Page 93 of Thorns of Death
He released my mouth too soon. “Ready,dolcezza?”
“I was born ready.”
Then he started moving. He fucked me like he was punishing me and rewarding me at the same time. His hips hit my sensitive, raw flesh with each thrust, his flesh slapping against mine making obscene noises, urging me further into my pleasure.
His fingers dug into my hips while he drove deep, pounding hard and rough. Unforgiving. And God help me, I loved it. Fuck vanilla sex, this was so fucking good. Give it to me dirty and rough.
The bed rocked as he worked himself in and out of my body. His grunts were erotic. The words in Italian that he uttered were even more so.
The bed rocked. The mattress protested. My screams urged.
Each ruthless thrust knocked the breath out of my lungs. He grunted with every slam, his cock sheathed deep inside me. I started to think each touch by this man would get me more addicted to him and soon—very soon—I’d be putty in his hands.
My husband grabbed a fistful of my hair as he hit that sensitive spot over and over again until tears burned in my eyes.
“Let me hear you,dolcezza. Every sound you make is music. All fucking mine.”
When the first tear rolled down my face, he released my hair and wiped it—almost reverently—with his finger. He brought his index finger against my lips, and I opened them eagerly, letting him slide it inside as I sucked greedily.
He kept working himself in and out of my body, mirroring the rhythm of his fingers pushing in and out of my mouth.
His finger slipped from my mouth down to my legs in search of my clit. He pinched the swollen nub at the same time that he slapped my burning ass, and the world exploded.
Sparks shot through my veins. My body convulsed, and every single cell in my body shut down while the pleasure coursed through me. My ears buzzed and my brain blanked as I let myself bask in the intensity of my orgasm.
My husband kept thrusting through my clenching sex until his body went rigid and he finished with a roar, hot liquid spurting inside my channel.
Enrico pulled out of my folds and I slumped on the bed, weak but sated in the afterglow of the best orgasm of my life.
Still high on languid post-coital bliss, I startled when I felt strong arms pick me up.
“Let’s clean you up.”
THIRTY-ONE
ENRICO
After I cleaned her up, we stretched out on the bed, although tension rolled through her. She tried to mask it by closing her eyes.
It was selfish of me, but I never wanted to let her go. As I held her in my arms, I felt at peace for the first time in a very long time. From now on, she’d be in my home, in my bed. I’d give her anything she wanted—anything but her freedom. This marriage was for life and to hell with it all.
Isla seemed to always have something to say, but she remained silent, her cheek pressed against my chest. The tension between us—sexual and emotional—had been our dance since the day we crossed paths. With each touch, she became more engraved in the marrow of my bones, but I seemed to be out of her system immediately after we fucked.
My chest tightened in frustration.
“Are you clean?” she asked, never opening her eyes. “Considering you’re not using condoms anymore.”
It had never been my style to fuck a woman without a condom, but with her, I didn’t want to fuck her any other way. I didn’t want anything separating us.
“I’m clean.” I stroked her hip, her soft skin silky under my fingers. “And a husband doesn’t need a condom with his wife.”
She scoffed softly, her breath brushing against my chest.
“Aren’t you going to ask me if I’m clean?” She shifted, raising her head to look at me.
I kissed the crown of her head. “You’re clean.” She glared at me and I let out a sigh. “What’s the matter?”
She pushed away from me and I already hated the distance. “Well, where do I even start?”
