Page 61 of The Wrong Mafia Bride
"I want to worship you," I tell her, my voice rough with need. "I want to take my time with you. I want to show you with my hands and my mouth and my body what you mean to me."
Her breath catches. "Then show me."
I lift her onto the bathroom counter in one smooth motion, and she wraps her legs around my waist, pulling me closer. The mirror behind her reflects us both—her flushed and wanting, melooking at her like she is the answer to every question I have ever asked.
I kiss her slowly, thoroughly, pouring everything I cannot say into the press of my lips against hers. My hands map the landscape of her body—the curve of her waist, the swell of her breasts, the soft skin of her inner thighs—learning her, memorizing her.
I pull back just enough to look at her. Her lips are swollen from my kisses, her eyes dark and dilated. She is breathing hard, her chest rising and falling.
I kneel on the bathroom floor, the tile hard beneath my knees. I kiss her hip bones, the inside of her thighs, taking my time. She makes soft, needy sounds above me, her fingers tangling in my hair.
I hook my fingers into the waistband of her panties, looking up at her. She lifts her hips, and I slide them down her legs, letting them pool on the floor beside me.
And then she is bare before me, spread open on the bathroom counter.
"Dante." My name on her lips sounds like a prayer.
I lower my mouth to her.
The first touch of my tongue is a slow, flat stroke from bottom to top. She jolts, a sharp gasp tearing from her throat. Her hands fist in my hair, not pushing, just holding on. I can feel the fine tremble in her thighs where they frame my head.
I do it again, slower this time, savoring her taste—sweet and musky and uniquelyher. I circle her clit with the very tip of my tongue, a light, teasing pressure that makes her whimper. Ibuild a slow, steady rhythm, listening to the sounds she makes, learning what she likes.
Her hips begin a tiny, involuntary rocking against my mouth. I slide a hand up her thigh, my thumb finding her entrance. I push inside, just the pad of my thumb, and she moans, the sound echoing in the tiled room. I add a second finger, crooking them just so, finding that spot inside her that makes her cry out.
I suck her clit into my mouth, applying a firm, steady pressure while my fingers work inside her. Her breathing becomes ragged, broken by little gasps and moans. "Dante… please… don't stop…"
I have no intention of stopping. I want to drown in her. I want to memorize every hitch of her breath, every convulsive clench of her inner muscles around my fingers. I add a third finger, stretching her gently, feeling her body give way and welcome me deeper.
Her pleasure is a living thing in the air between us. I can taste it, salty and electric on my tongue. I can feel it in the desperate clutch of her hands in my hair. I can hear it in the broken, pleading litany of my name.
"Right there… oh god, Dante,right there…"
I redouble my efforts, my tongue working her clit in tight, frantic circles while my fingers piston in and out, curling to hit that spot again and again. Her thighs tighten around my head. Her back arches off the cool marble, a high, thin cry spilling from her lips.
I feel it the moment she starts to come. A deep, pulsing clench around my fingers. A shudder that racks her entire body. Her cry breaks into a sob as the orgasm tears through her, wave after wave of it, until she’s trembling and boneless against the mirror.
I gentle my mouth, licking her softly through the aftershocks until she pushes weakly at my head, over-sensitized. I pull my fingers from her, slowly, and bring them to my mouth, tasting her fully as I look up at her.
Her eyes are glazed, her skin sheened with a fine sweat. She looks utterly wrecked and more beautiful than anything I have ever seen.
I stand, my own need a sharp, painful ache in my jeans. But this is still for her. I unbutton my jeans, pushing them and my boxers down just enough to free my cock. It’s hard, flushed, pre-come beading at the tip.
I step between her thighs, guiding myself to her entrance. I look into her eyes, waiting. She nods, her hands coming up to my shoulders, her legs hooking around my hips.
I push inside,slowly. An inch. Then another. She’s so wet, so warm, so impossibly tight. Her head falls back against the mirror with a soft thud as I sink deeper, filling her completely. We both groan, the sensation overwhelming.
I stay there, buried to the hilt, letting us both adjust. Letting her feel the full stretch of me. Her inner muscles flutter around me, a delicious, milking pressure.
"Okay?" I rasp, my forehead against hers.
"More than okay," she breathes. "Move. Please."
I pull out almost all the way, then slide back in, setting a deep, measured pace. Each thrust is a deliberate act of worship. The bathroom fills with the sound of our breathing, the slick slide of our bodies joining, the soft impact of my hips against her thighs.
I kiss her again, swallowing her moans. One of my hands cups the back of her head, protecting it from the mirror. The other grips her hip, holding her steady as my thrusts begin to deepen, to gain a hint of urgency.
The angle is perfect. Each stroke brushes over that sensitive spot inside her, and I can feel her beginning to tighten around me again, her second climb starting much faster than the first.
