Page 55 of My Dark Fairy Tale
I cried out, one hand clutching his thick, lush hair to keep him pinned to my chest.
He cooed something soothing before going to work on my right nipple, giving it the same treatment. When he was done, the fabric over my peaks was paler pink than the surrounding linen, almost sucked clean by his mouth. His lips were swollen and vividly red against the black stubble lining his jaw. But it was his eyes, dark, dangerous, and glinting like a predator’s in the night, that made me physically tremble with want.
I wanted him to devour me, bones and all.
There was no fear or shyness, no trace of a virgin’s mindset. The hunger that had lain dormant in my gut for so long was fully roused and ravenous.
“Raffa,” I told him, breathless, chest heaving. “I think you should know ... I’m not wearing anything under this dress.”
The growl that rumbled through his chest was the sexiest thing I had ever heard. He tugged me closer to the edge of the table and dropped to his knees, unthinking of the hard ceramic tile. He didn’t even wince, though, the full weight of his focus between my thighs as he pushed them open with his palms and stared at my barefiga.
I could feel my blush in my scalp and my toes, but the embarrassment only amplified my desire, compressing it from burning coal to something clear and diamond bright.
“How do I say ‘lick me’?” I asked him, playing into his teacher kink.
He bit sharply at the soft flesh of my inner thigh to watch me squirm before lifting his black eyes to mine. “Leccami la figa.”
“Leccami la figa, prego, Signore,” I said.
Lick my pussy, please, sir.
“Such a good girl,” he praised, and his approbation was headier than any amount of fine Italian wine. “Hand me the wine.”
I did so without hesitation and watched with my lip between my teeth as he poured some at the crease of each thigh. After placing the bottle on the floor out of the way, he refocused his attention on my pussy, and it felt like a physical touch. Like a promise.
Suddenly, his tongue was on me, lapping up the alcohol from my thin-skinned groin without really touching my core. I thanked Gemma for gifting me sessions of laser hair removal for my eighteenth birthday, because the feel of his tongue against my bare skin was so exquisite I had to curl my hands around the edge of the table to resist pushing his head closer to the leaking center of me.
“Look at how wet this pussy is,” he mused, resting his cheek on one inner thigh to stare intimately at my folds, using the thumb of his otherhand to lightly trace from beneath my aching clit to just before my ass. When he raised his fingers to show me, they glistened as if with dew.
I started panting when he slid them into his mouth and sucked them, cheeks hollowing.
“Come una droga,” he repeated, this time about my taste.
Like a drug.
Without hesitation, he wrapped his arms under my thighs, lifting me to his mouth, his hands pinning my hips still so he could attack me with his lips, teeth, and tongue.
I shouted, head dropping back between my shoulders as if my spine had been cut like a thread. Sensation exploded so sharply through my entire body, emanating from his magical mouth, that I felt like I would come out of my skin. His tongue found my clit, testing it with slow, languid strokes before increasing the pressure, wrapping his lips around it andpulling.
Under any other circumstances I might have been embarrassed by how quickly I came, hips juddering uselessly under his strong hands, pussy spasming like an open-and-closed fist around an ache even the pleasure couldn’t quench. But the entire day had been a prelude to this. A slow-burn seduction of my body and mind that left me as wanton and ready as a seasoned courtesan in the historical romance novels I loved so much.
This was so much better than anything I had ever read about it.
Raffa licked me through the climax, moving away from my throbbing, sensitive clit to tongue at my entrance. The sound of his mouth licking up my cum was shameless and unbearably hot.
My hands wove into his hair and pulled tight.
“Voglio di più,” I told him in Italian, because it seemed like the only language that could hold all this desire without breaking under the weight.
His response was a muttered curse and a sharp bite to the meat of my thigh. My hips jumped at the pain before it transformed into something with roots that dug deep into my pelvis and thighs.
“Ancora,” I cried, needing his mouth on me but also his teeth, his pain like a punctuation mark of ownership on my skin.
Instead of biting me, he moved his mouth back to the wet slick of my pussy and reached up with both hands to pinch my nipples hard between his fingertips.
I cried out, voice breaking, pleasure shattering, vision whiting out with pinwheels of bright color popping through. His name was in my mouth like a prayer, a hymn I would never forget even long after I went home and left him behind forever.
Raffa, Raffa, Raffa.
