Page 80 of Hostile Secret
“Don’t question me. Obey,” he growls, suddenly removing his fingers and pulling away from me.
When I turn around, he’s lying flat on his back, his head and ass resting on the chunky coffee table, his bare feet planted on the floor. “Climb on. Pussy in my face and your pink lips on my dick.”
Holy shit.
I hesitate for a second to gauge how best to crawl onto him.
“Now!” His order strikes like lightning. “Before I come from just tasting you on my fingers.”
My heart is pounding when I maneuver myself onto the coffee table and place my knees on either side of his ribs, feeling his hands land on my ass to control me. “That’s it… bend over. Suffocate me with this drenched little cunt while you choke on my dick.”
Obeying him, I tip forward and fist the base of his dick, crying out when he fucks me with his tongue and digs his fingers into my ass cheeks.
I spit on his angry looking dick and encircle the tip of it with my lips, hearing him grunt with approval. That sonorous appreciation does bad things to my insides. They’re blazing from the intimate way we’re feasting on each other.
My moans become desperate, the vibrations running up his shaft until he elevates me off his face and gasps for air. “Fuck, you taste good.”
I’m close, teetering on the edge when he draws my clit between his teeth and my juices spill into his mouth. My own sucking turns wild and furious.
Together, we both work on the other in a frenzy. I gag on his dick, and he practically drowns in the wetness leaking from me.
My back arches when the orgasm hits, at the very second salty cum hits the back of my throat. My gag reflexes have my stomach lurching, but I stay in position and ingest every last drop as he drinks up all of me. We fall off the cliff together, panting and groaning.
I don’t know how he manages to effortlessly uncouple us or spin me around so I’m sitting on his lap. When my heavy lids flutter, he kisses me. Our tongues leisurely swirl and play, the sensual way his lips own mine melts my brain of thoughts.
“There are other ways we can mix our cum together, not just fucking,” he says into my mouth, before scooping me up and rising.
I stare up at him and decide not to say another word. Being in his arms is somewhere that makes me feel safe, and unexpectedly, the sensation feels like home.
He carries me through the dimly lit hallways and up the grand staircase to my bedroom. Once inside, he stalks to the bathroom, offloads me onto the heated tiles and turns on the shower.
I don't fight against him when he leads me by the hand under the jets and glides his soapy hands over my skin to wash me. He doesn't argue when I do the same to him. When we’re both clean again, and the water stops sluicing between us, he gently tips my chin up so our gazes meet, and our lips connect.
My heart does a weird little skip and when he breaks away, it sinks to my toes.
Neither of us addresses the tenderness we share as if it's a forbidden secret just for us to keep. Instead, he wraps me in a fluffy robe, quickly towels himself down and saunters buck naked into the bedroom.
I take a breath in the space he’s given me, only to hear my name in that deep Spanish accent of his. I’m only his little whore when he’s using me, and for some reason, I love knowing it.
I check my reflection in the mirror and notice my eyes sparkle. They’re more vibrant and aware. Giovanni Souza has done this to me. He’s breathed life into my grieving soul.
Padding barefoot into my bedroom, I find him propped up on the bed with a few pillows behind his shoulders and the gun he’d given me in his hand. He’s not pointing it at me, rather inspecting it for flaws.
I join him on the bed and lower my head to the pillow next to him, keeping a purposeful measure of distance between us. Neither of us wants a connection beyond sex. Which is why it’s both confusing and comforting that he’s still here––onmybed.
“I like a woman who can handle a firearm,” he says, setting it on the nightstand.
“I’m sure there are plenty to choose from.”
“There are, but I doubt any of them would taste as good as you.” He scoots down the mattress, keeps his eyes on the ceiling and shoves his hands behind his head.
“Are you sleeping here, Gio?” I say sleepily, loving the warmth his body radiates.
“I don’t know.”
That’s the last thing I hear before my eyelids drift closed and I fall asleep. I’m not sure how long I’ve slept for when I feel something on my cheek.
A gentle prodding or poking. My heart pounds in my chest and my lashes instantly flick upward only to meet a set of molasses rich, troubled eyes.
