He groans. Full. Deep. The sound vibrates through his back into my hands.
"Dio,"he says. (God.)
I work the lats. The serratus. The muscles that wrap around his ribs where the tension has calcified into something that feels structural, like his body has built armor out of stress. Ifind a knot below his right scapula that makes him hiss when I press into it.
"Breathe," I say.
He breathes. I press harder. The knot releases. His head drops forward. His shoulders sag by half an inch. I feel the surrender in his body, the incremental lowering of defenses, the way a wall comes down not all at once but brick by brick.
My hands move up his neck. His skin is warm here, thinner, the pulse visible at the side of his throat. I press my thumbs into the base of his skull, the suboccipital muscles, tiny and vicious from holding the weight of his head upright through whatever crisis he won't tell me about. He makes a sound that is somewhere between pain and relief. A sound I want to hear again.
I lean forward. My chest against the back of his head. My mouth near his ear.
"Turn around," I say.
He turns. Shifts on the floor until he's facing me, his back to the room, his face level with my knees. I am sitting on the couch above him. He looks up. The light catches his eyes. Dark. Heavy-lidded. The whiskey is untouched on the sidetable. He doesn't need it. He's arriving at a different kind of looseness.
I pour more oil. My hands find his chest. The pectorals, the sternum, the hard plane of his stomach. His skin is slick under my palms. The ink continues here. A script along his collarbone I can now read.La verità ti rende libero.The truth sets you free. I trace the letters with my fingertips. He watches me read his body.
My hands slide lower. His stomach. The obliques, the V-line of muscle that cuts from his hips toward his waistband. His breathing changes. Shorter. Shallower. The rhythm of a man whose body is starting to respond to something that has nothing to do with therapeutic massage.
I feel him. Through his pants. Hard against the back of my hand when I work the lower abdomen. I don't acknowledge it. I keep working. My oil-slicked hands on his stomach, his ribs, sliding up to his chest, back down to his hips. Each pass lower. Each pass closer.
His hand comes up. Catches my wrist. Not to stop me. To hold me still for a moment while he looks at my face.
"Valentina."
My name in his voice. The way he said it in the elevator. Low. Seductive. Like my name is a word he's been practicing in private.
I pull my wrist free. Gently. I slide off the couch. Onto the floor. On my knees in front of him. The marble is hard through the rug. I don't care. My hands go to his waistband. I undo the button. The zipper. He lifts his hips, helps me pull the fabric down.
He's hard. Fully. The oil on my hands catches the amber light.
I wrap my fingers around him. Slow. The oil makes everything frictionless, warm, slick. I stroke him from base to tip with a grip that tightens gradually, finding the pressure he likes by the way his breath catches. By the way his stomach contracts. By the small, involuntary thrust of his hips when I twist my wrist at the top.
"Cazzo,"he breathes. (Fuck.)
I stroke him slow. There is no reason to rush. The penthouse is quiet. Naples hums below us. The bay through the windows holds the city's light in its black surface. I have all night. I have nowhere to be except here, on my knees on his floor,with his body responding to mine in a language that requires no translation.
He leans back on both hands. His head tilts back, the tendons in his neck taut, his chest rising and falling faster now. I watch his face. The control is still there, the architecture of composure he wears like his suits, but cracks are forming. Fractures in the foundation. His mouth opens. His eyes close.
I lean forward.
My tongue touches the tip of his dick. I can taste the pre-cum. He jerks. A full-body response, hips lifting off the floor, a groan that comes from his chest, not his throat. I take him into my mouth. Slow. Letting him feel the heat, the wet, the pressure of my lips closing around him inch by inch.
He tastes like the oil. Like salt. Like cum. Like skin that has been carrying the weight of an empire all day and is now, for the first time in hours, letting go.
I work him with my mouth and my hand. My tongue flat against the underside, pressing as I pull back. My hand follows my lips, stroking what my mouth releases, keeping the rhythm constant. I don't tease. I don't play. I give him everything at a pace that builds without rushing, that lets thetension gather in his body the way storm pressure gathers in the bay before it breaks.
His hand finds the back of my head. His fingers in my hair, which has come loose from the braid, dark strands falling across his thigh. He touches my hair the way he touched the wine glass at the restaurant. By the stem, not the bowl. Careful. Guiding me in the rhythm and motion of his choosing.
"Non fermarti,"he says. (Don't stop.)
With each stroke I can feel the intensity increasing.
My hand tightens. My mouth takes him deeper. He hits the back of my throat and my pussy pulsates, dripping through my panties. I hold him there, breathing through my nose. His hips lift. His fingers tighten on my head. The sounds he makes is not words. Not Italian, not English. Just animalistic growls like he wants to tear me to pieces. The sound a man makes when the last brick in the wall comes down and there’s nothing left between him and the thing that's been building since my hands first touched his shoulders.
He cums...Hard.