Page 60 of The Crowned Garza
Gripping a fistful of my thigh, squeezing and kneading, he asks, “Here?”
Aroused and sexually heightened, it takes me a hot minute to reply, “Y-yes.”
His hands climb higher. “How about here?”
“Uh-huh.” Breaths short and erratic, I thrust my pelvis upward. “Mnmh…”
“What is it?” He kneads right up to the crest of my thighs, teasing the outskirts, torturing me. “You hurt here, too?”
“So much.” I thrust up again, desperate for contact. “Hurts so much.”
“Easy,” he cajoles, as if I’m a cornered wild animal.
I settle down, relaxing my hips. Behaving. Whatever it takes to get him to domore.
Painstakingly slowly, he drifts his fingers closer and closer. And it’s taking everything in me not to buck up my hips again.
When his fingers finally make contact with my pussy, it’s like sinking into a hot bath after trudging in from a blizzard.
The keening whine that escapes me is downright embarrassing.
“There you go,bellissima,” he whispers, collecting my juices and drowning my clit until I’m so slippery and sensitive I’m worried I’ll come on the spot, too soon. “Better?”
All I can do is nod as pleasure rises in me, my bottom lip held hostage between my teeth.
Saint circles my clit with the pad of his thumb, around…and around…and around… Just when I think I’m about to implode, he stops and drags said thumb down to my entrance. “How about here,regalità?”
My hips buck up involuntarily when his thumb enters me. “Yes…oh God…yes…”
He caresses my pulsing walls. “Look at this pussy…so clean, so pretty.” He hooks his thumb inside me and I borderline purr. “You take really good care of yourself for me, don’t you?”
I mewl something in response. Or I think I do. My brain’s all steam right now.
“Your bratty little pussy is leaking all over me.” A low growl rolls in his throat. “Do you feel how hard you make me?”
I do. He’s steel-hard beneath me.
Speech impeded, I undulate on his lap in sheer desperation.
“What,bellissima? You want to come? Is that it?”
I nod wildly.
With a tiny smile, he drags his thumb back up to my clit and, adding his index finger into the mix, peels back the hood, then lowers his head and flicks his tongue over the supersensitive bundle of nerves. Rapidly. Relentlessly. Until my body locks up and a cry claws out of me as my orgasm shreds me.
Holyfreakingwhatthefuckshit!
Saint presses down on my clit with the pad of his thumb, ensuring I feel every shock wave of that orgasm, nothing wasted. And a jumble of nonsensical words entwined in staccato moans tumble out of me.
Once I’ve fallen lax and quiet, he asks, “Feel better?”
Feebly, I shake my head.
“No?”
“I’m hurting all over now,” I rasp. “Can you soothe the ache in all those places?”
He lifts me off him and straightens, then fixes my towel before pinching my chin. “I have to get going.”
