband and all the nice wedding guests to find out what you’re doing in the powder room.”
My pussy clenches almost painfully around his thick length, and a louder groan is trapped behind his hand.
He flexes his hips, and somehow, there is even more of him inside me.
God help me. I need a moment.
He begins to pound into me, deep, hefty thrusts that shoot sparks the length of my channel and throbbing clit. I’m flying, looking down upon myself getting fucked against a powder room door, as Dante so eloquently stated, while my husband and hundreds of wedding guests are a short distance away.
Christian put me here. Christian, who fucking hates me, who gets off on me slapping him and wears the mark left behind like a badge of honor.
He set this up just like last time.
He’s probably outside, standing guard.
