Page 9 of Blood Orange Christmas
“Never enough.” He licks me one last time, slowly and possessively, before dragging himself up my body. His face is wet, his mouth glistening, and when he kisses me, I taste myself mixed with citrus. Filthy. Addictive.
I claw at his shirt, buttons scattering as I rip it open. His chest is hard, scarred, hot beneath my palms. He shrugs it off, drops it on the floor, and I’m already tugging at his belt.
“Take them off,” I gasp. “I need?—”
“You need this?” He fists his cock through the fabric, and the outline alone makes my mouth water. He unbuckles with a snap, trousers dropping, and then he’s bare against me, thick, heavy, already leaking. I wrap my hand around him, stroking once, and his head tips back with a guttural groan.
“Christ, Serena—keep doing that and I’ll lose it before I even get inside you.”
“Then don’t wait.” I hook my legs around his hips, dragging him closer. “Fuck me, Dante.”
He frees himself just a moment to retrieve a condom, slips it on, and lines himself up, the blunt head of his cock sliding against my slick folds, and my whole body trembles with anticipation. He pushes in just an inch, then pulls back, teasing, torturing.“Say it again.” His mouth is at my ear, voice like gravel. “Beg me.”
“Please,” I whimper, nails digging into his shoulders. “Please, Dante, fuck me.”
That’s all it takes. He drives into me with one hard thrust, stretching me open, stealing the air from my lungs. My cry turns into a kiss because his mouth claims mine at the same time. The marble is cold under my back, but everything else is heat—his hips pounding against mine, his tongue shoving into my mouth, his hand fisted in my hair. “God, you feel so fucking tight around me,” he groans against my lips, driving deeper, harder. “Like you were made for my cock.”
I clutch him closer, kissing him through every thrust, our mouths messy, our bodies colliding, the kitchen filling with the sound of skin on skin and both of us gasping like we’re starving.
His thrusts hammer into me until I can barely breathe between kisses. My nails rake his back, dragging down over hard muscle and sweat-slick skin. He groans into my mouth, hips slamming harder, and then he breaks the kiss, panting against my cheek. “Up,” he orders, voice wrecked. His hands are on my thighs, prying me open wider. “Hold on to me.”
Before I can argue, he lifts me clean off the counter, my legs wrapping around him instinctively. My back hits the cold glass of the kitchen window, the pane rattling as he slams me up against it. “Oh, fuck.” The shock of cold against my bare skin, the heat of him inside me, it’s too much. My breath fogs the glass, every thrust jarring the window in its frame.
“Look outside,” he growls in my ear. “Let anyone walk past, let them see you pinned here, dripping on my cock. Tell me you love it.”
“I love it,” I gasp, my voice breaking. “God, I love it—don’t stop?—”
He grips my ass hard enough to bruise, driving up into me so deep, I cry out. His teeth sink into the side of my neck, sucking, marking me as his hips slam forward again and again. My head tips back against the glass, my whole body shaking as he pounds me against the window.
He pulls out halfway, just to slam back in, the impact making the glass rattle like it might shatter. My nails claw at his shoulders, desperate to hang on as he fucks me up against the pane. “Beg louder,” he snarls, thrusts savage. “I want the walls to hear it. I want the whole fucking house to know whose cock you’re split open on.”
“Dante! Please—harder—fuck me harder!”
His answering growl is animal, hips pistoning into me until the glass behind me fogs with heat and my voice breaks into raw, desperate sounds. His mouth claims mine again, all tongue and teeth and need, kissing me like he’s trying to devour me while he pounds me against the window, the world outside disappearing into nothing but sweat, skin, and the rhythm of him inside me.
The glass squeals under the force of each thrust, my breath fogging white against it as his cock drives into me over and over. My legs tremble around his waist, my nails digging into his shoulders, but he doesn’t let up. He’s feral, slamming me into the pane like he wants to fuck me straight through it.
“Oh, God. Dante. I can’t?—”
“Yes, you can.” His teeth graze my jaw, his voice low and lethal in my ear. “You’re going to come for me right here, messy and loud, so I know you’re mine.”
His hand snakes down between us, two fingers circling my clit in rough, fast strokes. The shock of it rips through me and I cry out, my body tightening around him, every thrust pushing me higher until I’m nothing but desperate sound and heat.
“Fuck… yes, don’t stop?—”
“Come, Serena.” His command is guttural, hips driving harder, fingers relentless. “Soak my cock. Give it to me.”
It hits me like a lightning strike and I shatter, screaming his name, my pussy clenching around him in hard, merciless pulses. The orgasm tears through me, flooding everything, my body locking down on his cock like I’ll never let him go.
The second I clamp around him, he growls deep in his chest, hips jerking.
“Jesus. Fuck.” He buries himself to the hilt, trembling as his own climax rips free. The sharp sound of latex snapping taut tells me he’s spilling inside it, driving through his orgasm with savage thrusts that match mine. We’re both shaking, bodies slick, mouths crashing together in a kiss that’s more bite than softness, swallowing each other’s cries as we ride it out.
When he finally lets me down from the window, my legs almost give out beneath me. Dante catches me with one arm, steady as if I weigh nothing, and presses a kiss against my temple. My body is wrecked, trembling from the way he wrung me out, but he holds me close, easing me back to the counter and reaching for a towel to wipe the sticky trail of orange juice and sweat from my skin. His hands, which just minutes ago had been merciless, aregentle now, soothing, careful with every touch. I hate how much I lean into it. I hate how safe I feel in arms that should never feel safe.
He murmurs something in Italian I can’t quite catch, his voice low and husky, and even if I don’t understand the words, the tone unravels me all over again. He presses water into my hand, makes me sip, then strokes his thumb over my lips like he can’t quite stop touching me. I tell myself this was a mistake, that I should take my bag and go, but the way his gaze burns into me makes it impossible.
The days that follow blur with him. I cook in the kitchen and he hovers nearby, always too close, always watching like he can’t decide whether he wants to devour me or worship me. The sex doesn’t stop. It never even slows. On the marble counter again, in the pantry where spices rattle from the shelves, in his bed with silk sheets tangling around our legs—he takes me in ways that leave my body sore, marked, branded. And every time he touches me afterward, it’s with that same tenderness that undoes me more than the roughness ever could.
