Page 128 of Dagger in the Sea

Out.

Oh, here it comes.

He rammed his cock inside me in one swift move, and I cried out sharply, my head knocking back. He bit my upper chest in reply, and I hissed on the sting. Holding me in his excruciating grip, he thrust and thrust and thrust. Harder and swifter with my every cry.

Every day, every night. In the middle of the night. First thing in the morning. The afternoon, like now. Whenever Mr. DeMarco pleased, and however he liked. And he pleased and I liked, very, very much.

Turo’s guerrilla fucking tactics were a strategic success on my battlefield. He was determined to overwhelm me, to obliterate any trace left of the ‘fake it’ response from my very bones after two years of my having perfected it, hiding behind it. In his conquest of me, I was compelled to feel every blast, every sting, every burn. No shame, no analyzing, or deciding. No morning after regrets or doubts. Only us feeding off each other. Pure sensation.

He moved us to the bed, but my limbs were no better than rubber. Lifting me up by the hips and sliding one arm between my breasts, he cuffed my neck, holding me up and thrust in quick, harsh movements. The old iron bed squeaked and jerked in complaint. I wanted to look at him very badly, but I couldn’t squirm or turn my head even a fraction. Instead, I squeezed him inside me and slammed back against him, meeting him thrust for thrust.

He let out a low, long grunt, and my heart jumped in my chest. He liked that, and I liked that he did. I liked that he wanted me over and over again, that his desire for me seemed bottomless. A hunger I never knew I possessed had taken hold of me. A hunger he knew how to satisfy. He’d made that happen, my conjurer, my conqueror.

“Turo!” I hurtled over the edge he’d brought us to.

He kept at me, and I kept my hold on his cock until he finished. My arse cheeks burned from the odd bite he’d delivered. He stroked me and the burn transformed to molten heat. We both dropped onto the bed, and I curled into his chest, his arms sliding around me, keeping me close. I breathed in the warmth of his skin. He never spoke during or after. Unlike me, where a constant ramble of his name flowed from my mouth as he watched me, maneuvered me.

I nestled against him, his heart beating steady and strong in his chest, and I focused on that powerful rhythm. My lips brushed his damp skin; a sweet thank you, a gentle connection I craved whenever we were done.

Done?

Oh, I didn’t want to be done with Turo DeMarco.

36

Turo

Another day.

Another fantastic day, and I’d stopped looking at my watch to assess priorities. My prized Patek Philippe that my grandfather had given me on my twenty-first birthday was no longer a necessary tool to navigate my time.

A sundial better suited my needs.

This evening we’d caught the sunset drinking iced coffees as we strolled along the beach barefoot under a pink and orange streaked sky. Once darkness settled, we headed back to the house to get dressed for a night out. The second we’d entered the house, she’d pushed me onto the sofa, zipped down my pants, and swallowed my cock. Just before I’d come, I had her open her mouth and I sprayed her outstretched tongue with my cum. Right after, she swallowed me in once more, sucking me as I came down. I relented to her insistence, and it had been so fucking good, so fucking beautiful to experience that insistence and feel her drain me.

Her rough tenderness. What violins had once been. Gut deep, soul-rending music. My mind blanked and we’d lain there half on the sofa, on the floor, limbs tangled, sticky and sweaty.

Tonight we were going to a local bar. We’d showered and changed, and I strode down the steps to the foyer where she was applying dark red lipstick in front of the mirror in the credenza. She wore a long, royal blue dress with slits up the sides, and around her neck lay a mass of thin chains with colored crystals and the Greek evil eye charms.

She shot me a grin in the mirror as she twisted the cap back on her lipstick. I stood behind her dragging a hand through my hair, smoothing it back once again with what little hair gel I had left. She turned to me, her gaze traveling up and down my body.

“What? Is this all right?” I asked.

“Gorgeous.” She winked at me, untucking the white linen shirt from my jeans.

“Well, now it’s not.”

“What do you mean?” She smoothed the ends of the shirt down.

“Now it’s wrinkled.”

She ignored my clipped tone. “It’s linen, Turo. And it looks better this way. It’s summer on an island.”

“It’s not summer, Adri. It’s May.”

Her eyes glittered at me. “Turo, this is not Chicago. This is Greece.”

I caught my reflection in the mirror once again. “Hmm.”

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