I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he groans, his hips driving into me, hitting a spot deep inside me that feels impossibly good. The sounds of our bodies slapping together, our ragged breaths, our desperate moans fill the room, a symphony of raw, unadulterated need.
My body is a live wire, every nerve ending tingling, every cell screaming for more. I arch my back, meeting him thrust for thrust.
"Antonio," I moan, my hands sliding down his back, my nails digging into his skin. "Harder."
He complies, his thrusts becoming more forceful, more demanding. I feel a fresh wave of arousal at the roughness, at the way he's taking me, claiming me.
"I'm going to come again," I gasp, my body tightening, the familiar tingling starting at the base of my spine. "Oh God, Antonio..."
"Come for me, Elsa," he growls, his voice a low, sexy rumble against my ear. "Let go. I've got you."
The unexpected tenderness of the words with the powerful thrusts is my undoing. The orgasm that tears through me is more powerful than the last, a blinding, soul-shatteringexplosion of pleasure that leaves me breathless, boneless, and shaking.
He pulls out of me, shoves my knees up, and licks my pussy from bottom to top in one long, slow stroke. I scream, my body arching off the bed as he devours me, his tongue, his lips, his teeth driving me wild.
I don't know how much more I can take. I'm overstimulated, my body a quivering mess, but he doesn't stop, and I don't want him to. I want to give him everything.
He pulls back with a pained hiss, and I realize the angle that he's leaning over me is probably straining his wound.
I sit up and put my hands on his shoulders. "Antonio, you don't have to," I say, breathless.
His lips are glistening, and I nearly moan and lick them.
"Have to?" he says roughly. "You think I'm eating your delicious pussy because I have to?Dolcezza, I have to, but not in the way you think."
Then he shifts to get on the bed and lie back.
"Sit on my face," he says.
"What?" I choke out. He can't be serious.
"You heard me," he says, a smirk playing on those lips that were just on me.
Oh.
Oh.
My coreclenches at the thought. At the visual.
"I'm starving here, sweetheart," he says, pained. "A dying man, desperate for one last meal."
I can't help it. I laugh. It's the last thing I expected him to say, and it's so absurd, so unexpected, that it breaks the tension, and I find myself moving before I've even made a conscious decision.
I straddle his face, my knees on either side of his head, while he positions me where he wants me.
Awkwardly, I hover, unsure what to do.
He wraps his arms around my thighs and yanks me down.
Then he starts to eat.
And it's… everything.
His tongue is magic, swirling, flicking, probing. His lips are soft and demanding, sucking, nipping, kissing. He knows exactly what he's doing, exactly how to drive me wild, how to push me to the brink and pull me back, how to make me beg.
And I do. I beg. I plead. I scream his name, my hands fisting in the sheets, in his hair, in my own hair, my body writhing above him.
He eats me with a hunger that's almost feral, his hands holding me in place, his tongue and lips and teeth working me relentlessly.