Page 112 of Auctioned Innocence
I swallow. My dick is so uncomfortable and even touching myself isn’t helping. “What do you want me to do?”
“Touch me. Touch me like this.”
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. When I open them, she’s moving quickly, pushing her hips against her hand.
“Harder,” I command.
“Yes,” she hisses. “Yeah, like that. Yes.”
Her thighs squeeze and she throws her head back, her mouth open in ecstasy.
“Do you want to come,principessa?” I ask hoarsely.
“God,yes.”
I lean forward, listening to the sound of her wet fingers moving inside her. “It’s me touching you, Sofia,” I say. She gasps. “I’m pushing against your clit, and you’re riding my hand, and you’re beautiful.”
Sofia’s hips jerk against the table and the furniture scrapes against the floor. “Don’t you stop, Sofia,” I growl.
She cries out.
“Don’t you fucking dare stop. I want you to push harder. It’s my tongue against you now.”
“Oh, god.Oh god!” She moves her foot up, somehow opening herself wider.
“You like that? You like my tongue?”
Her only response is another moan, and it takes me another second to realize I’m stroking myself through my pants. I watch as she changes directions inside her underwear. Her hips slow down, but then she picks up the pace again. She’s panting now, her ass hitting the table so hard it’s squeaking.
“Oh, Dante—Dante!”
Her body vibrates as she comes, her fingers—slick with her release—still plunging in and out of her. I bark out a curse as I finish in my pants—fucking goddammit.
Sofia collapses against the table, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she comes down from her high. She pushes herself up onto her elbows to look at me and I’m already hard again at how goddamn beautiful she looks.
The soft chime of the security system makes us both freeze—someone using the proper access codes. We’re dressed, armed and in defensive positions before the sound fades, days of paranoia overriding hours of relative safety.
“It’s me,” Mario’s voice calls through the reinforced door. “Don’t shoot.”
I check the security monitors, confirming it’s really Mario and that he’s alone, before disengaging the locks. He steps inside, takes one look around the penthouse, and stops dead.
His nose wrinkles slightly as he glances between Sofia and me, taking in our appearances, the rumpled clothing, the general air of…well, exactly what we’ve been doing.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, setting down his briefcase. “Smells like a fucking brothel in here.”
Sofia’s face goes nuclear red, and she suddenly finds the floor very interesting. I meet Mario’s gaze directly, chin raised, ready for whatever lecture or threat is coming.
Instead, he holds up a hand. “Look, what you two do is between you and your consciences. I’m no snitch—I’m sure as hell not telling Marco shit about his sister’s love life.”
Mario looks like he’s aged a decade in the past week. His usually immaculate appearance is wrinkled, stress lines etched deep around his eyes.
“Elena? Stella?” Sofia asks immediately, and I’m reminded again why I fell for her. Even in the middle of our own crisis, she thinks of others first.
“Safe. Hidden. Moving every few hours, but safe.” Mario’s gaze flicks between Sofia and me, taking in our defensive positions, the weapons still within easy reach. Something that might be approval crosses his features, but he doesn’t comment. “Good reflexes. You’ll need them.”
I relax only slightly. “Somehow I don’t think you’re here for a social call.”
“You would be correct. We need to talk,” he says, settling into the living room. “All of it. The full scope of what we’re facing.”
